Europe in the Morning

Helsinki

Is it not always dawn in Helsinki in the wintertime? The pale, transparent sky and the slanting sunlight give it that luster of morning at most hours. The city responds in kind with its pale, white buildings that catch the stray beams of light at odd corners. The mighty cathedral floats above the city like the New Jerusalem about to descend from the frozen firmament, dazzling and all flush with the red light of the distant sun. But this is a description of noon in Helsinki. In the morning it is dark and cold. So cold that you can feel your bones creak and the air freezes the edges of your eyelids and the inside of your nostrils. The dark hours have their own ethereal luminescence. The snow - crunchy, dry - reflects the streetlamps in a million brilliant mirrors. Before dawn, I walked a long ways (a recurring theme in my travels) to the ferry. The city was cold, perhaps dead. Occasionally a car would slide past. Or one of the trams would snake through the white street with effortless silence. My feet meeting the crisp snow was the only sound in the whole harbor.

Tallinn

I reached Tallinn later in the morning. The ferry cut quickly and quietly through the foggy Gulf of Finland. For the duration of my hours on board, I could not see for more than a half a mile before the world was enveloped in gray monochrome - a sea of battered steel giving way to ghostly strands of orphaned clouds. But then the spiky, Teutonic citadel of the Estonian capital pierced through the mist like a knight slaying the monsters of gloom. Rosy light lingered on the frozen rooftops. Dawn, happy light, glinted off the snow. Smoke billowed from chimneys as the Sunday bells tolled calling the Lutherans and the Orthodox to their turreted temples on the rocky hill.

Riga

No rosy light of happy morning touched Riga. Riga was continuously and thoroughly gray. Even the people seemed gray. My lodgings were but a two-block walk from the grim bus station - itself situated on the ominously named Road to Moscow. My predawn walk to meet the bus out of town (I, inexplicably, traveled mostly by bus through the Baltics) was a panorama of grayness. Charcoal-colored puddles of salted slush clung to the edges of the tunnel that led under the main road and connected the station with the city. The station itself was more transparent gray. Dingy glass showcased people in large black overcoats aimlessly awaiting their ride. But perhaps it is all just a facade. Awaiting my bus, near a dirty pile of snow, I thought back to the deep, majestic blues and golds of the Orthodox Cathedral with its amber candles and rosy-cheeked old ladies crossing themselves. The inside of my nearly empty hostel was blue and lime green. The delicious beer and salmon were brown and pink and flavorful and rich. Perhaps in the morning, by contrast, everything feels a bit gray?

Vilnius

On my way out of Vilnius, I walked through the snow again. The snow was more brown than in Riga or Tallinn. It was not luminous like in Helsinki. It was a dull snow - wet, heavy. It was dark again, as always. The early bus tickets are the cheapest and most time-efficient. My backpack seemed heavier by the time I was leaving Vilnius. Perhaps it was because the wet snow weighing down my feet made the uphill walk to the station seem longer. I think words like "trudged" get bandied about a bit too nonchalantly. But, I must say, Vilnius was a place of trudgery. I trudged to the city gate. But then I stood up straight. Someone was watching me. Her eyes that have seen so many centuries (some would say eternity) caught mine. Through the many clear prisms of the old window I saw her, clothed with the sun, supported by the moon, crowned with the radiance of the stars. A young man near me saw her too. I imagine he sees her often. He bowed, made the sign of the cross, looked up at her, and walked through the gate. I followed him.  

Sur le pont d'Avignon

The sound of Peruvian pan pipes will always remind me of Avignon. An elderly gentleman clad in what I hope is an alpaca poncho can sometimes be spotted at the entrance to the Woodley Park metro station down the street. He plays the pipes directly into a microphone, which, apparently is the traditional way of doing it. Last October, I recall sitting in front of the colossal Gothic mountain of the Palais des Papes, sketching the facade. For the entire hour and a half that we ambled around the plaza in order to correct and perfect our sketches, the air was filled with the sound of Peruvian pipes being blasted over loudspeakers by a group of be-ponchoed street performers. In an interesting parallel, the neurotic feeling imparted by listening to loud pipe music while trying to concentrate on a sketch pairs rather nicely with the bizarre episode of Church history represented by the papal palace.

Apart from the Gothic palace, the other well-known monument in Avignon is the Pont Saint-Benezet, the remains of a bridge that used to span the Rhone River. In what is perhaps another, more durable symbol of the Avignon Papacy, the Pont of the Supreme Pontiffs never held up. We will recall that one of the Pope's titles literally translates as "Great Bridge-Builder". The bridge built between the Avignon popes and the French monarchy was not one to last. It does however, leave us with a rather romantic ruin. It is a perfect spot from which to watch the afternoon sun bathe the city in colors like "burnt sienna" and "ochre", for instance. I recall being there at such a time. Ahead of me was a father with his little daughter. She was holding his hand, skipping along, singing the little French school-children's song Sur le pont d'Avignon, which has as its subject the very bridge we were standing on and the supposed copious dancing that took place thereupon.

A single-line contour sketch I made of the Pont Saint-Benezet

As I was walking home today from the metro at Woodley Park, the pan pipes were playing. I thought back to Avignon. I am thinking of the malaise and unease setting into many corners of the Church at the moment as a rather contentious Synod of Bishops is underway. I confess that I have not been following it too closely: I'd like to think that my faith does not much depend on the deliberations of some fellows in Rome for a few weeks. But, I thought of Avignon. What wreckage the 14th Century Papacy must've done to the faith of that time. The popes were literally being bankrolled and installed at the behest of the French king. These guys were no paragons of humility, either: of ol' Clement VI it was written, "a fine gentleman, a prince munificent to profusion, a patron of the arts and learning, but no saint." Surely some perspective is afforded by some of these more grotesque periods of Church history. There is a saying that I heard somewhere that says that in the Catholic Church, everything has happened at least once. And yet, here we are still: warty synods and all.

Winter wanderings

My thesis is reaching that crucial time when decisions must be quickly made, committed to, and expanded upon. From now until dim days of December, it shall be one headlong, maddening plunge toward graduation. Architecture students, much like architects proper, are often to be found talking about ourselves and our work - and all of its invariable complexity, and difficulty, and depth, and philosophy, and, oh, you should be both pitying us and marveling at our tenacity at this point! We, as a profession, share a bit of character with the Irish - the greater the number and intensity of your struggles and misfortunes, the higher your rank in a room. Needless to say, a bit of exaggeration goes on. Yet, I shall indeed be very busy for the next two months.

When it is all over, I will be heading out on another journey. It is perhaps a bit of the "millennial goes traipsing before growing up" genre, but there you have it. The prospect of two weeks vacation for the next ten years means that I shan't be heading to Europe again for awhile. So, I'm going now. In the wintry depths of January, I'm going to go to Helsinki in Finland for a few days. From there, I'll make a quick tour of the pint-sized Baltic countries before continuing into Poland. I'll be making a point to visit the famed Jasna Gora monastery, home of the holy icon of Our Lady of Czestochowa -- the spiritual heart of Poland. After a stay in Krakow, I'll hop over the Carpathians and across Slovakia to Vienna. The Austrian capital is another place that has always held my fascination. I think it will merit the better part of a week. I may make a trek up into the Wiener Wald to the Cistercian monastery at Heiligenkreuz, where there are relics of the True Cross and a growing community of monks. After Vienna, things are hazy at the moment and are dependent on friends and the ability of their couches. The goal is to end in Paris for a few days before coming home.

As of now, I am planning this as a solo trip. I have traveled by myself only sparingly. I think there is a lot to learn about oneself in solitude, especially in unfamiliar circumstances. The practical side of things is that I can spend my time exactly as I would like - indulging my idiosyncrasies at will. It is weird not to talk to people though. I went to Caen in Normandy last October and didn't speak the whole day apart from ordering lunch. It was liberating in an odd way. Sometimes I talk too much (see first paragraph) to no profitable end. Silence and solitude are valuable teachers.

24 and the Pontiff

Last week was pretty momentous on this side of the computer. I turned 24 on Tuesday. The day was pretty unremarkable for the most part. I was at work, on site. I have been on site a lot recently. I have been doing punch lists for an 11-story apartment building that is almost completed. Basically, I have to go around into every unit and mark everything that is wrong with blue painter's tape. An employee from the contractor firm walks with me and inputs everything into a system so that it can be fixed by the appropriate subcontractor. It's not the most fun. However, it does get me up and out of the office. After work, I had a nice dinner with three good friends at a French restaurant. It was a wonderful treat.

On Wednesday, the Holy Father, Francis, celebrated Mass on the east portico of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. During Mass, His Holiness canonized St. Junipero Serra. I was way in the back of the congregation, but I had a clear sight line to the altar (designed by several of my colleagues here in the School of Architecture). The Pope looked fairly tired (I don't blame him), and his voice was quite soft, but it was an extraordinary event.

Geographic extremities

The rather unwieldy and fanciful motto of the State of Michigan is "Si quæris peninsulam amœnam circumspice" which means, "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you." One of the reasons I like Michigan is that is has lots of geographical extremities. The land is always wandering off aimlessly into one of the big lakes. Roads end in Michigan. They terminate in a shifting sand dune or in a tangle of blueberry bushes clinging to the exposed rock. There's often to be found the sensation of reaching as far as you can go. The azure water arrives abruptly and announces -- like God to the primordial seas -- "Thus far shall you come and no further."

A few weeks ago, I happened to be traveling with my family in the Keweenaw Peninsula, a stunningly beautiful region in Upper Michigan. I had never been. It was always too far from wherever we happened to be. It's too far from Marquette. It's too far from the camp. It's just too far. But, the further a place is, the more mysterious and fantastic it becomes. I drank in the mystique of this little hidden kingdom at the top of the state. We drove several wooded roads to their end, where entrancing localities awaited further on foot. We climbed the bald, granite head of Bare Bluff to watch sheets of light rain shimmer across the unperturbed cerulean surface of Lake Superior. At Horseshoe Harbor, past the end of US-41 (which ends its 2,000 mile journey from Miami as a gravel cul-de-sac), the winds blew with ferocity out of the west, sending surges of whitecapped water crashing into the ancient lava formations. The inscrutable pine forest stood erect, sighing softly.

The end of the Keweenaw Peninsula and Bete de Gris Bay from the summit of Bare Bluff

Michigan is a bypassed state. It's peninsular, after all. It doesn't go anywhere. One has to make an effort to go there. The Keweenaw and all of the other sub-peninsulas await exploration all the same. One is schooled in enjoying the journey, because there's usually nothing at the end of it all. The Leelenau Peninsula comprises unparalleled wine country, but it terminates without ceremony at a lighthouse and a stony, cramped beach. The Old Mission Peninsula is perhaps marginally more exciting, as its terminus lies at the 45th Parallel. Why drive to Whitefish Point? It ends in shipwrecks and wind and blown sand. Truth be told, you can't even get to the end of the Keweenaw. The roads get too disorderly, overgrown and rutted. The Garden Peninsula, which separates Lake Michigan from the amusingly-named Big Bay De Noc, is inhabited by ghosts, who have their capital at Fayette, an abandoned town. But each is worth the drive, as I and any other Michigander will tell you. We're the experts in seeking pleasant peninsulas, after all.

September

Fall is upon us. Though, unhappily, fall weather is not, at least around your scribe's abode. The busy-ness resulting from the agitated confluence of work, school, and the rest has launched me into a whirl of activity. Are your Septembers busy? Mine always are. The air needs to get cooler to accommodate the annual rush of activity that attends the end of summer. In bygone years it was football games and homecoming and new friends, now it's thesis projects and work deadlines pressing down after the summer lull. Someday, I will have a restful September, a calm and golden-tinted transition into the radiant glories of October, which I will be able to relish appropriately. Brooding November will be as placid as a newly frozen lake. December will arrive with coziness and warmth shining from its frosted windows. One's advanced years are often called the autumn of one's life. Perhaps that is the only time we will be able to experience autumn in its completeness without the often superficial rush of quotidian tasks. The term certainly did not arise to draw a comparison to the September of a twentysomething graduate student. 

Our Lady of the Snows

Today is the feast day of the dedication of the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome. Known in Italian as Santa Maria Maggiore, it is one of the four major basilicas (along with St. Peter's, St. John Lateran, and St. Paul-outside-the-Walls). I had the privilege of visiting this marvelous place in September. It is a beautiful church home to many important relics including the icon of the Madonna known as the Salus Populii Romani, the remnants of the manger at Bethlehem, and the body of St. Pope Pius V.

The title Our Lady of the Snows comes from a legend concerning a Roman nobleman and his wife who wished to bequeath their possessions to the Virgin Mary. They prayed for some sign as to where they should put their treasures. The next day, the fifth of August, snow was found at the summit of the Esquiline Hill in Rome, where the Basilica was eventually built.

View of the Nave

Altar in front of the reliquary holding the remains of the Crib of Bethlehem

St. Pope Pius V

Eastern shore

This past weekend I went camping with some friends out on Assateague, a barrier island off the coast of Maryland. It's a beautiful place with a unique ecosystem - the centerpiece of which is the herd of feral ponies that roam the island. It was a beautiful, sunny weekend (as my sunburned shoulders and feet (of all places!) will readily attest).

Sunset colors over Sinepuxent Bay

The beach illuminated by the very bright Blue Moon

Some of the ponies roaming the beach

Sandcastle time

The marsh on the bay side of the Island

Sunset on night two

Storms over the bay on the second night

La plus ça change

"Primarily responsible, argued La Harpe, were those propagating the doctrines of Diderot, including in one crucial respect Rousseau. For despite the great quarrel that shattered their former friendship, from 1757, the two great thinkers nurtured one particularly subversive political doctrine that Rousseau derived from Diderot, namely that all the ills and crimes of the world arise not from the innate defects of human nature (which both saw as fundamentally good) but from the "radical viciousness" Diderot was the first to see in all existing institutions, systems of government, morality, and society."

--- from Revolutionary Ideas by Jonathan Israel

"The Tennis Court Oath" Jacques Louis David

Why do we not learn more about the French Revolution in school? I learned only a brief outline in sixth grade. The central thesis of the author quoted above is that the Revolution was one of ideas. The radical Enlightenment philosophes conceived of a new society based firstly on the abstract notion of equality and gradually won over what they saw as the ignorant common people of France, who were by and large content and ultraconservative (the prevalent myth of mass disaffection with the monarchy and aristocracy throughout France is squashed around page three). These philosophes formed a sort of gnostic party who believed themselves possessed of knowledge about human nature that the common man could be persuaded to believe but would not come to it independently because they were shackled by ignorance. They set about with what we would call a media blitz - publishing radical literature critical of the Church, the monarchy, the local parlements, the nobility - "all existing institutions." They fermented discontent by convincing the commoners that they were inherently blameless people caught in a web of vicious systems stacked against them.

This would be dangerous to teach in schools in the United States. We would not want anyone thinking that ideas have consequences. We would not want to reunite the abstract realm of philosophical ideas with physical reality - that could get messy. We would not want people to question those who have convinced us that all of our existing institutions are fundamentally rigged against people who are fundamentally good and whose choices must always be approved of. 

This will prove to be an interesting read. 

The See of Baltimore

Last Sunday, I took the train up to Baltimore for the afternoon. My thesis at Catholic University involves developing a design for a museum of American Catholicism. My site is currently in rural St. Mary's City, Maryland, the first place in the Colonies where Catholics were free to settle. It's beautiful, but it is far from DC and is quite remote. It was suggested to me during my final review for the semester that I consider a more urban site, given the largely urban nature of American Catholicism as a whole.

To that end, a visit to Baltimore was in order. Baltimore is the oldest diocese in the United States. Its first bishop, John Carroll, was a cousin to Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence. During the 19th Century, Baltimore - like many American cities - swelled with Catholic immigrants from Europe, lending various layers of character to its many unique neighborhoods. In all, I am growing more convinced that an urban site for this museum makes more sense.

Below are a few photos of the magnificent old Cathedral of the Assumption, the first Cathedral in the United States. I thought it interesting that it was built in the Neoclassical style that was so often used for government buildings and Protestant churches. It was quite beautiful.