The perfect pint

Our old ancient ancestors, as we read in the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the running stream.

—Lenehan in James Joyce's Ulysses

In a number of subtle ways my second day in Dublin made me more acutely aware that I had at last arrived in Leopold Bloom's city. Sunday is a sleepy day in the largely Catholic city, so, sadly, the James Joyce cultural center was closed along with much of the rest of Dublin, but the Guinness Storehouse, my other desired destination, was open. What a fantastic museum they have put together! The tour provided a very well illustrated look at both the history and production of the porter, filled with little factoids painted in nearly every little nook and cranny a visitor my examine. The tour did lack the intimacy of Leinenkugel's, which made visible the actual apparatuses of production, but countless video and photograph exhibits of Guinenss's century-old processes captured a pride and even a magic that no young brewery can exhibit. James Joyce makes a play between Guinness and Genesis, and the Guinness Storehouse gives that equation a glimmer of truth.

Apparently aware that Joyce dropped nearly a dozen references to Guinness in Ulysses, the brewery seemed to be returning the favor on floor seven, the Gravity Bar. The round bar and observation deck had a half dozen Joyce quotes painted onto the windows, matching up key locations and environs with corresponding references in all four of Joyce's major literary works. I had the delightful experience of sipping the Guinness I had poured myself while gazing through a quote from the Ithaca chapter of Ulysses, which is one of my favorite pieces of writing.

What act did Bloom make on their arrival at their destination?

At the housesteps of the 4th Of the equidifferent uneven numbers, number 7 Eccles street, he inserted his hand mechanically into the back pocket of his trousers to obtain his latchkey.

We left together, and had a lunch of warm pot pies and (in my case) more Guinness, while enjoying the warm air and sunshine. Just as we were leaving, the clouds rolled in, the temperatuer dropped, and the rain came pouring down. I tried to continue exploring, but the intensity of the rain drove me indoors, and I concluded my stay reading Wuthering Heights in a rather nice leather lounger in our hotel.

Iron and Wine

Our short visit to Dublin was specifically timed so that we could attend a show by Iron & Wine, a band in which Chris and Beth both had a specific interest. From what I can gather from texts about the band, their much like Nine Inch Nails in that the singer/songwriter is Iron & Wine, and the other musicians on stage are performers filling in the holes. From what I saw on stage, however, the band seemed like a much more integrated collaboration. Eight performers filled the stage, and much of the key instrumentation was in the hands of the steel guitarist. Additionally, the one woman on stage had the same last name as the lead, and both wore wedding bands, so I suspect it is a tighter-knit group. Overall I thought the music they performed was okay, but nothing obviously special. Beth told me after the show that setlist tended toward the groups mellowest songs, and their overall sound tended to have a little more energy.

I was much more interested in the opening band, a curious little group called Johnny Flynn and the Sussex Wit. Johnny rotated through a significant array of instruments, including guitars, a violin, and what I recall being a mandolin. A girl I suspect (and for Beth's sake hope) was Johnny's sister and not his wife, sang back up and played flute. The other two guys in the band shared duties on drums and guitars. I think I felt I got my money's worth out of the show from their brief performance, which was both lively and well tuned for a live setting.

Stone and water

Saying goodbye to Chris's family, the three of us continued northward for Switzerland. A sequence of three trains and a bus lead us through Zurich, Chur, and Ilanz before depositing us at Therme Vals. Our route was certainly not the most direct, but between the mountains and train schedules, it proved to be both necessary and sufficient. We were all impressed by the carefully timed Swiss train schedule, which allowed for just enough time to purchase tickets at each of our stops before catching the next ride.

Therme Vals made its way onto our itinerary primarily as an architectural pilgrimage, but only slightly behind that reason was the allure of a couple days at a spa in the Swiss alps. We were all made familiar with the building through Ted Brown's theory course during our first semester, and Peter Zumthor's name certainly crops up around the Warehouse often enough. That said, we'd seen numerous official photographs, but no significant plans or other drawings. Given this gap in our knowledge, it was certainly understandable when, upon arrival, I had to assure Beth that we had arrived at the proper destination. The hotel complex that greeted us was a whitewashed jumble that seemed to be doing its best to hide its cheapness by becoming too boring to look at.

The lobby, however, showed a spark of creativity and good taste, and we soon came to understand that Mr. Zumthor had inserted the bath house into the middle of the complex as well as renovated certain key parts of the hotel, including the lobby, the upscale restaurant, and the top-tier of rooms. Our rooms, of course, were not among those that would have been graced by his hand, but they were satisfactory, if not up to our unusual American standards. (Beds on this continent are a joke.) We wasted no time in donning our bathing suits, bathrobes, and slippers and shuffling over to the baths, where we at last found the magnificent stone architecture we had been seeking.

Zumthor certainly understood how to strip the building down to its essentials—both functionally and æsthetically. The only three materials present themselves with any prominence: concrete, quartz, and water. Where most pools are surrounded by a deck, Zumthor uses the walls themselves to contain the water. The effect is a dramatic, to say the least. The baths feel much larger than they are (especially when eye-level is close to water-level), and the rooms feel as if they were carved into the stone rather than being constructed with walls. Most interesting is a network of cuts in the ceiling that allow thin lines of daylight to play on the stone, casting a solar clock of sorts on some walls. At some moments the concrete of the ceiling seems to float above the rooms, allowing the more majestic stone to continue skyward without being directly associated the lesser material. Frustratingly, other moments show the ugly concrete cap for what it is, and the effect is somewhat diminished. Certain details, most notably the window frames, suggest a strained budget, so I'd like to believe that the details that irk me also arise from financial constraints. Overall the building is quite pleasing to the eye and comfortable for bathing, and I'd be happy to overlook what seem to be its faults if I had the chance to return.

Colony

Having met up with Chris, the rest of the Netski family, and Beth in Florence, I traveled by rail Monday morning to Como, a lakeside town in the Italian foothills of the Alps.

Arriving with naïve expectations of a naturalistic getaway like the lakes of Minnesota or New York, I was caught off-guard upon arriving at the thoroughly developed Lago di Como in northwester Italy. We stayed in the city of Como, located at the end of the southwestern arm of the wishbone-shaped lake. As a vacationer, I could certainly see the potential of the town as a poor man's Monte Carlo ('poor' in this case meaning 'middle class'). The shopping was so prevalent that it was hard to walk from the lake up to the remnants of the old city wall without brushing into a dozen shopping bags, and any place that wasn't a store was a hotel or a restaurant.

As an architect or even simply as a person with an appreciation for the tasteful, I cringed. Como is not the ugliest place I've been,* but it is the most acute example of squandered beauty. The city is disfigured by masses of bad modernist buildings, which detract from the overall landscape and spoil the scene for the occasional rather nice piece of modernist architecture. While "good" and "bad" modernist design is a debate in which I'm only beginning to grasp and can't discuss intelligently, the degradation of the landscape is much more readily described. The region's traditional building have flat fronts, which form large surfaces for reflection of the sun. This, combined with the creams, golds, terracottas, and other warm colors that dominate palette, turn the fields of buildings into friendly, glowing mosaics in the green slopes. The modernist buildings have a great tendency for clunky, shadowy balconies, which turn the façades dark and the cityscapes foreboding. Combine this effect with the cancerous sprawl of building on the banks surrounding and opposite to Como, and you've got one sadly blighted landscape.

Fortunately, no other part of the lake that I saw had succumbed to the same fate. We took a ferry up to the rather lovely Bellagio. Towns along the way exhibited few(er) examples of mid-twentieth-century eyeblights, and development generally clustered around nodes on the main road twenty meters above the lake shore. The effect was quite pleasing, and I greatly enjoyed my day ferrying around with the Netskis.

* I consider the campus of UMass Amherst to the be the ugliest place I've visited.

Twenty-two guns and a side of tartar

Returning to London, we were hungry and not particularly inclined to be running over each other in the kitchen, so Beth, Chris, and I paid a visit to The Golden Hind, a well-recommended fish and chips restaurant just at the east end of Blandford. Named after Sir Francis Drake's galleon that circumnavigated the globe in the late 1570s, the restaurant offers an elegantly simple menu of seven types of fish (steamed or fried) and about as many sides (including chips and mushy peas). Keeping the menu even simpler, the restaurant recommends that customers bring their own beverages. (I ran over to Tesco for a Newcastle brown ale for myself and a bottle of Petit Chenin for the ladies.)

Never the enthusastic fish-eater, I greatly enjoyed my piece of fried haddock, which was breaded to perfection and truly delicious with a splash of malt vinegar and a dollop of tartar sauce. The chips tasted fresh, and even the garden peas surpassed my expectations. The fat in the breading and fries, I'm sure, should keep me from returning too often, but I doubt I'll be able to resist the temptation for much more than a month.

0972 ≥ 012

Giving in to some hunger pangs and doughnut cravings, I popped down to Krispy Kreme during the break in our film class. I had to wait to get a dozen original glazed because the three young gentlemen ahead of me were picking up their company's order for eighty-one dozen doughnuts. They were clearly not prepared for the massive number, and ended up borrowing the rolling shelving carts to move seventy-two dozen. They were laughing merrily as they prepared for their two block commute, and the two Russian shopgirls were giggling constantly at the absurdity of the situation. I felt like I was in the happiest little shop in the whole city.

Glass half full

I'm trying to better my rendering skills this semester by integrating V-Ray images into any class that I can. I'm cooking up some animations for my video diary, and I thought I'd share a work in progress still. The scale is a little off, but I'm fairly satisfied with the overall look.

DIR a:\british_library\ /s /b | FIND "relevant information"

I've just returned from the British Library, which has an amazing collection, accessible to the general public free of charge. For obvious reasons, this service comes with heavy restrictions. Card application is like a trip to the DMV, requiring multiple proofs of ID and a lengthy wait for service. Items may be brought into reading rooms only in clear plastic bags. Water, pens, and cameras are prohibited. Books may not be removed from the library. And essentially all stacks are closed. This last restriction is the one that crippled my efforts for the day. I found the online catalog to be rather crude, and without being able to browse shelves, I was rather hapless in finding sources.

It really felt like trying to work in DOS without any proper experience. Most libraries are at least partially GUIs, navigable to some extent with the eye alone. The British Library is 100% command line interface. CLIs are efficient and often preferred by those who know what they're doing, but its a suffocating experience for those who don't.

And God cast the tripod from the garden...

The security personnel were apparently ignorant of Kew Gardens's policy on photography, and they wouldn't let me bring my tripod into the park. This put an initial damper on my visit, but I found the place to lend itself satisfactorily to leisurely walks and viewing of both flora and fauna. Highlights included the world's largest water lily, the world's oldest potted plant, and a number of rather docile peacocks. Chris and I wandered together for the morning, and had a surprisingly good lunch at the Orangery. I wasn't outright impressed with any of the architecture, but the placement of buildings within the landscape was worthy of study, and the historical context of the Palm House increases its worth tenfold.

Labours lost

Chris and I attended Love's Labours Lost at Shakespeare's Globe Theater on the south bank of the Thames. We both came away with mixed feelings about the play and a strong appreciation for the building.

Labours has a reputation for being a less accessible comedy. It's not as morally dated as Two Gentlemen from Verona (or even The Taming of the Shrew), but it's jokes are more focused on wordplay, and the language-base in which it works has evolved greatly. As Americans, I'm sure we were further disadvantaged, as the foreign accent still poses some challenge (although less as time passes). In spite of the limitations that have developed with time, I'm convinced that the play was never as impressive as Shakespeare's later comedies. Too little time and attention is given to the lovers, whom we'd much rather see than the clowns (of which there were two instead of one.) If anything the play seems like a test kitchen for later comedies from which the bard plucked the best elements. The production itself was lackluster, well acted but perhaps not well cast. The actor playing the King would have been more at home in a tragedy, never managing capture the humorous, indecisive side of the character. The highlight of the play was an accidental one; Longaville appeared on crutches, apparently due to a mishap during a previous performance, and the actor's ability and willingness to make it a source of humor saved the night.

The Globe, however—what a space it is! The wood created a feel of warmth, tempered by the cool night sky. As deep as it is wide, I can't but help feel the Globe to be the British answer to both the Colosseum and the Pantheon. That it lacks the comforts of a modern theatre is a small price to pay for it's intimacy, bring the audience members close to the stage and each other. From where Chris and I were sitting on the middle level, I had as much fun watching the groundlings as I did the actors on stage. Watching a clearly American man leap back from the stage in fright when the Spanish Don Armando brandished his javelin and pair of college girls wince in distress after being mooned by an aged fool during the play-within-a-play. I am wholly pleased that the once-burned Globe has been rebuilt. Many buildings would be less alive the second time, but Shakespeare's old haunt is lively and lovable.

High art / high tea

The video notebook class (four of the five of us anyway) and our professor Carol Morley took a mini-field trip to sketch, a collection of restaurants, bars, lounges, and gallery space. Officially we were there for the video installation, 100 people and 3 people, a new work by artist Tim Etchells. I had a very mixed reaction to the work, being very engaged by the '100 people' component and rather bored by the '3 people' components. I had no such division of opinion in regards to 'the parlour,' where we took our tea. Really, only Carol drank tea; I had hot chocolate since I was rushing to get back to studio and not in the mood to drink a pot of anything; my classmates had cappuccinos since, well, they're Americans, not tea drinkers.

Hot cocoa, it seems to me, is frequently neglected. Back in 2004 Starbucks made a valiant attempt to bring their chocolate up to par with their coffees with the satisfactory but short-lived Chocofino (Chantico in some regions), but generally good hot chocolates are harder to find than good teas and coffees. To my great surprise and delight, the cocoa at the sketch lounge was astoundingly good. The chocolate flavor was strong and clean, accented lightly by hints of fruit and nut extracts. The thickness was satisfyingly creamy without being thick enough to necessitate a glass of water on the side.

Also worthy of praise were the cakes. I had a profiterole, at the heart of which was a nugget of mango jam. I could detect the presence of almond as well, but the subtle balance of flavors was difficult to pick apart in the short amount of time I had. I guess I'll have to go back and try again...