Europe Travel - Part 53

Memories of the Orient Express

Istanbul, Turkey

by Inke Piegsa-quischotte

Ever since I read Agatha Christie’s intriguing crime novel ‘Murder on the Orient Express’, I wanted to travel on that train. To indulge in the gilded luxury of the train itself, let the mysterious landscapes of the Balkans glide past my window and alight at the final destination: Istanbul, the city which straddles two continents. At the beginning of the 20th century, an infatuation with Istanbul and Turkey had taken hold of European society; actors, artists, writers, journalists and plain rich people, flocked to the Bosporus and their favorite means of transport was the Orient Express.

Composed of sleepers, a dining car and a baggage car, the train featured Lalique chandeliers, a piano and the finest crockery and cutlery. The maiden journey started on October 10th 1882 in Paris and reached Istanbul the next day. The menu consisted of no less than seven courses, oysters and turbot in green sauce included, not to mention fine wines and champagne. In 1977 the train ceased to have Istanbul as its final destination and in 2009 the Orient Express disappeared entirely from the time tables. Several other routes continue though and twice a year the historical trip is repeated, at a very stiff price!

Since I couldn’t afford that luxury, I was nevertheless able to relive Orient Express romantic and nostalgia in Istanbul’s Sirkeci gare.

Sirkeci Gare

The pink and white structure of the railway station is located in Eminönü on the shores of the Bosporus. Designed by German architect August Jachmund, it’s the best example of European Orientalism, combining elements of Ottoman architecture with modern amenities such as gas and later electric lighting and heating in winter.

As I entered through the elaborate doors, I could well imagine fur clad ladies in pearls and cloches, tripping along the platform, followed by an army of porters bogged down by travel trunks.

They might rest in the Orient Express restaurant, where I sat down for a coffee and a few baklavas and admired the beautiful stained glass windows and Tiffany lamps which still evoke the atmosphere of times gone by.

As I got up to head for the restrooms, I discovered to my delight a tiny museum right next door which is easily overlooked if you don’t know it’s there.

Orient Express Museum

It’s only one room, but the museum documents the history of the Orient Express and the train station in detail. Old log books are displayed as are conductors’ uniforms, the piano, a table laid with the original cutlery and crockery, tickets and many more memorabilia. Photographs adorn the walls and examples of the technology of the time are on display too. I loved the newspaper clipping of when the train got stuck in a snow storm in Bulgaria, very reminiscent of the plot of Agatha’s novel. Admission is free and you are allowed to take as many photographs as you want.

There is just one single guard watching over the treasures and he is happy to answer your questions.

Another Istanbul landmark closely connected to the Orient Express and Srikeci gare is the Pera Palace Hotel.

Pera Palace Hotel

As affluent Europeans started to descend upon romantic Istanbul, using the Orient Express, they needed an equally elegant place to rest their heads. The city was decidedly short of such type of establishment and that’s how the Pera Palace was conceived. The first super luxury hotel of Istanbul, located in fashionable Beyoglu (then called Pera) opened its door with an inaugural ball in 1892.

Passengers from Sirkeci Gare were carried in sedans all the way up to the Golden Horn and one of these sedans is still displayed in the Pera Palace, next to the elaborate elevator which was the first of its kind in Istanbul. As were other amenities such as hot and cold running water. There are many ‘firsts’ for the Pera Palace, including the first ever fashion show in Istanbul.

Not carried by a sedan but using the tramway running up and down Istaklal Street, I made my way on foot to the Pear Palace. The hotel was closed for nearly four years, undergoing extensive renovations but is now open again. No better place to get a feel for how people traveled in the past than sitting in the Orient Bar, enjoying a cocktail.

Room 411, all decorated in black and red, was Agatha Christie’s favorite room and it was here that she actually wrote her Orient Express mystery. But she isn’t the only famous person having frequented the Pera Palace. Signed photographs of Ernest Hemingway, Greta Garbo, Isadora Duncan and Jackie Kennedy to name but a few look down from the walls. Atatürk was also a frequent visitor, presiding over many a ball.

Even if I wasn’t able to afford a trip on the Orient Express or a stay at the Pera Palace, I could enjoy the atmosphere and easily imagine the past in these three marvelous Istanbul locations, all closely connected to the history of a legendary train.

If You Go:

Istanbul is a city worth a visit any time of the year. However, to avoid tourist crowds and really hot weather, the best seasons are spring and fall. Winters can be quite cold and rainy.

Trains to Greece, the Balkans and beyond still run from Sirkeci Gare. They may not be the Orient Express but you can travel very comfortably in the first class sleepers.

The Pera Palace has an excellent pool, spa and Turkish bath, using products especially made for the hotel in France. A day pass is available for approx. $100, which is a lot less than the average room rate.

About the author:
Inke Piegsa-quischotte is an ex-attorney turned travel writer and novelist. She writes for online travel magazines and has two novels and a travel guide to Galicia/Spain published. She lives between Turkey and Miami. She has just published a book, ‘Istanbul, City of the Green-Eyed Beauty’. Learn more about it here: www.glamourgrannytravels.com

All photographs are by Inke Piegsa-quischotte.

France: A Week in Provence

by Jewel Fraser

When Catherine Cordelle told me she had found an artist’s residency in Provence that was willing to have me for a couple weeks, I was thrilled. I had read Peter Mayle’s ‘A Year in Provence‘ some years before and was enthralled by the prospect of experiencing the lifestyle he had written so amusingly and evocatively about.

As a Caribbean writer, now making her way in the world (before going to France, I was to first present a short story at an international writer’s conference in Wales, UK), it seemed the ideal time to experience the continent after years of parsing French at school and dreaming about one day visiting the land of champagne, Moliere, and the Mona Lisa.

One week didn’t seem like a lot of time, my host at the residency pointed out, after circumstances required I cut my stay by a week. But it turned out to be one of the most productive for my writing in a long time. The residency, located just outside Aureille, provided plenty of uninterrupted time for reading, thinking, and writing, all of which I did copiously.

My first day at the residency was spent sleeping during the morning, since I had passed the night in Marseille’s airport lounge; then going for groceries in the afternoon at a small French supermarket where I was able to practice my limited French. The owners of the supermarket were gracious and friendly. It was a delight to find the equivalent of one week’s groceries came up to 63 euros, just as promised when I googled to find out how much I would have to spend. I had been hoping to focus on seafood during my trip but was somewhat turned off by the locally cooked prawns, packaged with heads and tentacles still on. My host informed me the French just screw off the heads before dipping the prawns in sauce and eating. Not to my Caribbean tastes since we routinely gut and shell all our seafood.

I spent my second day working on a short story, the concept for which I had been nursing for a while. The entire day, off and on, was spent working on this, and by the evening I was pleased to have finished the first draft. As I lay in bed that night, I contemplated how best to revise and improve my story. Falling asleep, however, did not follow naturally. My hosts keep no locks on their doors, since apparently in Aureille crime is practically unheard of. Unlocked doors always appear like an invitation to trouble for me and I braced the handle of my bedroom door with a chair and kept one of the lights burning to allow me a little peace of mind and some sleep.

The next morning it was time to visit the doctor to have a blood sample taken. An English doctor who lived in Provence provided me with this service. On my way to the conference in Wales the week before, after a ten-hour flight from Trinidad, I had developed a pulmonary embolism that had required a week’s hospitalization in the UK and ongoing treatment with Warfarin. It was necessary to monitor the state of my blood every so often to ensure it remained at the right consistency. Interestingly, the cost for a non-EU national was only 22 euros for the doctor’s visit and 7 euros for the blood test. I mentally blessed the heavily subsidized medical system in France that keeps prices this low. Another artist at the residency, Jill, from Michigan, USA, told me that when she fell ill in Germany the doctor’s visit alone cost 40 euros.

That evening the hosts held a dinner for the artists around the pool. They wanted to hear my story that I had unfortunately been unable to present at the conference in Wales, having fallen ill. The warm approval on everyone’s faces and their requests to hear the story I was currently working on at the residency even though it was unpolished told me that perhaps I do have something to offer as a writer.

My last day in Provence was spent in Mausanne where I had a Salad Fontaine consisting of duck meat, apple julienne, lettuce, potatoes au gratin and mushrooms, served with a quarter litre of rosé presented in a small flask along with the wine glass. The cost was 16,50 euros. Not bad I thought and the meal did taste good. Later that afternoon I bought two pastries at a price of 2 euros each and ate them with some coffee at the same café where I had had lunch. The waiters were charming and polite at all times. I never felt odd, though the only black person sitting there eating.

After getting off the bus that took me back into Aureille, I began the half hour walk back to the residency. I stopped after about 12 minutes to inquire of a man offloading articles from his car for directions to the residency. He was helpful and I continued on my way. About three minutes later, a young woman named Leticia came along in her car and asked if I was going to the residency. I was intrigued. How did she know? No, she told me, she was not from the residency. Yes, she was an artist herself “un peu”. She told me the residency was a little difficult to find. After dropping me off, she turned around and went back onto the main road. I was left to wonder at the kindness, and whether the man I had asked directions of had alerted her to my situation.

The following morning it was time to leave the residency. As I disposed of the garbage from my apartment, Angela, a Northern Irish artist who was also staying at the residency, was standing outside drinking her morning coffee. She asked me for my last name and thanked me for having shared my short story with the other artists on Saturday evening. “I will look out for your name,” she told me.

As I made the trip back to Paris, then London, before heading home to Trinidad, I was already making plans to visit France in the next two years for another writer’s residency. During my week at the residency I had written and revised a short story, completed a humorous essay about the hazards of driving in Trinidad and Tobago, and emailed a query to a travel magazine as to whether they would like a short feature on my experience with pulmonary embolism. For one week, that was plenty of writing I would say.

If You Go:

Ateliers Fourwinds is an artists’ residency and a member of Res Artist, the international organization of Fine Arts centers and residencies. It is located in Aureille, Provence, in the south of France and is surrounded by olive groves and vineyards. It also bottles its own wine for sale. To get there from London, you can take a Eurostar train to Paris, then a TGV train to Marseille. From there, you can catch a bus for about 10 euro to the airport in Marignane, where someone from Ateliers will meet you.

About the author:
Jewel Fraser is a freelance writer and copy editor who lives and works in Trinidad. In 2010, she completed a graduate certificate in creative writing with Humber College, Canada. At this year’s national creative arts festival in Barbados, she won two silver medals and a bronze for three short stories.

Photo credits:
Photographs from Flikr Commons: credits to Patrice Fender, Philippe F, Richard Price and Larenjordre.

Canadian Arctic Voyage Makes History

Greenland

by Ken McGoogan

None of us expected our voyage to make history, not when we boarded the Clipper Adventurer in Kugluktuk (Coppermine), near the west end of the Northwest Passage. True, our cruise was billed as an expeditionary adventure. But we numbered roughly one hundred and twenty, most of us were over sixty, and we were sailing in comfort if not luxury: white linen tablecloths in the dining room, a well-stocked bar in the forward lounge, and a staff of expert presenters that included scientists, Inuit culturalists, and authors Graeme Gibson and Margaret Atwood.

Hundreds of ships had plied these northern waters since the early 1800s, when the British Admiralty began to chart the Arctic archipelago while seeking a trade route across the top of North America. So nobody even dreamed of achieving a first of any kind. We forgot that climate change has made a difference. We did not anticipate that this year, the Arctic would have the second lowest extent of sea ice in recorded history. We did not expect that, according to the American National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), the pack ice would reach its least extent just as we arrived in northwest Greenland.

But on September 10, one day after it did so, we sailed into Rensselaer Bay, where in the mid-1850s, explorer Elisha Kent Kane spent two terrible winters trapped in the ice. And three days after that, as on Day Thirteen of our voyage we approached the island town of Upernavik, I went to the bridge. As the staff historian, I needed to announce the surprising news.

By now, everybody on board knew that we had reached a latitude above 79 degrees. We had achieved a “farthest north” for Adventure Canada, which regularly runs voyages like this one into the Arctic. Everybody knew that, although a number of explorers had traveled by dogsled in this region, very few ships (if any) had entered Rensselaer Bay since 1853, when Kane got trapped there in the Advance. And everybody knew that in 1855 — decades before Ernest Shackleton made his name with a spectacular, small-boat voyage in the Antarctic — Kane led sixteen men in an extraordinary, 980-kilometre escape along the Greenland coast.

What drove me to the bridge was that our voyage had just become the first to trace Kane’s escape route from Rensselaer Bay to Upernavik, where Danish settlers welcomed the explorer, and now their posterity welcomed us.

Nobody would describe this as an epochal achievement. Nobody would call it Big History. Yet those of us on board found it thrilling, even though we had done the deed in a double-hulled, state-of-the-art ship that dwarfed Kane’s vessel: the Clipper Adventure is four times as long as the Advance (101 metres compared with 26) and thirty times as heavy (4,376 to 144 tons).

Our voyage had begun with a reversal. Originally, out of Kugluktuk, we had been slated to sail west and then north through Prince of Wales Strait to Winter Harbour on Melville Island. There, in 1818, explorer Edward Parry spent a signal winter, and in 1909 Joseph Bernier asserted Canadian sovereignty over the entire Arctic archipelago.

But satellite imagery showed Captain Kenth Grankvist that a small patch of heavy ice blocked Winter Harbour, and other stretches looked problematic. So we turned east from Kugluktuk and followed the southern or coastal route through the Passage: Coronation Gulf, Victoria Strait, Bellot Strait, Prince Regent Inlet, Lancaster Sound.

The change gave us extra time. We hoped now to sail north through Smith Sound into Kane Basin. Perhaps we could reach Etah on the west coast of Greenland, situated at a northern latitude of 78 degrees 18 minute 50 seconds. Etah was as far north as Adventure Canada had yet ventured along “the American route to the Pole.”

During our first attempt to enter the Sound, however, on Day Nine, we ran into heavy weather and retreated behind some Greenlandic islands to calmer waters. The storm passed, and on Day Ten, under clear blue skies, we sailed through Smith Sound . . . all the way to 79 degrees 3 minutes 45 seconds. We had set an Adventure Canada record.

More importantly, as I told anyone who would listen, we were now north of Rensselaer Bay (78 degrees 37 minutes), where Elisha Kent Kane survived his two-year ordeal by forging an alliance with the Inuit of Etah, 80 kilometres south. We sailed into that Bay — Kane named it after his ancestors — and dropped anchor.

While most voyagers went ashore in zodiacs to explore beaches and ridges, five of us — an archaeologist, a geologist, an artist-photographer, an outdoorsman, and an author-historian (yours truly) — spent three hours searching small rocky islands for relics of Kane’s expedition. We found what I believe to be the remains of his magnetic observatory. And from the zodiac, prevented from scrambling onto slippery rocks by a receding tide, we spotted what I believe to be the site on “Butler Island” where Kane buried the bodies of two of his men.

Probably, those bodies are still there in the rocks, preserved by the permafrost. Nobody is known to have disturbed them. Certainly, Inuit hunters have roamed this area, and in the early 1900s several explorers — among them Robert Peary, Frederick Cook, and Knud Rasmussen — led dog-sled expeditions in this region. But all these had their own objectives.

Ice conditions here have always been difficult and unpredictable. And in recent decades, recorded visits have been few. A 1984 article in Arctic magazine describes a study undertaken by scientists who helicoptered in from the American airbase at Thule to investigate the long-term decline in the caribou population. And an exhaustive archaeological study of northwest Greenland by John Darwent and others, detailed in Arctic Anthropology in 2007, turned up 1,376 features, including winter houses, tent rinks and burials — but sought and discovered no bodies in Rensselaer Bay.

But at this location in 1855, Kane abandoned the Advance (we found no trace of the ship). He and his men spent one month (May 17 to June 16) transporting supplies and hauling three small boats 80 kilometres south across ice to Etah. On the Clipper Adventurer, sailing through open water and occasional icebergs, we covered that distance in a single night. Next morning, after an eight-kilometre zodiac ride into the spectacular Foulke Fiord, we went ashore at Etah.

In Kane’s time, Etah was a permanent Inuit settlement, home to several extended families. Today, it serves as a temporary hunting camp. We stayed six hours and hiked to Brother John Glacier, a natural wonder that Kane, oblivious to Inuit nomenclature, named after his dead sibling.

Here at Etah, having reached open water, Kane said a fond farewell to his Inuit allies. With sixteen men (one had perished along the way), he piled into tiny boats and began a 900-kilometre voyage to Upernavik. He and his men spent seven weeks in those open boats (June 19 to August 6), battling blizzards, icebergs, and near starvation.

On the Clipper Adventurer, dining variously on Greenland halibut, veal marsala, and braised leg of New Zealand lamb, we retraced Kane’s perilous voyage in two days. We called in at Cape York, where the explorer overcame a last great barrier of protruding shore ice, and from there gazed out over open water.

On arriving in Upernavik, today a bustling town of 1,100, we explored the buildings, now a museum, where Kane and his men stayed for a month before leaving on a Danish supply ship. We had lost nobody to scurvy or frost bite. We had suffered no amputations. But many of us found ourselves marveling anew at the great escape of Elisha Kent Kane. And we savored the knowledge that, as the lucky first voyagers to retrace his escape route from start to finish, we had in a modest way become part of exploration history.

If You Go:

Travel companies are already booking Arctic voyages for 2012.

Adventure Canada: www.adventurecanada.com. Ontario-based company offers a changing itinerary of Arctic expeditions. In 2012, highlights include two voyages in the Northwest Passage that can be combined or taken separately, starting from $7000.

Quark Expeditions: www.quarkexpeditions.com. Connecticut-based outfit offers an array of polar voyages, including Iceland, Greenland & Spitsbergen starting at $6390.

Cruise North Expeditions: www.cruisenorthexpeditions.com. Inuit-operated company offers Arctic Safari and Greenland voyages starting from $3850.

About the author:
Ken McGoogan is the author of ten books, including Race to the Polar Sea: The Heroic Adventures of Elisha Kent Kane. He teaches nonfiction writing online through University of Toronto and the New York Times Knowledge Network. Learn more at www.kenmcgoogan.com or www.nytimesknownow.com/index.php/ken-mcgoogan.

Photo credits:
Contemporary photos are by Sheena Fraser McGoogan. The map is courtesy of Bill Bialkowski. Historical photos come from the personal archive of Ken McGoogan

Transylvania Melds History and Lore

Romania

by Irene Butler

I have long been intrigued by Romanian’s mysterious folklore. Images flash through my mind of free-spirited Roma (gypsies) moving across the countryside, gifted with musical abilities and with psychic powers to tell fortunes or bring on a curse. The very word Transylvania sends a shiver down my spine, and blood curdling images of haunted castles and fanged creatures. My husband Rick and I are ready to find the historical threads in the folklore, keeping in mind a quote by Napoleon Bonaparte – “History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon.”

After a few days of checking out the architecture in the bustling capital Bucharest, we board a train for Transylvania – one of the largest and most picturesque regions in the centre of Romania known for its historical mix of flavours of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, Saxons and brief Ottoman rule.

We are soon passing farmlands, forested areas, villages and towns. Along the route are numerous derelict manufacturing plants from the Communist Era, once producing product for the world market. Between verdant foothills of the southern Carpathian Mountains, we arrive in the medieval town of Brasov.

On our first walk down Str Republicii I am enthralled by the lively and colourful atmosphere. Sidewalk cafés run down the middle of this wide pedestrian-only promenade. Seeing “Possibly the Best City in the World” written on the café umbrellas makes me chuckle as I muse “perhaps it is”. But without question this charming city flaunts the narrowest street in all of Europe. Rope Street (Strad Sforil), dating back to the 18th century, is just over a metre wide and can be walked along touching both sides.

The Black Church (Biserica Neagra) towers in its dusky beauty in Council Square. Called St. Mary’s from the time the first stone was laid in 1385, until it was renamed in 1689 after its walls were blackened by the “Great Fire” that levelled most of the town. Five richly decorated portals grace the outside. On the inside over 100 Persian rugs are hung from the walls (given to the church by Saxon merchants returning from shopping-sprees to Ottoman lands). In 1839 a 4000-pipe organ was installed. It is a thrill to hear it being played; its thunderous chords setting off tremors in the air waves.

Of this once walled city, sections of the 2-metre thick walls remain, as well as a citadel, bastion and two watchtowers. Our climb up the 200 spiralling steps of the 15th century White Tower is rewarded with a panoramic view of the city,

We strike a deal with a taxi owner, Maxim, for a half day to Bran Castle and Rasov Fortress, both built during the Austro-Hungarian rule and dating back to the 14th century. It is spine-tingling to catch our first glimpse of the looming russet-roofed, white-walled citadels and towers of Bran Castle jutting from the side of a cliff. We leave Maxim to chat with other taxi cronies in the parking lot and start up the winding path towards the castle. The light sprinkle of rain turns into soaking wind-driven splatters half way up, which only serves to enhance the tale of this being Dracula’s castle in Bram Stoker’s 1887 novel.

A room in the castle is set aside as the “Bram Stoker Room”, with a wealth of information on the fame Stoker’s book brought to the castle, and how his fictitious Dracula may have been inspired by the historical figure Count Vlad III Dracula (a.k.a Vlad Tepes, a.k.a. Count Dracula).

Vlad III was the ruling prince of the Romanian state of Walachia from 1456-62, and from 1476-77, who offered a strong resistance to the westward expansion by the Ottoman Turks. His moniker Dracula was inherited; it means “son of the dragon” after his father Vlad II Dracul, who was a knight in the Order of the Dragon established to protect Christianity in the land. The symbol of this medieval order was a dragon, or “dracul” which at the time had a positive import, but after the 5th century became a symbol for the Devil. Vlad III’s infamy and his acquired moniker “Tepes” or Impaler, arose from his inhumane method of dealing with his enemies; foreign invaders and also rebellious countrymen, including noblemen (along with their families) who he felt were traitors and conspirators in the death of his father and brother. It is said dozens at one time were skewered on a wooden stakes in such a manner that instead of instant death, the victims suffered excruciating pain for up to 48 hours before their earthly farewell. It is believed that Vlad Tepes never set foot in Bran Castle….but there is a historic mention of his troops passing through Bran in 1459, and if going along on military manoeuvres was the Count’s modus operandi…who knows?

Built in 1377 it was mainly a fortress over the centuries to protect Romanian borders. In the early 20th century the town of Brasov gave the castle to Queen Marie of Romania. She absolutely loved each of its 57 rooms and she made it a summer retreat for her family of six children and King Ferdinand, when he wasn’t called away with kingly duties. She hired Czech architect, Karel Liman who imparted the castle with its romantic appeal and added to the comfort with heating stoves of Saxon tile, running water, electricity, three telephones and an elevator.

We make our way up creaky wooden staircases, through narrow passage carved into the rock, and in and out of the high-ceilinged rooms, several of which overlook the courtyard dotted with potted red geraniums to enliven the castle’s sombre tones. Queen Marie’s bedroom and study are restored with ornate hand-carved furnishings, but not in the least opulent. The combined music room and library converted from an old attic is the largest room, and is as cozy as this stone edifice can be with a fireplace, a bear-hide rug and padded furniture.

A secret passage connects the first and third level with access to a turret with a 360-degree view. Half way up the well-worn stone steps I feel a cold draft on the back of my neck. When there seems to be no logical explanation my unease heightens, along with thoughts of how many escalated this eerie passage over the centuries, and for what purpose?

Princess Ileana, whose fondness for Bran matched her mothers, remained in possession of the castle from the time of the Queen’s death in 1938, until the Communists evicted her in 1947. The castle was opened as a museum under the Romanian State in 1957, and in 2000 it was given back to Ileana as a company run museum.

It is then on to Rasov, well at least to the bottom of the hill where it is perched, as the fortress was closed to renovations. Leaving the town of Rasov, Maxim points and says, “Gypsies”. We pass a rickety canvas-covered wagon pulled by two hefty steeds. A swarthy young man in a wide-brimmed hat jiggles the reins from the driver’s seat. His dark good looks are matched in the gypsy woman we later encounter. Alas, the romanticised lore of the Roma being free-spirited nomads is far from true – strong-spirited would be more fitting.

Historically the Roma people, believed to have originated from the Indian Sub-Continent in the 14th century, were subjected to slavery until the mid-1800’s, and were considered racially inferior by the Nazis and were rounded up for death camps until 1945. Today the Roma are the second largest minority group in Romania (after Hungarians) and number a little over 500,000 (of Romania’s total population of 22 million or 2.5% of the population – 2002 census), with some unofficial estimates much higher. They have kept their language, music and customs and have assimilated into Romanian culture in varying degrees, but in general they live in depressed settlements, and on the fringe of Romanian society.

Romania was for us a wonderful commingling of past and present, history and myth all wrapped into one pleasurable experience. Our small dint in the sights to see and our brief immersion in the culture left us wanting more – and a resolve that for us there will be a next time in beautiful Romania.

If You Go:

For more information: www.romaniatourism.com

More Things to Do in Romania:
♦ Bucharest – seek out the fascinating mix of architecture from Romania’s elegant past & grandiose Communist era. Around Bucharest – visit the tomb of the infamous Vald Tepes
♦ Walachia (Wallachia) – the heart of Roma culture and beautiful monasteries
♦ Transylvania – some of Romania’s best skiing and hiking in the Bucegi Mountains. Also, visit the city of Sighisoara – the birthplace of Vlad Tepes, and the village of Sinaia to see Sinaia Monastery and Peles Castle
♦ Carpathian Mountain National Parks – pick a park to suit your interest: birding, flora, fauna, caving, hiking, skiing.
♦ Black Sea Resorts – find a hide-a-way along the 45 miles of sandy beaches, and view the remnants of ancient Greek culture.

UNESCO World Heritage Sites in Romania: whc.unesco.org/en/statesparties/ro

About the author:
Irene Butler is an award winning travel journalist and author of “Trekking the Globe with Mostly Gentle Footsteps”. Her articles have appeared in national and international magazines, newspapers and E-zines. She and her husband Rick explore the world for six months of every year. www.globaltrekkers.ca

All photographs are by Rick Butler.

Mystery of Sardinia’s Nuraghe

Sardinia, Italy

by Cornelius Myers

Down through history, ancient civilizations have left inscrutable and symbolic artifacts for us to ponder and puzzle over. Stonehenge, the Nazca lines, the Pyramids at Giza, the Sphinx, the Easter Island Moai and Machu Picchu all have remained largely unexplained and mysterious. Similarly, the Nuraghe of Sardinia today are still a complete enigma and the focus of fierce academic and archeological discussions as to their origins and purpose.

Some archeologists maintain that the structures were royal palaces or religious temples; others say they were simply dwellings, military strongholds, the house of the chief of the village, or a meeting place for wise men or kings. What is known is that these ancient megalithic edifices – having the shape of a truncated conical tower resembling a beehive – have come to be the symbols of Sardinia and it’s distinctive cultural history.

Today, there are more than 8,000 nuraghes still standing from what is estimated to have numbered more than 30,000. They were most prevalent in the northwest and south-central areas of the island and are usually located in a panoramic spot – strategically located on hilltops to control important passages.

They have no foundations and stand only by virtue of the weight of the stones – some of which weigh as much as several tons. Some of the structures stand more than 20 meters (60 feet) in height. Everything in the nuraghes is made of stone laid upon stone, with no lime or concrete used. Considering the frequency of invasions and conquests through the millennia, it is tribute to the ancient builders that so many have survived.

The most important complex of nuraghes is Su Naraxi di BaruminI, centered around a three story tower built around 1500 BC. It has been designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The highest and most imposing is the Nuraghe Sant’ Antine, near Torralaba. However, even the smallest of the structures is awe inspiring and unstintingly mysterious.

They all are incredibly accessible and available to explore. When you enter a nuraghe, stand in the middle of the cone and stare up at the opening above you, the presence of it’s former inhabitants is almost palpable. The stone stairs to the various interior levels wind-up the sides of the structure leading to antechambers and strange rooms. There is a strong sense of design and intention.

It is generally agreed that they were constructed in the middle of the Bronze Age – 18th-15th centuries BC; although some have been dated at 3500 BC. Scholars also agree that the Nuragic civilization produced the most advanced and monumental architecture for this time frame in the western Mediterranean, including the Greek colonies of Magna Graecia.

Having stated that, it remains a complete mystery as to who were the Nuragic people. Some clues can be found at The National Archeological Museum in Cagliari. It holds most of the materials discovered in the Nuraghes. They did produce art in the form of beautiful small bronze statues; typically representing Gods, the chief of the village, soldiers, animals and women. There are also stone carvings or statues representing female divinities.

They venerated water and celebrated it’s sources with magically designed springs, sacred wells and sanctuaries. Forty Nuragic wells have been uncovered. The interiors have a monumental staircase leading to an atrium and the spring. The wells are all built of stone and similar to the Nuraghe’s architecture. They are underground and womb shaped to honor the Earth Mother and fertility.

The sacred well of Santa Cristina has a hole in the vault. Every 18 and a half years, when the moon reaches is lowest point in orbit, the moonlight strikes the hole and is reflected on the surface of the water. Sunlight is also reflected during the autumn and spring equinoxes. Through these processes we know they possessed a great knowledge of celestial cycles.

The Tombs of the Giants are scattered throughout the island. So far, 320 have been found. They are monumental structures of huge granite stone stellas, placed upright, side by side, forming a semi-circle. They are all oriented toward the constellation of Taurus. The tombs are from the megalithic period and housed collective graves without distinction to status or family. It is believed that they were gateways to the afterlife.

But that is where the certainties end. Scholars are not even sure of the correct name for the civilization, or even the real meaning of nuraghe. The name itself derives from the meaning of mound and cavity, and the nuraghes are built by laying big stones of similar size on top of each other, leaving a cavity in the middle which is then covered by a stone domed roof. For lack of a more informed identification, scientists accordingly have called them the Nuragic peoples.

Sardinia is the oldest region of Italy. This archaic world has it’s roots shrouded in the mists of time. From the Neolithic period it has been inhabited by populations that have left fascinating, monumental traces of their presence, but none more mysterious and intriguing than the builders of the Nuraghe.

Cagliari: Amazing Bosa and Prehistoric Sardinia

If You Go:

Sardinia Tourism website

About the author:
Cornelius Myers is an award-winning journalist, broadcaster, feature writer with publications in many travel magazines and newspapers including the New York Times. He’s based in Monaco and Miami.

All photographs are by Charlotte Otto Bruc.