unguided tour

Monuments are sites of symbolic exchange.

Last week Granada’s monument to José Antonio Primo de Rivera, founder + leader of the anti-republican, fascist Falange party, was decorated with a laurel crown, the symbol of victory and invincibility. Thus decorated the monument speaks about the future (rather than the past or the present) for Primo de Rivera was neither victorious nor invincible — found guilty of anti-republican conspiracy and insurrection he was sentenced to death and executed on Nov. 20, 1936.

Today someone left a reply.

"Granada será la tumba del fascismo," (Granada will be the grave of fascism), monument to Josè Antonio Primo de Rivera, Nov. 26, 2009

Translation is like a sex change operation: to change the form in order to make shine the essence, the beauty, the truth of that which lies within. And yet no form or shape is ever adequate. (more…)

My eyes free what the page imprisons:
the white the white and the black the black.

(Ibn ‘Ammar, d. 1086)

On the flight to Granada I made a vow: not to complain about the disappointments of Spain’s cuisine and its wine. (The notable exception is a Moscatel from Horacio Calvente:, subtly bitter-sweet, gently graced by the moon. A delight from Granada’s mountains.) (more…)

If you ever wish to escape the colonizing power of visual images (or need proof of its reality) — go to the Alhambra. I promise it will be a liberating experience,  a revelation of sorts — even among the scores of tourists.

The architecture is stunning. Marvelous. So beautiful it brings tears to my eyes. (more…)

La Plaza del Campillo is a busy square in the center of  Granada. Ice cream parlors, souvenir shops, restaurants. In the afternoons natives + tourists come here to relax on the benches by the fountain. Kids running around, dogs sleeping in the sun.

Mornings are different.  (more…)

It’s lunchtime and the city goes to sleep for four hours. I don’t normally eat lunch (I prefer dinner) nor do I take a nap during the day. With no one to talk to, I read.

In the inside there is sleeping, (more…)

In Spain October 12 is colonization day (el Dia de la Hispanidad). A day-long fiesta. Something to be proud of? I’m not Spanish.

Here’s the Granada rap: (more…)

Granada,  city of the sleepless.

When I fall asleep, you wake me up. (more…)

Granada is the capital of beauty.

The tourists who come to the city long to see with their own eyes the “green-purple moon appear in the bluish mist of the Sierra Nevada;” hear with their own ears Granada’s purest voice: “the sound of hidden water, like the pulsing of an ever-living mystery;” feel on their skin the “breeze that comes from the old hills of the Alhambra — from the bonfire of saffron, deep gray, and blotting paper pink of its walls,” “an air so beautiful it is almost thought.” (more…)

At Penn State, the nation’s No. 1 Party School, the Dean of the College of Liberal Arts has every reason to be worried. The recent death of a freshman and minor after drinking heavily at a frat party may tarnish the University’s reputation. In a contribution for the October issue of the college’s Liberal Arts Times the Dean explains how faculty are supportive of students’ harmful and irresponsible drinking rituals. (more…)

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Down the deserted street
goes a black horse
the wandering horse
of bad dreams.
(FG Lorca)

Perhaps the best way to get to know the ghosts of a city is by looking for an apartment. A sucker for historical settings I begin my search in the Albayzin, the city’s oldest quarter and for almost eight centuries the heart of muslim Granada. (more…)

For those in power the transition from one absolute ruler to another is a moment of great anxiety precisely because it reveals the gap between the dictators ordinary mortal body and his claim to extraordinary immortal power. Francoist Spain is no exception. (more…)

Steps behind me, coming closer. I turn around. There’s no-one there.
Voices beneath my balcony. I look down. No-one. (more…)

Granada’s homeless are young. Very young. Women and men in their early twenties. Some even younger. Getting by on alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs. Like everywhere in Europe many have dogs. A living being to comfort; the comfort of a home. (more…)

Miércoles. The day of Mercury, the messenger, the god of commerce, inventor of the lyre.

Wednesdays are in between days.

In between what? (more…)

Couples on vacation. A curious concept. During the most precious weeks of the year they commit to what they have learned to carefully avoid: To-gether-ness. Spending twenty-four hours a day in each other’s company.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner. The Alhambra, the palace of Charles V, la Catedral. (more…)

Granada is fit for dream and daydream, and it borders everywhere on the ineffable. … Her tender personality is hidden away inside her houses and her landscape. Her voice comes down from a little mirador, or rises from a dark window. … To hear that voice, one must enter the tiny chambers and corners of the city, live the city’s unpeopled interior and well girded solitude. And, what’s even more admirable, explore one’s own intimacy, one’s own secret, taking a definitely lyrical perspective on things. One must make oneself a little poorer, forget one’s name, renounce what people call ‘personality.’ (FG Lorca, Granada, Paradise Closed to Many) (more…)

Granada, Spain. A group of tourists trying to locate the remnants of a mosque. “It must be right here … somewhere… This looks exactly like on the photograph, doesn’t it? ” (more…)

Many things are verboten in Germany. For example, publicly displaying symbols of Nazi organizations. The latest case of violation of this law has been reported from Nuremberg where a golden garden gnome performing the Heil Hitler salute was exhibited in the window of an art gallery. The gnome was created by German artist Ottmar Hörl who is now under investigation from the office of the public prosecutor. It’s art, Hörl defends himself. It’s verboten, the representatives of the law insist. (more…)

“Vienna” is a travelogue in 10 parts. This is the final installment. Read part 1 here.

“The city does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand.”
(Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities)

Sometimes the city receives a past. My past, my memory. Does the memory stay when I leave the city?

The directions say, “Walk down Taubstummengasse (deaf-mute way).” Inside my head the name of the street hurts like an unexpected pinprick. A sharp, short pain. I don’t know why. When I came across Blindengasse (blind way) a few days ago, it didn’t bother me at all. Why  does Taubstummengasse? Is it because the street sign combines two disabilities, and that makes me uncomfortable? Is it because people with hearing and speech impairments can read the sign whereas a blind person walking down Blindengasse will be left unencumbered by the sign? These are reasons why someone, anyone, may be struck by this particular street sign but when a long forgotten memory suddenly arises from my unconscious, I know they are not mine. The memory takes me back to my early teenage years in Germany in the 1970s. (more…)

I’ve always wondered: what part does guilt play in elections?
In Austria, where elections to the European Parliament are held on June 7, I see two kinds of guilt: historical guilt referring to the Holocaust + pleasurable guilt that seeks punishment. The two kinds are intertwined but they’re not identical.
Election posters allow for the negotiation of both kinds of guilt. As voters scribble their comments on them, the posters become bulletin boards that draw attention to Austria’s repressed guilt for National Socialism. But the omnipresent oversized headshots of the candidates also invite mutilation, even effacement by perpetrators who know they won’t be prosecuted. (more…)

The other day I appeared on Austria’s national public radio, ORF. I was invited to talk about Austria’s increasingly stereotypical + despiteful perception of foreigners, especially those from muslim countries. I stated the obvious: in the current political climate ‘the foreigner’ + ‘the orient’ are projections of our difficulties to come to terms with changes in our own societies. Once we understand that we are strangers to ourselves, once we comprehend that the foreign dwells within ourselves, we will be able to create a platform for a dialogue with immigrants from muslim (and other foreign) countries. (more…)

Those of you who read German I urge to read this book: Martin Leidenfrost: Die Tote im Fluss (The Dead in the River).

A careful and highly sensitive report on the atrocities caused by Western European eastploitation; an admirable gesture of compassion and responsibility. (more…)