Visby, Sweden
Visby was one of the towns we had to look up before we left, since we had no idea where it was. It's on Gotland, a fairly large island between Sweden and Latvia, and like virtually every town we visited, was a Hanseatic trading center. It was the only stop where we couldn't pull right up to a dock, so the ship was moored quite a ways out and tenders (actually lifeboats) ran shuttles back and forth all day.
Our tour, "City of Visby" was led by a tremendously fun high school English teacher named Jan Luthman, whose frustration with the Korean faction of our group was quite clear. I think he thought it was a language barrier problem, but the real issue was that they had different goals for touring than we did: they wanted to have their pictures taken standing in front of important things, and when there were no important-looking things to be photographed in front of, they'd just wander off or sit on benches and pout. Or, when there was an important-looking thing to be photographed in front of, they'd just start snapping away, oblivious to the fact that Jan was trying to teach us something about it. Also, they walked much, much slower than he wanted to.
We started out in Almedalen park near the tiny Gotland University, for a look at the city walls. A square 13th-century tower on the sea side was used as a lookout in case of pirates, then as a women's prison. The women were fed by having family in the town pass food through the large square holes in the walls, until the guards complained that the women were getting too fat; the holes were reduced to about the size of a bottle, and the guards complained that the women were drunk all the time.
Visby is known for its vast collection of ruined churches--every trading population that came through town built its own church, so there are plenty--and our first was St. Olaf. As far as we could tell, all that remained of it was one huge wall, overtaken by one really huge ivy plant. Parts of the vine were as thick as my arm. From there, we walked along the wall to Fisherman's Alley, the "most-photographed view in town," a narrow alley lined with ivy and flowers, with a church at the top. Opposite this was a traditional bulwhark house, built of timber coated in tar.
The nearby botanical gardens were founded in 1856 by a group of young men who liked to swim (which wasn't done at the time); started just as a cover for swimming activities, the club subsequently built a school for paupers and orphans in addition to designing and protecting this large park in what was certainly prime real estate. Near a well-tended rose garden was an interesting wooden bust of Linnaeus, whose 300th birthday was big news in Sweden. Around this time, Jan gave in to the constant badgering about bathroom breaks, and Greg and I walked along the wall for a bit and back while the rest of the group stood in line for the two public restrooms.
The bus took us outside the city wall and up to the east side of town, where the walls and gates were beautifully preserved. The original crenelation was visible, but the wall had later been made four meters higher (without crenelation). This, the land side of the town, was never intended for habitation; the upper terrace (of three) had no buildings, for fear other islanders would attack with flaming arrows. Later, the poor folk of town built their houses there, and even today the "terrace people" are treated with disdain.
We went through a large gate and stopped at a scenic overlook (where Jan utterly failed to get anyone's attention, standing alone with his Celebrity Cruises tour sign over his head, looking at his watch and muttering "don't they have any discipline in Korea?") before descending to the middle terrace to the town's one remaining church. St. Maria was built in the 1100s as a Lutheran church for German visitors to the town, and it's the only remaining church because it's the only one Germans didn't burn in 1525 when Visby was feuding with Lubeck. During the trading heyday, the upper part of the church was used for storage (there's a pulley on one end, like a barn), and the 12th-century statue of Christ in the crossing disappears into the ceiling every year on Ascension.
We breezed past more ruined churches to the Radhus, then cut through a green energy expo to return to the bus. Greg and I attempted to break off at this point, thinking the bus was heading back to the tenders, but Jan assured us we had one more stop. We drove south out of town, passing a former princess's summer house (now a YMCA hostel!) and a traveling circus whose elephant pen was laid out behind a huge monument to Olaf I. Our destination was a beautiful and incredibly quiet scenic overlook on a 40-meter cliff jutting out into the sea, one hundred kilometers from mainland Sweden. Jan came to talk to us, and explained Sweden's fantastic access laws: based on a medieval law, they allow you to camp for one night on anyone's property, and (this was noted specifically) eat their berries, as long as you stay 200 meters from the house. How cool is that?
The bus brought us back to the dock, and Greg and I took off running to get to as many churches as possible before having to return to the tenders. We visited St. Katherine, St. Lars, and Drotten, photographing madly, before rushing back to the dock. There was a long, long line for the tenders, since the last boat was supposed to leave in half an hour. Once we returned to the ship, we headed straight to 10 aft for lunch, just like a thousand other people. Greg occupied a table out on the deck while I went for food, and by the time I got back he had rented out the extra seats to a young Australian couple. People nearby with binoculars, standing alongside people with video cameras on tripods, probably to film the departure, reported that the line for the tenders hadn't gone down at all. We ended up leaving about an hour late.
My remaining notes for the day say "dinner includes baked Alaska insanity, later Le Grand Buffet insanity." I don't know what to say about these, really. After dinner, the shades were drawn, the lights dimmed, and the poor waitstaff had to promenade around to music with baked Alaska en flambe over their heads. I can't imagine how humiliating that must have been for them. The "Le Grand Buffet insanity" was even more disgusting: it was a buffet of foods shaped like things--a chicken-salad dragon, a pastry Viking ship, a chocolate piano--which opened at 11:30 for photographs, and midnight for eating. I'm actually kind of ashamed we went to see it at all.
Our tour, "City of Visby" was led by a tremendously fun high school English teacher named Jan Luthman, whose frustration with the Korean faction of our group was quite clear. I think he thought it was a language barrier problem, but the real issue was that they had different goals for touring than we did: they wanted to have their pictures taken standing in front of important things, and when there were no important-looking things to be photographed in front of, they'd just wander off or sit on benches and pout. Or, when there was an important-looking thing to be photographed in front of, they'd just start snapping away, oblivious to the fact that Jan was trying to teach us something about it. Also, they walked much, much slower than he wanted to.
We started out in Almedalen park near the tiny Gotland University, for a look at the city walls. A square 13th-century tower on the sea side was used as a lookout in case of pirates, then as a women's prison. The women were fed by having family in the town pass food through the large square holes in the walls, until the guards complained that the women were getting too fat; the holes were reduced to about the size of a bottle, and the guards complained that the women were drunk all the time.
Visby is known for its vast collection of ruined churches--every trading population that came through town built its own church, so there are plenty--and our first was St. Olaf. As far as we could tell, all that remained of it was one huge wall, overtaken by one really huge ivy plant. Parts of the vine were as thick as my arm. From there, we walked along the wall to Fisherman's Alley, the "most-photographed view in town," a narrow alley lined with ivy and flowers, with a church at the top. Opposite this was a traditional bulwhark house, built of timber coated in tar.
The nearby botanical gardens were founded in 1856 by a group of young men who liked to swim (which wasn't done at the time); started just as a cover for swimming activities, the club subsequently built a school for paupers and orphans in addition to designing and protecting this large park in what was certainly prime real estate. Near a well-tended rose garden was an interesting wooden bust of Linnaeus, whose 300th birthday was big news in Sweden. Around this time, Jan gave in to the constant badgering about bathroom breaks, and Greg and I walked along the wall for a bit and back while the rest of the group stood in line for the two public restrooms.
The bus took us outside the city wall and up to the east side of town, where the walls and gates were beautifully preserved. The original crenelation was visible, but the wall had later been made four meters higher (without crenelation). This, the land side of the town, was never intended for habitation; the upper terrace (of three) had no buildings, for fear other islanders would attack with flaming arrows. Later, the poor folk of town built their houses there, and even today the "terrace people" are treated with disdain.
We went through a large gate and stopped at a scenic overlook (where Jan utterly failed to get anyone's attention, standing alone with his Celebrity Cruises tour sign over his head, looking at his watch and muttering "don't they have any discipline in Korea?") before descending to the middle terrace to the town's one remaining church. St. Maria was built in the 1100s as a Lutheran church for German visitors to the town, and it's the only remaining church because it's the only one Germans didn't burn in 1525 when Visby was feuding with Lubeck. During the trading heyday, the upper part of the church was used for storage (there's a pulley on one end, like a barn), and the 12th-century statue of Christ in the crossing disappears into the ceiling every year on Ascension.
We breezed past more ruined churches to the Radhus, then cut through a green energy expo to return to the bus. Greg and I attempted to break off at this point, thinking the bus was heading back to the tenders, but Jan assured us we had one more stop. We drove south out of town, passing a former princess's summer house (now a YMCA hostel!) and a traveling circus whose elephant pen was laid out behind a huge monument to Olaf I. Our destination was a beautiful and incredibly quiet scenic overlook on a 40-meter cliff jutting out into the sea, one hundred kilometers from mainland Sweden. Jan came to talk to us, and explained Sweden's fantastic access laws: based on a medieval law, they allow you to camp for one night on anyone's property, and (this was noted specifically) eat their berries, as long as you stay 200 meters from the house. How cool is that?
The bus brought us back to the dock, and Greg and I took off running to get to as many churches as possible before having to return to the tenders. We visited St. Katherine, St. Lars, and Drotten, photographing madly, before rushing back to the dock. There was a long, long line for the tenders, since the last boat was supposed to leave in half an hour. Once we returned to the ship, we headed straight to 10 aft for lunch, just like a thousand other people. Greg occupied a table out on the deck while I went for food, and by the time I got back he had rented out the extra seats to a young Australian couple. People nearby with binoculars, standing alongside people with video cameras on tripods, probably to film the departure, reported that the line for the tenders hadn't gone down at all. We ended up leaving about an hour late.
My remaining notes for the day say "dinner includes baked Alaska insanity, later Le Grand Buffet insanity." I don't know what to say about these, really. After dinner, the shades were drawn, the lights dimmed, and the poor waitstaff had to promenade around to music with baked Alaska en flambe over their heads. I can't imagine how humiliating that must have been for them. The "Le Grand Buffet insanity" was even more disgusting: it was a buffet of foods shaped like things--a chicken-salad dragon, a pastry Viking ship, a chocolate piano--which opened at 11:30 for photographs, and midnight for eating. I'm actually kind of ashamed we went to see it at all.
Labels: honeymoon
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home