The Church of Palafrugell

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to say that we don't often find ourselves in churches. I blame residual church-fatigue from our two weeks in Vatican City. However, when the rain in Spain had washed away any hopes of hitting the nearby Costa Brava beaches, and soaked us in our effort to find the town's cork museum, we sought refuge in the Church of Saint Martin.
It's odd shape and mix of styles attracted our interests right off the bat, but with the market in the foreground, we always managed to get distracted. The original structure was built between 993 and 1019, but underwent two big periods of extension and redesign, first in the 15th century and then in the 17th through 18th. So, half of Saint Martin's is late-Gothic and the other half is Baroque. The church feels frozen in time, between eras - a feeling only added to by the fact that its octagonal body and main tower remain unfinished.
While the outside is faded and partially moss-covered, the inside feels shiny and new. This is thanks to a post-Civil War renovation in the early 1940s. It's grander than you'd expect, with high, intricate vaulting covered with murals stretching down the long nave. There is art absolutely everywhere. The altar is decorated with a Dali-style landscape, that may or may not have been done by the man himself. Every style of art is represented somewhere in the church and admiring the details can keep you out of the rain for a good long while.
Bright and beautiful, it feels more celebratory than solemn, more dynamic than dour. The side chapels are each totally unique. Light, dark, modern, contemporary, whimsical, simple, traditional, masculine, feminine, natural - whatever atmosphere one would like to pray in, there's an alcove for it. There were pop art paintings of multi-cultural cherubs and crucifixes galore. There were Christmas lights, paper lanterns, tea-lights and candelabras.
Sure, if the cork museum hadn't been closed for the season or had we known that the room full of cages we spotted through the window of a warehouse was actually the 24th Annual Ornithological Exhibition and not some creepy animal testing lab, we may not have visited Saint Martin's. But I'm glad we did.

Andorran Romanesque Churches

At the beginning of the middle ages, as Europe began to see the first sweeps of unifying art and architecture since the Roman era, a particular style of building became all the rage. Later dubbed "Romanesque" by scholars because of the prominent use of "roman" semi-circular arches, the style coincided with a rapid expansion in Christianity and with a boom in church construction. Between the 10th and 12th centuries, nearly all the religious structures erected in Europe were Romanesque. Then, Gothic architecture became the new fad, and most of the old churches were rebuilt in the new style. Today, it's rare to find surviving examples of Romanesque churches - unless you're in Andorra, which has a staggering trove of them.
In Andorra, the buildings are more precisely "pre-" or "first-Romanesque," which means that they have a general lack of sculptural adornment and a somewhat simpler design than later instances. Also, while the arches have the characteristic shape associate with the movement, they are often limited to window and door openings, and are not seen in more ornate colonnades and ceilings. Early adoption of the architecture isn't necessarily the reason for first-Romanesque attributes, though. Partly, the remoteness and poverty of the region is the cause, as the people of the Pyrenees didn't have the means to build complex or large structures.

Santa Eulàlia's seventy-five foot tower, in Encamp, is the tallest medieval structure in the principality, and the only surviving part of the original church.
The most emblematic facet of the Romanesque style is the semi-circular arch, which replaced simple lintels and allowed for more open walls - most importantly in the bell towers, which could be built taller and with more openings than before. This bridged an important architectural gap between solid and ornamented walls, but the buildings were still generally thickly constructed and, especially in poorer areas, made of unrefined stone.

Sant Romà, situated high above the medieval hamlet of Les Bons, is almost too tiny to be much more than a nave, apse and little porch. Church porches are common in the region, perhaps to allow for some shade as the congregation leaves a service.On some of the simpler Andorran churches, a bell-gable, like Sant Miquel i Sant Joan in Encamp, stands in for a tower. The bell-gable was popular on the Iberian peninsula because of the haste with which much of the buildings were erected. Called "espadanya" in Catalan, they were often the architectural precursor to larger structures in other parts of the world, but remained relevant here and were eventually exported to the Americas and elsewhere by Catalan and Spanish immigrants and missionaries. Though there are very few openings or distinctive marks, notice how the lower windows, in the older part of the church, have the Roman arch.
Romanesque churches survived in Andorra because the region was too poor to build new chapels and too remote to be influenced by new architectural trends. Although many of the structures here have been renovated or repaired over the centuries, the original designs have remained intact and a kind of stasis has been achieved - to an Andorran, the Romanesque church is just what a church is supposed to look like. The Sant Serni de Canillo, above, was built in the 18th century, long after the rest of Europe had adopted other styles. Here, the same characteristics seen elsewhere in the country were copied and only slightly modernized - notice, for example, the familiar shape of the tower, but the finer, more precise masonry.

Nostra Senyora de Meritxell, sitting by itself high up the valley side, is the inevitable exception that still proves the rule. Built in 1994 using a 1976 design, the church (which is dedicated to the national patron saint, Mary) is about as far from traditional as can be. The architect, Ricard Bofill, managed to incorporate the Roman arch motif - here represented in open, exterior shapes - and the blunt shape of the Romanesque tower and nave, while creating something ultimately very contemporary.

My favorite of the Andorran Romanesque churches is probably the 11th century Sant Joan de Caselles. It sits at a narrow point in the Gran Valira river valley, up above the town of Canillo. It's impossible to miss on the drive from the French border down towards Andorra la Vella - we first encountered it just after entering Andorra, at dusk on a cool evening. It's a spectacular sight. Later, we camped just down the valley and walked up to see it on a few evenings. It's a peaceful spot when the traffic quiets and the only sound comes from the flowing water and the autumn wind.

Slovenian Churches

Every region in Europe has its own style of church. In some countries, the religious architecture can change from one valley to the next. What's interesting about Slovenian churches is their relatively uniform style - slender, compact spires and simply designed naves - and their number. There are over two thousand in this little country - on some hillsides, we've spotted as many as four.
There are many small village churches, sometimes at both ends of a hamlet. Interestingly, a large majority of the religious buildings are catholic, and the multitude generally doesn't reflect a denominational divide as much as it does the small size of the buildings. In other countries, larger cathedrals were constructed in many parishes, allowing higher numbers of worshipers in each congregation. Here, there are relatively few big chapels, and new churches were built to meet demand.
This shingle roofed church near Žička kartuzija monastery was impressive for its ornateness. The double cupola is more common in this northeastern region of Štajerska, where there's less of a monolithic culture of catholicism. Here, eastern influences from the rest of the former Yugoslavia and from the northern, Germanic countries have mixed more with the Romance architecture of the mediterranean west.
The further a Slovenian church is into the wilderness, the less likely it will have an ornate steeple roof. The onion shape easily gives way to Italianate, square edged spires. Often, these backwoods buildings are the prettiest and most appealing for their sunworn paint and crumbling, simple facades.
The church of Sv Janeza Krstnika, on the shore of Lake Bohinj, is said to be the most beautiful in Slovenia, with classic stylings and 15th century frescoes covering the interior walls. It's especially striking at dusk, when it's lit up and its reflection becomes almost perfect in the still water.

Kalocsa: Pretty Flowers and the Bones of a Saint

Kalocsa is the paprika capital of Hungary, or at least one of the two centers of paprika production in a red-powder-crazy culture. Being as I foresee a further investigation of the ubiquitous spice in the blog future, I won’t go too much into it here. I’ll only say that we visited the town specifically for the Paprika Museum, but stumbled upon a number of other curiosities and treasures. Of course, all exploration happened after a paprika-laden lunch, which included this cheese stuffed pepper and two fiery red bowls of soup.Kalocsa used to be a very important town, housing one of four Hungarian archbishops. The palace nearby had an incredible library, which we didn't have time to explore. The cathedral's exterior was mostly obscured by construction scaffolding, but its interior was splendid. The pink and gold fabergé egg walls were shocking to us, wandering in with no expectations as we did. It's amazing to think that all the churchgoers we'd dined next to had just come from their weekly mass in such a magnificent setting.
Tucked away in the corner, behind a flowerbed of prayer candles, was a gilded casket. Inside, the remains of Saint Pious were wrapped in a gauzy outfit, complete with little pointy shoes. An incredibly narrow ring was slid over his gloved index finger, sitting right below the visibly knobby knuckle. If you look closely, you can make out the saint's skeleton face. How bizarre.

The folk art specific to Kalocsa is some of the most famous in Hungary. The embroidered patterns are never repeated and never symmetrical. Some designs are made entirely of white embroidery and holes, others depict bright marigolds, tulips and roses. The collection of dresses, vests, socks, tablecloths and the like at the Károly Viski Museum were incredibly impressive. The flowers covered just about everything you could possibly decorate. Porcelain, wood, pottery, clay walls were all painted by the 'writing women of Kalocsa.'
They say that nothing in the town went undecorated in the second half of the 19th century. This bit of wall, between two shuttered sneaker stores, gave us a glimpse at what the entire town must have looked like. The Museum held a number of non-folk art related things, including one seemingly obsessive man's collection of rocks and minerals and a hall filled with ancient coins from around the world. The rooms had motion detecting lights, which would flicker on and buzz a few seconds after entering. That first dark moment in each new room, I was ready for just about anything to pop up. Kalocsa felt like a dusty, heavy-lidded trunk in your grandmother's attic, filled with any number of unexpected things: everyday items from another time and place, heirlooms and treasures, maybe a skeleton or two.
On the drive home, we spotted a barn full of cotton? dried flowers? Stopping, we realized it was garlic. Almost every house had at least a few clusters hanging on the sides of gutters, down from porch ceilings, on their mailbox. Little tables sold the heads next to dried peppers. A few also sold colorfully painted wooden spoons.

Hungarian First Steps

Our first day in a country is usually marred by a little too much driving and a little too much expectation. We too acutely feel the full of weight of embarking on a new chapter in the trip. It can feel like the flip of an hour glass, making time feel finite and valuable, which is a terrible feeling to have when you're observing road work speed limits. I'm usually flipping through at least two different books, highlighting and asking questions like “how long does it take to walk 3 kilometers?” and “a town of 21,000 would probably have a laundromat, right?” The second day, we’re more or less settled and, feeling guilty about the unproductive first 24 hours, we do some sightseeing. So, today, we climbed the very pretty city of Eger’s very narrow Turkish minaret.
For a month in 1552, a ragtag group of 2,000 soldiers held off 10,000 storming Turks. This success means more for the folklore of the country (and, obviously, the city) than for the actual fate of history. Legends include women who poured boiling oil on enemies and men with beards stained with red wine. All sorts of fun stuff. However, the Turks revisited a few decades later and, this time, Eger fell. The minaret is the last remaining piece of architecture from the period of Turkish rule. It’s currently surrounded by murals done by school children, which portray the first, fabled fight. In the context of all this, I saw the minaret as the middle finger of their enemy, raised high to remind them what the final outcome was.
It was easily the most narrow staircase we’ve climbed – and we happen to be people that have never turned down an offer to climb a narrow staircase. Standing with both feet on a step, the walls grazed both of my shoulders. There was a fair amount of crawling on the ascent and the sound of our backpacks scraping against the walls. I'd say I was about the maximum size, sans backpack, for a n upright climb. So, if you're over 5ft 6in and more than 130lbs, it may be a squeeze. At first entrance, it was a welcome escape from the sun. About halfway up, Merlin asked, "Is it hotter in here?" Ninety-seven steep steps led to this door to the balcony.
There wasn’t much more room to maneuver once outside, but more light and more air. Which is always nice. Testament to the steepness, under 100 stairs had brought us much higher than we'd expected. Looking down over Eger, we saw a family of four taking pictures in front of the minaret. For a moment I thought, “Oh, I hope I’m not ruining their shot.” Then, I realized that if they were a beetle to me, I was probably no more than an ant to them. I'm not sure why, but when I see shadows like this, I always get the urge to wave my arms around and see if I can alter the silhouette.
The summer day played out below and around us. Ice cream cones, outdoor lunches, men in fluorescent construction overalls watering flowers. It must seems so strange to imagine us up there. Eger citizens must think it's so strange that on a day like, that really could have reached 100 degrees Fahrenheit, this was our chosen activity. That people like us pay to take an uncomfortable stroll up a stone relic instead of rambling through the park or garden for free. But, see, for us, the few minutes it took made us feel exceedingly accomplished. Physical exertion? Check. Cultural experience? Check. Historic research? Check. First blog post of the country? Check.

Stift Melk

Time spent traveling has to be regulated somehow, so that the senses aren’t fried and individual impressions can be made. Sometimes, seeing too much can feel like overexposing a picture - a building that might seem extraordinary in a vacuum becomes a blur of windows and carvings, a town that should feel quaint turns stifling, landmarks become part of the wash of scenery. Dosage is important. What can be taken in safely in one week cannot be doubled and crammed into two. Our energy wanes at times, and an extraordinary place can be too strenuous a challenge for us, even as we go through the motions of “seeing it.”
Stift Melk, (stift means abbey) which demands attention on this stretch of the Danube, is spectacle brought to a syrupy, overwrought end. It’s huge, yellow and filled with wonders, but seemingly devoid of monks or meaning. After a frustrating experience at a Subaru service center, a quick tour through the grand rooms and gardens seemed like a visit to monastic Disneyland. We tried to think of the perfect way to describe why it was displeasing to us – Rebecca said it felt like a bad jewelry store or some Las Vegas casino called “Austrian Monastery.” I thought it looked like a hypothetical Versace’s Miami abbey. We agreed that it was gauche and strange and had fun laughing about the whole thing.
Having recently spent too much time in grand religious spaces, we fled the cathedral pretty quickly. It is a dizzying space, and it fits in well with the rest of the buildings – the route one takes through the complex swells in grandeur until this point, where pink and gold erupt into a soaring fantasy. If it were possible to come across this room without being prepared for it, the effect would likely be overwhelming.
The place was built in the 800's AD, but was important to the Romans before and was destroyed much later by fire. The structure that replaced the original was erected in the early eighteenth century. Mozart and Napoleon and a whole host of other luminaries have slept here, which is a point of pride. I felt less of their presence, though, than that of the tourists and gift shops. It’s hard to imagine this place ever feeling particularly religious or important for any reason other than its splendor.
Our favorite place in the abbey was this little staircase, perhaps because it was moderate and functional. In the strange, almost phantasmagorical language of this architecture, a little space can seem the pleasantest. We ate apfelstrudel in the garden, at tables arranged around a pink folly, then left, seeking out the simplicity of our picnic table and tent.

The Rain in Admont

Sometimes, rain and road-weariness conspire to keep us in a place that might, otherwise, have only taken up an afternoon or a morning. Strange places get found and embraced or remain inscrutable, seen only from behind bleary windows. Admont was one of those places where we’ve marooned ourselves. On a day that brought downpours interspersed with periods of clarity, a dry bed in town and a hot meal seemed too appealing to turn our backs on. So, instead of fleeing this little village after we took in the monastery, we checked into a gasthof on the main street and stayed the night. Dinner was a bleak affair, but the clouds in the late evening were rewarding.

Admont is known for its monastery, which is famous for its library. It’s a fantastic sight, and was surprisingly quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Photographs are forbidden, but you can get the gist of the room and the collection from their website. The monks have collected over two hundred thousand volumes, some seventy thousand of which are displayed. There is also a somewhat disquieting assemblage of taxidermy and one of the largest collections of winged insects in the world. The insects, of course, are pinned in cases, not flying around. Monastic vintages of Admont wine tempt visitors in the giftshop and on-site bar. There are pretty gardens, both of the floral and apothecary types, and some nice lawns.
The monastery is great, and probably deserved more energy on our part. In the drizzle, though, the town and collection came to be overwhelming and our mood was more dazed than interested. Having grown accustomed to the rain, a flash of blue sky seemed blinding and made us want to sit down. In a café, we worked and ate “apfelstrudel,” with rhubarb, which was the town’s culinary highlight. The mountains were almost surprising when we noticed them. Sometimes, they can feel more distant than they really are – a different world beyond the confines of the livable valleys we travel in.
Dinner was overfried and watery, served in a dark room where we sat segregated from the congenial villagers because we chose “non-smoking.” After, though, our moods were surprisingly buoyant. The sky was a pretty latticework of clouds and stars, lit up by a moon that’s almost full. We walked around the dark streets and were greeted by other Saturday strollers as we went. A handful of older couples were out enjoying the suddenly pleasant air, and every person who passed said hello in the peculiar, formal, Austrian way.
In the morning, it was raining again and the breakfast room was empty. In a strange way, the night before felt like a providential reprieve. Travel like this can seem interminable when the weather isn’t cooperative. Admont felt like a surrender to the elements, though it also seemed to be a moment of reward.

Extraterritorial Vatican City

The sovereign state of Vatican City is not completely contained within its walls. There are a few buildings scattered around Rome, and just outside, which were given extraterritorial status in the Lateran Treaty of 1927. It's basically the same as a foreign embassy- it is under the jurisdiction of its sovereign state(Vatican City) within the territory of another (Italy). Among these are three basilicas: St. John Lateran, St. Mary Major and St. Paul Outside the Walls. They, along with St. Peter's, make up the four 'major basilicas' - the highest church status possible.

As you can probably tell by the name, St. Paul Outside the Walls was a little ways away from us, so we only ventured to the other two, starting with St. Mary Major. This is the largest church in Rome dedicated to the Virgin Mary - hence the "major." Its construction began back in the 420s, which is even more amazing because it is the only one of the four basilica maior that retains its original structure. Sure, there have been many renovations and much rebuilding over time - most notably after the great earthquake of 1348 - but its core remains unaltered.

Walking in was such a different experience than Saint Peter's. For starters, there was no line. People observed the request for silence and no flash photography. It was quite big and really beautiful, but I think it struck us as especially lovely because of the serenity. It felt holier, somehow and more ancient. A single stained glass circular window shone sunlight into the long, rectangular space. In one of the side chapels, a man in a Lenten-purple robe presided over a hushed mass to a handful of worshipers.

Don't get me wrong, though. The basilica was definitely not quaint. In fact, to call it palatial would be particularly fitting, as it was actually the Palace of Popes for a short time after the papacy returned to Rome (from Avignon). A large canopy structure stood at the front altar, similar to the one at Saint Peter's and the wall behind it was covered in an enormous golden mosaic. The details were all amazing and even without having to shuffle behind a tour group or wait our turn to take a peek at certain things, we found ourselves moving around slowly, attempting to take it all in.

In another side chapel was the oldest image of Mary in Rome, which we were not allowed to photograph. Legend has it that Luke the Evangelist painted it himself out of wood from a table from the Nazareth family home. (Which I'd assume would have been built by Joseph. He was a carpenter, right?) Part of what makes a basilica 'major' is its status as a pilgrimage site for Catholics, specifically during a Jubilee year. That means, every 25 years pilgrims from all around the world flock to Rome to visit the four major basilica. After walking through the Holy Door of each (sealed shut any time other than a jubilee year) all their sins are forgiven. I can imagine that Luke's image of Mary is a particularly amazing sight for each visitor.
Then, we walked over to Saint John Lateran - the single most important church in the Roman Catholic faith, the "ecumenical mother church" or "mother church of the whole inhabited world." The only person who is allowed to conduct mass here is the pope himself, or someone specifically chosen by him. One priest who almost certainly cannot is Nicolas Sarkozy. The French president holds honorary priest status at this basilica, a tradition which started with King Henry IV and has survived longer than the monarchy itself.
I'm not sure the average Christian knows that Saint John Lateran is actually more important than Saint Peter's because, again, it was stunningly empty. Also like Saint Mary Major, those inside remained quiet and reverent. This was the first basilica to be deemed 'major,' so in that sense, it is the oldest. However, not much of the original structure or its original treasures remain. Most of the current basilica, including its facade are relatively new. Of course, I'm speaking in Rome terms here, so by 'new' I mean the 1700s.
The first version of Saint John was so splendid that it garnered the nickname "The Golden Basilica." That was just asking for trouble, and in the 5th century, it was heavily looted. I can say that it is quite golden once more. We couldn't help but notice that five different organs were present. Each one of them was gorgeous, but this was our favorite. I'm not sure why there is such a collection, but in my current state of church-fatigue, it made Saint John Lateran stand out.
It felt especially nice, on our final day in Vatican City, to feel like we had space to move around. We felt like we had both basilicas almost to ourselves. Another jubilee year occurs in 2025 and part of me is curious how transformed the spaces become when filled to the brim.

Fun fact: Saint John Lateran actually honors both John the Evangelist and John the Baptist. In case you were wondering.

Basilica Sancti Petri

Saint Peter's Basilica, built on the tomb of the saint himself, is the centerpiece of the Vatican. It is usually the first thing that any visitor sees of the country, as its towering dome dominates the Vatican and Roman skylines. Its the largest church building in the world (some people dispute this) and is jaw-dropping in almost every way. We go in often - to access other parts of the Vatican, to get up high for views or just to walk around inside.
The basilica is the easiest building to access in the country, even though the line typically looks like this. Unlike the line into the museums, though, this queue moves quickly. If you joined the end, here, you'd likely be inside within fifteen minutes. Admission is free, of course, and one only has to wait to go through the bank of metal detectors at the entrance. If you go, ignore the "guides" who wander the square and tell you that they can get you inside faster. They're lying to you, and the wait won't be bad anyway.
With room for 60,000 people, it never feels that crowded inside. The space opens to the sides and back, revealing nooks and alcoves that pull people away from the center. It's quiet, too. Unlike the museum, or other spaces in the Vatican, most respect the request for silence. On one recent visit, a choir group was singing and the whole structure rang with their voices. The acoustics are phenomenal.
The ceiling is over 150 feet above the ground, and is more finely decorated even than the walls. Above the ceiling, various domes rise even further, with the central dome rising to almost 380 feet above the floor (the whole structure is 452 feet high!). Much is made of the sistine chapel, but it is less impressive in many ways than this. The lighting provided by the cupolas and porthole windows is dramatic, throwing moving spotlights against the curves and facets of the interior.
The structure was built on the site of an older church, erected in the fourth century by Emperor Constantine. The site is the tomb of Saint Peter - which we saw, with a huge bit of luck, when we were able to finagle a tour of the excavations underneath the building. The current altar is placed on top of several older altars, all arranged directly above the burial site. The older church - the first Saint Peter's - fell into disrepair during the period that the Papal residency was in Avignon. In 1506, construction began on the new basilica, lasting for over 120 years until Pope Urban VIII consecrated it in 1626.
The greatest influence on the interior was the imagination of Gianlorenzo Bernini, the sculptor and architect, who contributed a great deal of the marble works and carvings found inside. He worked on the building off and on for fifty years. The statuary tends to be dramatic, oversized and over-concerned with narrative.
Excuse the quality of this picture, there's a metal grate around the inner balcony of the dome. You can access this view on the way up to the cupola, and it's amazing. The dome rises another 200 feet above this point. Standing there, perspective and distance are warped and the curved space seems too vast to be true.
Going to Vatican City can be a daunting endeavor - the lines, the hordes of people, the overabundance of things to see. I'm not sure that I would recommend the museums, for instance, to anyone on a short stay in Rome. Without much time, they are unconquerable and frustrating. Hours are lost in the crush, and there are more images and surfaces than can be processed. The basilica, on the other hand, can be "swung-through." It doesn't take long to get in, it's free, and the scale can be taken in all at once - standing for a moment underneath the great dome is an experience. You'll be amazed, and you can leave after ten minutes or two hours feeling satisfied that you've seen something breathtaking.