and Italy

Walt Whitman’s Grandson and Hungarian Refugees

June 24th, 2002

“I spent ten years sleeping in that very bed…with a girlfriend! The two of us slept there for ten years! Of course, I couldn’t do it now,” George Whitman trailed off, his 90-year-old body suddenly going slack, offering a glimpse past the manic, animated persona he usually projected.

This was our invitation to take one of the larger beds squeezed among the bookstore shelves of Shakespeare & Co, Paris. For those of you who know the shop in Berkeley, CA …this is her parent store. George Whitman, Walt Whitman’s grandson, owner and proprietor of Paris’ Shakespeare & Co, named his shop after American ex-patriot Sylvia Beach’s original Paris shop. It was Beach’s shop where, years ago, James Joyce found the sole person willing to publish his magnum opus, Ulysses. Her shop was closed when the Nazis invaded Paris in the 40’s and arrested Sylvia for…well, for being an American, basically. George moved from Boston, Mass. after the war and decided to name his new shop after hers. The beat generation knew the shop well (Alan Ginsberg supposedly worked the till, once upon a time) and through George’s quirky efforts and encyclopedic literary connections, the shop has remained a mecca for writers and vagabonds; many of whom can be found, as we were on June 26, sleeping among the the shelves after hours (or upstairs in a private apartment…should you be a published writer of some repute!).

Shakespeare & Co.

Shakespeare & Co. itself is a crossword puzzle of books referenced every which way from Sunday. There are books crammed into shelves, stuffed into crates, books in boxes under tables, books in piles on top of tables, books laid out on various beds throughout the shop during the daylight hours and, as a last resort, books stuffed into any leftover nook, cranny and corner. For the most part, there is no order. Shelves are generally alphabetical and in relatively coherent sections (the shelving that makes the most sense isn’t even in the shop – George’s first edition printing of Ulysses, worth millions, is in a safety deposit box somewhere).

We pulled back the heavy cotton comforter of our bed and spent the night dreaming under the weight of two floors worth full of musty, bound treasures � sleeping under thousands of titles shoved into their burdened, sagging shelves. In the morning we discovered one of George’s favorite running gags – opening the bookstore while his visitors are still sleeping blissfully on the shop floor. Sean commented that he can only hope to be half as ornery and mischievous when he reaches George’s age.

Next door to the main shop is a Shakespeare & Co annex just as cluttered with books, although devoid of the adulterating presence of paperback literature. All the books here are hard-bound and usually of larger dimensions; encyclopedias, dictionaries, reference books – reds, browns and tans with rows of faded gold lettering. It was by candlelight, locked behind wooden shutters in this apartment, that several of us crowded around two bottles of wine and a guitar until the wee hours of Wednesday morning. We met some fascinating, wonderful people the two days we were in Paris and saw some incredible things: the catacombs beneath a nearby jazz bar where one need only wander a few feet from the nightly session to descend into clammy-walled, unlit passageways where some of the people who roamed these murky places hundreds of years ago can still be found � their grinning remains tucked into small, barred-off niches to startle the lighter out of your hand as you feel your way along; San Francisco’s City Lights Bookstore owner Lawrence Ferlenghetti lounging casually on a bench in front of George’s store; a hapless passerby George randomly asked to work the till fretting over the conversion of Francs to Euros…

I suppose we needn’t mention that it was with great reluctance that we finally left our new-found friends in the magical bookstore, shouldering our day packs for the walk back to the train station where the rest of our belongings crouched quietly in their rented locker and our empty train seats waited beneath the vaulted metal spiderweb ceiling of Gare d’Austerlitz. Ah, but travel is a sweet mixture of nostalgia and anticipation. Our night train slid down the French countryside, bumping over the Alps into the Cinque Terra district in Italy.

Cinque Terra sunset

The Cinque Terra is a small seaside niche in the north Italian coast consisting of five cities precariously clinging to their cliff-side perches. These distinct towns are connected by thin, steep, winding hiking trails that provide breathtaking views of spectacular seaside cliffs hosting seemingly impossible grape terraces and the rugged coastline below. The towns are known for their wine and pesto sauce, but you’d best be in good shape – Cinque Terra is composed entirely of stairs. We walked up so many stairs it began to feel like we were trapped in an MC Escher engraving where every direction lead uphill. Nevertheless, it was all worth it. The stairs seem to scare a majority of tourists away and assist in preserving the cohesiveness of the local community (hey, who wants to leave when it means climbing more stairs??!). We spent some fantastic evenings: sitting lazily watching the old Italian people emerge from their homes at dusk to impregnate the streets with local gossip, climbing out on the rocks at sunset with some fresh brucheutta to listen to the ocean and drink the local wine, down at the local pub where we played every backpacker’s favorite game: pass-the-guitar-around. There were no sites to see. There were no museums to visit. Cinque Terra was just pure, relaxed…Italy. Ahhh…

Venice

Not so relaxed was Venice. Ah, Venice…so many cities are compared to thee and all fall short…most of them have some sort of economy dependent on something other than tourism. Did we mention the cost of living? Venice has 120 churches, each on its own island, these islands are connected by over 400 bridges…the place is a fascinating stroll and can be incomparably beautiful at night if you just refuse to look at any price tags, close your eyes and pull your loved one close while listening to the gentle lap of the water and your holy-guacamole – I-can’t-believe-it-costs-that-much – but-what-the-heck-how-many-times-are-you-in-Venice gondoleer sings forgotten Italian love songs in his cheap wine and cigarettes voice. Yes, we enjoyed Venice. We were so glad to see the tiny bridges, the bizarre alleyways that dead-end at canals, the glass-blowing factory on Murano (est. in the 13^th century) and the retreating rail station sign that indicated we would not be spending another day in a place that charges $5 per candy bar.

Our Venetian train fled east to Budapest, Hungary. Our fellow globetrotting friends, Miguel and Linda, warned us that Budapest was less than amazing for the average tourist and, for the most part, they were right. The good news was that the town is MUCH cheaper than the rest of Europe, and we were glad for the financial respite (being able to afford to eat out in a restaurant on one’s honeymoon is a good thing!). Sean took advantage of the inexpensive Turkish baths for his poor aching body while I, not so inclined to stroll around in the buff in front of a bunch of strange Europeans, took advantage of the body soothing products of a LUSH store in town (I am a LUSH fanatic and am on a crusade to obtain a photo of myself in front of every LUSH store in the world…hey, ya know, since we’re going around the darn thing, I might as well).

In any case, these were well-earned indulgences; our pedometer tells us we’ve been walking 8-14 miles a day. The hostel we stayed in was our FAVORITE so far. The people were from all over the world, the staff was beyond friendly, it wasn’t too crowded but a heck of a lot of fun (Kim kicked a bunch of Aussie’s butts at cards and then proceeded to beat them at their own drinking games! …well…uh…we suppose that depends on your definition of “beat”), and reminded us of very much of a clean, well-run version of a Berkeley, California co-op house.

Our hostel more than made up for the fairly mediocre sight-seeing aspects of Budapest, as did our train ride back. Let’s face it, no matter how boring a place might be, if, while you’re leaving it, the Austrian and Hungarian armed border guards eject you from your train compartment to extract a refugee from a small hole in your compartment ceiling, it kind of adds a bit of spice to the trip. At least, we think so.

Tonight finds us spending an evening with Julia and her family in St. Johann, Germany. Julia is a German midwife we met in Ireland during our second week of travel. She was enjoying the Irish weather (read “cold and absolutely soaked to the skin”) and over a shared meal together invited us to visit her here in Germany. Her family is originally from East Germany and orchestrated a daring escape through Poland when Julia was just 12…but that story will have to wait for the next installment.