07 January 2005
First post: Vilnius and more
Vilnius
What is it that makes tour guides the way they are? Today, for the
third time on this particular trip, I had a personal guide. She began
in a promising way by asking me what exactly it was I wanted to hear
about and see. Primed by the behaviour of guides in Tallinn and Riga, I
was quite specific that I did not want any finely detailed history that
I could read in the background pack supplied by the tourism bureau, and
that I wanted to see as many as possible of Vilnius' main sights. I had
been told (I told her) that while Tallinn's strength lay in Gothic, and
Riga's in Art Nouveau/Jugendstil (as I'd already seen for myself),
Vilnius' lay in the Baroque, and I was hoping this would turn out to be
true, making writing a general story about the pleasures of the three
capitals much easier. But, I told her, I only have 600 words, so I
can't use every last historical detail. I also explained to her that I
was recording with a lapel microphone, and so often when I spoke I
would be recording my own impressions, and not attempting to hold a
conversation with her.
I should have saved my breath. Once we got started the historical data
poured out in quantities which would have buried even a large tour
group armed with shovels. And whenever I turned away to mutter my own observations into the microphone she would pursue me, so that even talking to myself I could hardly get a word in edgeways. Half her sentences began with, "And, by the way..." until I wanted to say, "Any sentence beginning with 'By the way...' is unlikely to contain material I can use, and I'm only here to get material I can use." Not much of what I saw really entered my consciousness as a result, and I worry about its accuracy on the page. The only exception was the St. Peter and St. Paul church a little outside the old town, which despite a
nondescript exterior had amongst the most extravagant Baroque interiors I've even seen, its walls, pillars, and ceilings crawling with stucco statuary, made (said the guide in a brief moment of usefulness) from life. As a result, Mary Magdalene, for instance, appeared beautifully clothed and shod in the fashion of the time. The guide was also some kind of ultra-Catholic, who paused for long diatribes against the Soviet regime turning chapels into accommodation, until I almost wanted to argue the Soviet side in provocation. There were frequent observations that Lithuania was the last country in Europe to turn away from paganism, and I couldn't help remarking that it was probably better off left as it was (except that sword-wielding Teutonic crusaders kept turning up to offer either Christianity or a close encounter with something pointy as options. Faced with this typically humourless approach I might convert myself.)
The Soviet response was to turn most of the churches into warehouses or to other practical uses, a policy which sounds highly attractive if it weren't that the churches were in many cases extravagant works of art. Of one church the guide said that in her days as an undergraduate the Soviets had actually driven trucks straight into the interior, and indeed the pillars inside looked as though they'd been particularly bad at the three-point turns required to get out again.
After a very modest Lithuanian lunch (of torpedo-shaped potato
dumplings stuffed with meat) at least there was time to wander around
the parts of the old town I should have seen in the morning, which were
attractive, if rather more noticeably filled with souvenir shops that
those of Tallinn or Riga, and certainly of a variety of styles, with
every other building a church. The Baroque, it seems, is confined
largely to the churches and the university area. But further
investigation tomorrow may prove me wrong.
This afternoon's meeting with the PR department of the National Opera
and Ballet Theatre (this may not be entirely the correct title--I'm not
attempting accuracy in any of these notes, and you'll be lucky if you
even get correct spelling) was moderately entertaining, although
clouded by the need to use an interpreter. Vasiliev's Romeo and Juliet
was quite a triumph, and danced with the same slightly passionless
technical precision as the Swan Lake I saw in Riga on Saturday. The audience, however, had far more warmth and enthusiasm, and provided a standing ovation at the end. It was also more given to conversation, and I almost thought myself in some North American cinema. I actually told two women behind me to shut up, which surprised me as much as them. But they did keep quiet afterwards, although they may not have understood a word I said.
The Lithuania Tourism representative who was also with me for part of the day said that her second degree had been in international communications and that she was in tourism now because it was an important part of such communication, and far more important and significant than diplomacy. I pointed out that almost all tourism activity involved misrepresentation of the truth, and so might not be as communicative as she was suggesting, to wit: Destinations and sights constantly over-promote, misrepresent, or downright lie about themselves; many businesses overcharge visitors; many "experiences" are entirely created for tourists; tourists frequently mislead themselves, preferring some romanticized view of their chosen destination, even when a grimmer reality is right in front of their eyes, to admitting that their expensive trip is anything but blissful.
Enough. I've moved to the Sky Bar on the 22nd floor of the Reval Hotel
Lietuva for a coffee and a snack, and I must escape from the
horribleness of seeing a roomful of businessmen looking for a
commercial cuddle for the night. A forty-something blonde with a 60s
Jean Shrimpton hairstyle, was giving me the eye until a very large
German came and invited both her and her friend to join him at his
table with the gracious phrase, "You know you can come and join us at
our table if you want." They wanted, and there they are now.
Returning briefly to truth, it was entertaining to hear Ieva from Riga
tourism talking about the stupid behaviour of guide book researchers
and magazine article writers, quoting examples where the country's
national day is given in completely the wrong month, and a city located
in the wrong country altogether. I haven't heard any complaints about
the Bradt guides, which I'm carrying, but I'm rushing so quickly
through everywhere that I don't really have any time to check their
recommendations. The local expat product is something called "In Your
Pocket" guides, which appear in Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius (as well as
other eastern European cities) as bi-monthly small magazines. Their
contents and presentation are inconsistent from town to town, and the
writing often in a self-consciously smart-Alec style which any decent
editor should automatically ban. There's also a noticeable correlation
between the presence of an advertisement at a positive review. Since
the biggest ad buyers are strip clubs, of which every city has several,
a fair proportion of each guide is given up to ads for erotic massage,
lesbian shows, etc. and some of the editorial to reviews and
justifications for a skin section appearing in the guide.
Oh well. Bed. There's an early start tomorrow.
In flight
I'm doing the impression of a skimmed stone--Vancouver-Los
Angeles-Auckland-Christchurch-Invercargill-Stewart Island. My guess is I lost you after Christchurch (or even after Auckland). I'm coming to the end of the second, fourteen-and-a-half-hour hop.
Sometime during the night we flew over a pair of very brightly illuminated islands. "Where was that?" I asked an Australian flexing his knees with me at the back of the aircraft. "Last time I flew over Fiji it was largely unlit."
"Could be Western Samoa," he replied.
"It was almost as if both islands were completely floodlit."
"Ah," he said. "Wasting natural resources. Must be American Samoa."
Upgrade-if-available to business class turned out to be not available,
but the seat pitch on Air New Zealand isn't bad, and the seat next to me was empty anyway. Such are the excitements of being in an aluminium tube for long periods.
One problem with this blogging business is that it's an entertainment
of last resort. Once I'm bored with everything else, and work is out of
the way (or if I've nothing else left to do to avoid work) then I might
turn to this. Anyone who writes for a living might understand a lack of
enthusiasm for writing in one's spare time. Anyone who spends a lot of
time editing and re-editing text for publication beneath a by-line
might understand the difficulty of putting something largely unedited
into the public domain.
I came across this in an article edited and reprinted in Canada from
something in the Hong Kong Standard discussing journalism studies in
China:
I simply have no idea why young men and women believe that three years
at a university can help them cope with this circumstance; with
weddings, funerals, town meetings, the lurking disbelief of the
sub-editors back at the office and the spasmodic alcoholism of the page
editor. Print journalism is a craft involving massive skepticism, pints
of lager afterwards and the occasional freebie from a PR outfit.
Television journalism is vaudeville and three years in a communist
university is unlikely to help you with either of them.
I like 'the lurking disbelief of the sub-editors' although many a
sub-editor would quite rightly object, not because of the implied
criticism, but because the phrase doesn't entirely make sense. On the
other hand most would be oblivious to that.
Journalism is pretty well summed up, however, and I'd just like to add
that most travel writing is fantasy born of ignorance and
self-indulgence.
'So?' perhaps you say. 'I'm willing to be ignorant and self-indulgent
if someone will fly me for free halfway around the world.'
It can pall.
---------------
Later in 2004 I went to England partly to do a piece on a couple of lesser-known National Trust properties, both former hunting lodges, and then Belgium to write on castles in the Ardennes. Later still I was in China for the second time that year, marshalling contributors to a forthcoming Dorling Kindersley Eyewitness guide, reviewing Shanghai hotels and restaurants for the same book, and hopping around obscure corners of China by plane when I could find no one else to cover them. From there I went to Japan to join a trek around the volcanic Kunisaki Peninsula, and then another took trip right across Japan visiting sights connected with William Adams, the first Englishman ever to visit the country. (There's a high risk that some sub delighting in cliche will write a headline or strapline saying "In the footsteps of...', I'm afraid.)
All worth writing about in a weblog you might think.
I'll try to do better in future.
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