Europe Travel - Part 53

Doing the Viennese Vaults

Austria

by Bob S. Hale

Vienna is the city of castles, palaces, extraordinary churches; it is the city of the Viennese waltz…and the Viennese vaults. Vaults. As in, tombs! Caskets and coffins, and urns filled with ashes. And, urns filled with innards! They are all on display right there…in the church basement.

Go on in, and enjoy the “Viennese Vaults.”

There they rest – rulers of the once-mighty Habsburg Empire. They lie in ornate coffins, in plain coffins, in gigantic tombs and small tombs, and vases for ashes and innards. It is a mesmerizing scene.

The slightly creepy, yet captivating, display of the dead is in the lower level (where else!) of the Capuchin Church, in the heart of Vienna’s famed “Ring.” There, in several rooms, in many caskets, is the history of Europe as we’ve come to know it.

There, in that church crypt, is most of the royalty that led the Holy Roman, and Austro-Hungarian empires. The history of those several hundred years, 1618 to 2011 (the last Habsburg to make it in was laid to rest in July 2011), shaped Europe and the Americas. It wasn’t a well-defined, clearly delineated empire that the Habsburgs governed. At various times they ruled 44 nations, duchies, and a variety of ethnic gatherings; some were part of the Holy Roman Empire, some were not – such was the political jigsaw puzzle of Europe back then.

The Habsburg Empire marks its beginning in 1276, according to one source, when Rudolph of Habsburg moved from the family house – the Habsburg Castle in Switzerland – to Austria, beginning the expansion of the dynasty, as well as the construction of castles, fortresses, palaces and royal hideaways. By the 16th century the Habsburg’s empire had expanded to the point where two Habsburg lines were ruling Europe.

The Habsburgs knew they were creating a unique royal line – it would become the longest running in history – so why not keep their legacy alive, even after death? To that end, Empress Anna, wife of emperor Matthias (1600s), convinced the Capuchin cloister in Vienna that they should create a crypt for her and her husband so they could be visible reminders of the Habsburg legacy.

Anna, in her will, written in 1617, set aside funds to begin building that crypt. Good thing she did – she died a year later. Her husband died the following year. Politics and war put off the crypt building until 1633. Their burials were the beginning of a practice that reached its royal conclusion this year. On July 4, 2011 Otto von Habsburg, also known as Otto of Austria, “former head of the House of Habsburg and Sovereign of the Order of the Golden Fleece (1922–2007) and former Crown Prince (1916–1918) and, by pretence, Emperor-King (from 1922), of Austria-Hungary—or formally, of Austria, Hungary and Bohemia, of Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Galicia, Lodomeria and Illyria, and of Jerusalem…” (There’s more, but you get the idea.) — died. He was 98. And that should pretty much do it for the House of Habsburg.

Oh, there is room for one or two more; and, there are a couple of Habsburgs still around who may request “a room at the inn,” but as far as history is concerned the Holy Roman Empire, and the Habsburg Monarchy are fertig, abgeschlossen, geschlagen … kaput! Just shy of 400 years!

There are 144 caskets, and ossuaries containing Habsburg rulers, their children, close relatives, and some internal organs. Visitors reach out and touch the tombs and urns, hands within inches of the long dead. Yes, it is bit macabre; yet, it is magnetic.

From 1618 on, casket after casket was put in place, making it necessary to expand, creating rooms for more Habsburg royalty. One huge room was designed just to hold the gigantic, highly embellished tomb of Maria Theresia, probably the most famous of all the Habsburgs. The artwork on Maria’s tomb is astonishing. The practice of interring organs in one church, the heart in another, and the body in the crypt of the Capuchin church began with King Ferdinand IV of the Romans in 1654. He left orders that his body was to go to the Capuchins; his heart to Augustinerkirche; and the urn with his viscera to Vienna’s St. Stephens. A few urns remain with the Capuchins. It’s tad ghoulish, to be sure, but a custom – unique to the Habsburgs – that exists to this day. The last three-stages of separation took place July of 2010 for Otto von Habsburg.

The roll call of the dead who are interred in the Capuchin crypt is far too extensive to put on paper. Visitors might want to have a computer print out in hand. While Vienna invites the visitor to enjoy the waltzes, orchestras, pastries, coffee houses, the world-famous Choir Boys, and – of course, schnitzel – it also calls us to the crypts that vividly display its royal history. The dead down there have stories to tell. Oh yes… and remember, in Vienna the Dance of Death is in three-quarter time.

Private 3-Hour Walking Tour of Vienna

If You Go:

A web site to remember: www.wein.info

Getting to Vienna is easy from most major gateway US cities. Lufthansa, Austrian and Swiss Air are major carriers from the US. From European cities numerous low-cost local airlines have departures all day. And, of course, if time permits, a high-speed train is a delightful European experience.

WHERE TO STAY:

Viennese hotels within the “Ring” can be very costly; $500.00 a night is not unheard of. Small “walk-up, ride-up” pensions are more reasonable alternatives. Opera Suites-Kärntenr Strasse 47 (Ph: 512310) – A Very welcoming boutique hotel: clean, comfortable beds. Airy, and brightly decorated; it fees like Vienna; an extremely helpful staff. (195-220 Euros)

Hotel Kaiserin Elisabeth. Weihburggasse 3 (Ph: 512 19 23) – An upscale property. High class; prices are likewise! But the reputation is excellent; service matches. Luxury, European style. (195-232 Euros)

Visit Vienna Hotel Start website. Virtually every one of the 200 properties is listed with rates and available dates.

TIP: The smaller boutique properties have more time to assist guests in getting around the city.

MUST SEE: Vienna Riding School; The Hofburg; St. Stephansdom (Cathedral). Even non-Catholics will sense the richness of history at a Sunday mass. Sit on the right side, upfront next to the tomb of Fredrick III. Also: The Schonbrunn Palace, The Prater (park) and ride the Ferris wheel. Enclosed cars give the rider a stunning view of Vienna.

JUST FOR FUN: Get on a tram and ride until it ends. Then do the return trip from the other side of the car. An inexpensive way to see Vienna.

About the author:
A former Chicago radio and TV broadcaster. Bob has been a DJ, newscaster, interviewer, producer, writer, and “gopher!” Bob’s broadcasting career began at KRIB in Mason City, Iowa where he also hosted a weekly record hop at Clear Lake’s SURF BALLROOM. In Feb of 1959 his guests were Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper – it would be their last personal appearance. Bob moved on to Springfield, Illinois, Peoria, and then WLS in Chicago, joining the station in 1960 when it became one of the nation’s biggest popular music stations. Bob moved into television in 1966 as program host, producer, and news anchor. He has turned his attention to travel writing and photography, with stops in the USA, South America, the Caribbean, Asia, and Europe. Bob’s favorite travel experience? “Trains…anytime, any kind, but especially those that huff and puff, and spew smoke and cinders!” For his article here on Vienna, Bob traveled by air and riverboat. “They’re not bad, either,” he says.

All photographs are by Bob S. Hale.

Dancing to a Different Drum

Barcelona, Spain

by Fredricka R. Maister

I was just a college girl majoring in art history when I became smitten with the architectural genius of Antoni Gaudi (1852-1926). Captivated by Gaudi’s unconventional, whimsical and gravity-defying architecture, I yearned to visit Barcelona where I could see his creations “in the flesh.” This was decades before Barcelona appeared on the radar of hot travel destinations and hordes of tourists waited in round-the-block lines to enter the Church of La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s crowning achievement.

Sadly, my yearning stayed unrequited for almost 40 years, that is, until this summer when I vacationed for 18 days in Spain, 10 days of which I dedicated to exploring Barcelona. As expected, Gaudi did not disappoint. To finally see, touch and feel the power of Gaudi’s work in La Sagrada, Parc Guell, Casa Mila, and Casa Batllo was an awesome experience, punctuated with endless “WOW!” and “Oh my God!” moments.

However, the most memorable highlight of my long-awaited trip to Barcelona to see Gaudi had nothing to do with Gaudi, but with a symbol of Catalan identity and pride: the Sardana, the traditional dance of Catalonia. Catalonia (or Catalunya in Catalan), an autonomous region in northeast Spain with Barcelona as its capital, has its own history, language and culture. Often at odds with Spain’s dominant Castilian culture, Catalonia’s history has been marked by the loss and recovery of its political and cultural expression as well as the appearance of nationalist movements and political parties advocating for further autonomy or full independence.

Francisco Franco, the fascist dictator who ruled Spain for over 35 years, viewed Catalonia as a threat because of its independent spirit and nationalism. He banned the use of the Catalan language and other Catalan traditions, such as the Sardana. With his death in 1975 and the passage of the Spanish Constitution of 1978, Catalonia regained its political and cultural autonomy.

I had read in a guidebook that on Sundays at noon local Barcelonians gather together to dance the Sardana in the square by the Barcelona Cathedral in the Gothic Quarter where my hotel was conveniently located. The Sardana was on my “to-see” list, but I only had one Sunday in Barcelona and I wanted to spend the day hanging out in Gaudi’s “must-see” Parc Guell on the other side of town.

I lucked out when I decided to go for a pre-dinner stroll Saturday evening. As soon as I exited my hotel, I heard spirited “brassy” music coming from the square and felt compelled to check out the source.

Several large moving circles of dancers, hands joined together and held high, filled the square. Accompanying them was a small band of musicians assembled on the Cathedral steps. I could not believe my timing: I had stumbled upon the local performance of the Sardana I had wanted to see but would have missed because of my sightseeing schedule. I found a prime “orchestra seat” on a step below the musicians.

I was surprised that the dancers were wearing contemporary casual attire and not traditional folk costumes as I had envisioned. A number of them were wearing espadrilles for comfort and, I assumed, in keeping with their deep sense of national pride, to celebrate the shoe itself as an original Catalan creation.

The circles were comprised of “Sardanistes” of varying ages, the majority of whom appeared to be over 50. In the center of each circle in a heap were the dancers’ personal possessions, a symbolic “laying down of life’s burdens,” as I read somewhere, or more likely, I surmised, given the active crime scene in Barcelona, a way of keeping one’s things safe.

Never one to stay still when an opportunity to dance arose, I wanted to join one of the circles. I studied the footwork, which consisted of very small, precise steps—side-to-side moves, points, crossovers, forwards and backwards. It seemed easy enough to follow. However, each time I was sure I got the sequence of steps down, a new sequence would be introduced or there would be a sudden change in tempo or direction. Even when the dancers seemed to abruptly pause I was deceptively lured into thinking that a dance was over, but then it would suddenly resume. I had no choice but to give up my grandiose ambition to be a Sardanista!

When I wasn’t watching the dancers’ feet in exasperation, I found myself alternately intrigued by an elderly man in one of the larger circles and two young couples who had formed their own circle on the periphery.

The man, perhaps in his 80s, was small and frail with a proud weathered Catalan face. Even though he did not perform the intricate steps, he moved his lips as if recalling the steps or the count. I wondered about his past. Much of his life had no doubt been lived during Franco’s rule. Did he have painful memories of that repressive time? Had he and his family kept the tradition of the Sardana alive or had they been forced to abandon it altogether? And, as I watched him dance, touched by his spirit and commitment to participate despite his physical limitations, how was he feeling in that moment, free to raise his head and hands high in an expression of Catalan solidarity?

The young couples, while just as concentrated and serious about the dance as their older counterparts, seemed to put their “own spin” on the dance with lots of energetic jumping up and down. Was this some new choreography of the post-Franco generation? Had they learned the dance from their families or had they taken Sardana lessons? Was it a social outing or a need to celebrate their Catalan heritage or both that brought the foursome to the square every weekend?

And then there was the “cobla,” the traditional woodwind band accompanying the dancers. I watched in amazement as the musician who sat behind me simultaneously played a small flute (“flabiol”) with one hand and beat a tiny drum (“tambori”) with the other. I later learned that the flabiol and tambori are typical Catalonian instruments. I could only marvel that the sounds from this small ensemble could fill a huge public space and beyond. It was, after all, their music that first beckoned me to the square.

While tourists streamed in and out, I stayed for the entire performance that lasted almost two hours. At one point a Sardanista, who “worked the crowd” to solicit donations for the local Sardana organization, accidentally hit me in the back with her foot. I was fine, but profusely apologetic, she kept coming back to me every fifteen minutes to assure herself that I was okay. After the performance she told me, through her French-speaking friend (I know some French), that I must return the following day (Sunday) at noon for the next Sardana performance.

Before I left for Parc Guell on Sunday, I did return for the encore performance but only stayed a half hour. It was hard to leave the Sardana but Gaudi was waiting for me.

That was not my final encounter with the Sardana. On my last day in Barcelona, while walking in Parc de Montjuic, the mountain overlooking the city, I unexpectedly found myself face-to-face with the Sardana Dance Monument, the famous life-sized sculpture of figures dancing the Sardana by the Catalan artist, Josep Canas. For me the sculpted figures were not anonymous slabs of stone. In my mind’s eye, I could see in them the elderly man, the two young couples, my “solicitous friend” and the other Sardanistes who danced for me in front of the Barcelona Cathedral, proud, united and steadfast in their homage to their Catalunya.

Wine Tasting and Shopping with Lunch from Barcelona

If You Go:

You can see the Sardana dancers on weekends at the Plaza Sant Jaume or in front of the Barcelona Cathedral. Check locally as times and places vary.

About the author:
Fredricka R. Maister is a freelance writer who lives in New York City. She can be contacted at fmaister@yahoo.com.

Photo Credits:
Stone dancers by Joan Aranda; Cobla by Stanley Epstein; Sardana dancers by Catherine Larson; Dancing shoes by Ellen Edelman.

Meteora, Greece: Reaching for Heaven

by W. Ruth Kozak

On a bright May afternoon, I travel by train across the lush Thessaly Plain in central Greece, through the valley of the Pinios River.

Green fields are patched with crops of yellow mustard, and splashes of brilliant red poppies carpet upland meadows where flocks of sheep graze idly in the sun. Across the Plain, sunlight glitters off the snow-covered peaks of Mounts Pelion and Parnassus. An eagle soars above a distant crag. Suddenly, out of the plain, gigantic spires of rock emerge, some higher than 400 meters, their strange shapes jutting up out of the fertile soil. Nothing I have seen in pictures has prepared me for this sight. Few places I have seen in Greece are so intensely dramatic.

Like the pastel escarpments in a Chinese watercolour, the towering rock fingers reach up to the cloudless sky. Their name, “Meteora,” means suspended in air. The most incredible feature of the Meteora are the monasteries that cling to the summits where once only eagles built nests. Five hundred years ago, at the end of the Byzantine era, during Turkish rule, this wild terrain became the refuge of pious men who fled religious oppression. Sheltered from the world, living in solitude and privation, the monks aimed to achieve Christian perfection.

Six hours from Athens, the train stops at Kalambaka on the edge of the Plain, below the Meteora. Here I find reasonable accommodation and set off to explore the hills behind the town, following a goat trail that winds toward the strange rock giant. In the warm pinkish glow of sunset, the huge rocks are suffused with an aureole of pale mysterious light. Alone, with only the sounds of nature, I contemplate the awesome sigh and cannot help but wonder how many solitary monks left their bones there, forgotten by the world they had renounced.

Early next morning, I ride up to the Meteora in the small bus provided for tourists. The road passes the village of Kastraki and winds past the rock pinnacles where you can see the remains of ascetics’ caves, many walled off with rocks and rotting timbers.

In the past, chain and rope ladders were the only way to reach the 24 monasteries here at the height of the 17th century, of which only six remain. If someone fell, it was God’s will. The charnel house at the Grand Meteora is a grisly reminder of those who died: their skulls line the dusty shelves. Today, visitors can climb steps cut from rocks and cross wooden bridges over dizzying chasms. Rock climbers come from around the world to scale the pillars.

The first monastery you see as you approach is St Nicholas Anapafsas, built in 1527. It clings to the top ledge of an enormous rock. Uninhabited for years, its superb wall paintings by artist-monk Theophanes have now been restored.

The Monastery of the Transfiguration, also known as the Grand Meteora, is like a multi-storied castle complete with a bell-tower and red-tiled roof. It stands 700 meters above sea level and is reached by a flight of 115 irregular steps cut into the rock face.

A white-bearded monk directs the tour. He begins with the museum where there are invaluable icons and ceremonial vestments. He explains that during Byzantine times, these monasteries were generously endowed by Greek royalty, who regarded it their duty to donate riches and land to the Church. As a result Grand Meteora became one of the most important religious communities in the region.

Reached by climbing 195 steps, the Monastery of Varlaam, next to the Grand Meteora, has a church elaborately decorated by the famous hagiographer, Franco Catallano as well as a library with priceless manuscripts and gospels.

Agia Tria, the Holy Trinity, built by the monk Dometius in the late 1400s, is on a pinnacle reached by a circular flight of 140 steps. The view is staggering. I feel suspended in a breathless void.

Between the summit of the Holy Trinity and Varlaam, Roussanou perches on an isolated precipitous rock. Linked to the rocks next to it and reached by another circular flight of 140 steps, Agios Stephanos is a small dark place with wooden ceilings. Today, about 24 nuns live here and at the Roussanou monastery.

In Meteora, the spiritual world matters, not physical life. I look out across the plain toward the hazy summits of the Pindos Mountains. I see and feel how the landscape reflects the monks’ life, lonely yet inspirational. Despite the stream of tourists and souvenir stands, high atop these isolated rocks you can still sense the presence of God.

If You Go:

Train: There are trains from Thessaloniki and Athens. From Athens the trip is about six hours to Kalambaka. Change trains in Paleofarsala.

Buses: from Athens, Thessaloniki and Ioannina to Kalmabaka and Kastraki.

By Car: from Athens (350 kms) about 5 hours or from the north along E 87 between Ioannina and Larissa.

Visiting the Monasteries: It is only a short walk between entrances to the monasteries, but you need a good set of legs. A bus service runs from Kalambaka. There is a small entrance fee at the monasteries. Plan to spend a full day. Check ahead as some are only open certain days. Until this century women were not allowed in the monasteries. Today women are admitted if modestly dressed. Sleeveless tops, shorts, min-skirts and pants are forbidden. Floor-length skirts and shawls provided at the entrance. Tank tops and shorts are not acceptable for men. Dress appropriately or you will not be admitted. Pay attention to signs regarding photos as in some areas taking pictures is not allowed.

Accommodation:
There are several pensions and moderately priced hotels in both Kalambaka and Kastraki. There is a campsite at Kalambaka, the closest village.

Best Times to Go:
December – March can be wet and cool.
May and June are the most ideal months to visit.
July 1 – mid-October is the high season.

On The Web:
www.great-adventures.com
www.sacred-destinations.com
www.greecetravel.com
www.greeka.com

About the author:
W. Ruth Kozak is the former editor of Travel Thru History. She spent many years both living in and visiting Greece, and during those times she visited the astonishing sights of Meteora twice. This is a unique area of Greece, and she recommends it as a special destination if you plan to holiday there.

Photo credits:
Meteora Valley by Wisniowy / CC BY-SA
All other photos by Ruth Kozak

Kermit Beware! It’s Not That Easy Being Green – Or Brown

The Frog Museum, Estavayer-le-Lac, Switzerland

by Karin Leperi

Kermit the Frog from Sesame Street and Jeremy Fisher (a frog from the beloved Beatrix Potter book series) should best beware if they are ever in Switzerland. That is, unless these endearing childhood frog characters want to run the risk of being captured, gutted, and then stuffed with grains of sand – ultimately to be posed in humanesque-type poses doing very “unfroggy-like” things.

However, it’s not quite as dire as it sounds for Kermit and Jeremy Fisher as they have nothing to fear these days: The Frog Museum in Estavayer-le-Lac is not looking for new acquisitions. The fact of the matter is that the museum’s prized holdings were actually created in the 1850’s by an eccentric Napoleonic guard officer. Francois Perrier, reputedly an officer and a gentleman, had a fascination for frogs and collected them while on walks through the countryside. He also had too much time on his hands: Perrier would take his collection of frogs home, extract the innards through their mouths, and then stuff the hollow skin with sand, all the while modeling and dressing the frog corpses in uncanny human dioramas of scenes from everyday life.

You can find the collection of all 108 stuffed frogs depicted in humanistic satirical scenes at the Frog Museum in Estavayer-le-Lac, a classic “stuck-in-medieval-times” town situated on the banks of Lake Neuchâtel. (It is also the largest lake within Switzerland’s borders). Located in the Fribourg Region, the heart of French-speaking Switzerland, the museum has helped put the town on the map – at least for foreigners. Eccentric and off-the-beaten path are all words that can easily describe the “froggy” contents of this museum.

With that being said; nevertheless, there’s something compelling about a Swiss medieval town noted for its obsession with stuffed frogs (they are actually a tannish-brown instead of green) composed of skin and sand. Behind glass and meticulously preserved, the vignettes are parodies of human life in the 19th century. The frogs do human things like playing cards and dominoes, shooting billiards, feasting at a long table, eating spaghetti at a smaller table, getting a haircut at the barbershop, sitting at a desk in an old-fashioned schoolroom…and then there’s my favorite conundrum…a frog mounted on top of a squirrel, riding the furry rodent like a cavalry soldier might ride a horse.

Whether you reel back cautiously from the ludicrously odd or openly admire Perrier’s masterpiece of taxidermy and his tableau interpretations, one thing is for certain: It is an unusual tribute to anthropomorphic art and a social commentary on life in his times.

Though dissonant, the museum’s artifacts also include a treasure trove of exhibits that document the history of the medieval town from the 15th century to the 1900s. Many of these were privately owned and then donated by local citizens to the museum for posterity. Somewhat more consistent with Perrier’s military role, the museum also includes a collection of Swiss armaments and battle regalia as well as 200 lamps which were used by the Swiss railways.

Of course, there are other frogs hanging around Estavayer, too. And while not stuffed and most are neither green nor brown, they appear to be made of paper-Mache. Strung on wire high above the town, they statically engage in gymnastic endeavors and the sorts, all the while dressed in a sundry of quirky get-ups. You can see them throughout your walks in this quaint town. Just look above.

If You Go:

Price of admission is $5.00 Swiss Franc, or about $5.32 U.S. dollars. Be sure to check the website for when the Frog Museum is open, as it changes with the seasons.

The Frog Museum (Le Musée des grenouilles)
Rue du Musée 13
1470 Estavayer-le-Lac
Tel. +41 (0)26 664 80 65

Fishing tour from Bern

About the author:
Karin Leperi is an award winning writer and photographer with bylines in over 75 publications that include print, broadcast, and internet media. A gypsy at heart who particularly enjoys bucket-list experiences, she has traveled to 80 countries and is still counting. Specialties include travel, culture, cuisine, nature, adventure and lifestyle. Her photo website is: www.travelprism.com

Photo credits:
All photographs are by Karin Leperi.

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.