Travelogues & History
I figured in traveling to Iceland early in July, we'd be seeing nature's bounty on incredible display - and I was right. The rivers were tumbling, the waterfalls roaring, the wildflowers on brilliant display. Along the way, we saw geysers, boiling thermal pools and 24 hours of daylight that kept everything on display as long as we had any energy left to burn.
For some reason, I also expected Iceland to be a place where lots of fountains and water displays would be part of the landscape - and that didn't prove to be the case. In several days of rambling, in fact, we saw only three, and just one of them bears much discussion simply because it was so odd.
But first came a large reflecting pool out front of Reykjavik's Harpa concert hall and conference center. The green-glass building is a spectacular slice of modern architecture, and its companion pool, split by wide bridges, sets it off just the way it should. Judy complained that the whole composition cut off the harbor view, but I liked it and, of course, admired the inclusion of a watershape in such a grand and significant setting.
The second was a large sculptural-fountain piece in a locals-only park we found while hunting for a botanical garden. (I figured it was mainly for Icelanders because it was the only place we encountered where the signage was solely in Icelandic.) Unfortunately, the fountain wasn't operating while we were there, so the watery part of the experience was limited to a large, adjacent pond with a few pleasant details and a small number of birds that seemed a bit lost.
It set me thinking that aquatic displays are probably not a high priority in a place surrounded by water where the sun is effectively gone a good part of the year and days are quite chilly through nine months or more.
But then we arrived at the odd place, one that brought everything about Iceland together for me, from the island's geothermal character and rugged beauty to its marked capacity to separate people of other nations from large quantities of cash. This was the Blue Lagoon, which offers its visitors the opportunity to bathe in mineral-infused water maintained at around 100 degrees F for as long as they can take it.
It gives the impression of being a natural attraction, but it's actually a giant concrete pool fed by water from a nearby geothermal plant that generates power for a large chunk of the island. Once it passes through the turbines, the water goes to a heat exchanger where it also heats tap water bound for the city. That task complete, the still-warm effluent flows into a man-made lagoon that covers about an acre, maybe more.
There are those who say the water, rich in sulfur and silicates (from which its pale blue color derives), has curative powers. That may be true (they say research is ongoing), but I get the impression it's more of a tourist trap than a stop on any pilgrim's road.
Despite that, it should be a stop on any watershaper's road through Iceland: It's an impressive bit of aquatic craftsmanship, ingenious on many different levels, and would seem to be a portable concept on a number of scales if the right resources happened to be available. And the fact that a wade-up bar seems to be a key part of the package makes it all the more welcoming.
For myself, I'm content with the small, slightly salty blue lagoon I maintain in my own backyard, just a few feet from my doorstep. While those who dip into Iceland's Blue Lagoon must be content to share the water with hundreds of other freshly-showered patrons, I prefer my hydrotherapy on a more intimate scale.
That's not to say I regret the Blue Lagoon experience: As I mentioned above, I think it's an essential stop for any watershaper who finds his or her way to Iceland. But I think I was happier seeing a good reflecting pool and, even dry, a water-oriented sculpture - just my kind of tourist trap!
It's been many years since I spent any time wandering in the mid-Atlantic states, but I warmly remember multiple visits to cities from Washington, D.C., all the way down to Savannah, Ga. - mostly related to business but with generous helpings of great food and southern hospitality added in for good measure. I particularly recall a couple days I spent in Charleston, S.C., in
In my visits to St. Louis through the years, I've spent a lot of time admiring the compactness of its downtown district: There's so much cool stuff within easy walking distance, from the Gateway Arch and the baseball stadium to numerous hotels and restaurants - not to mention several public
As I've intimated many times in these Travelogues, I'm a big fan of small water. I like rain chains. I prefer narrow scuppers to wide sheet falls. I like waterfalls with flows the diameter of my thumb rather than the span of a grand, old tree. What I like most of all these days are described as rills or runnels - little channels that artfully
Years ago, my wife and I made a pact that we'd do our best to visit Yosemite National Park at least every other year. With a couple exceptions - including a four-year gap since our last visit in 2013 - we've met that commitment. We took our three girls on the first several trips; we've gone by ourselves once or twice since our nest emptied, but we generally try to persuade
One of my favorite places on earth is the Greek island of Crete. It's actually quite large by island standards, stretching for 160 miles east to west as a sort of southern rampart sheltering Greece's other islands in the Aegean Sea.
When I traveled the world back in 1978, this was one of my few mandatory destinations: A couple years earlier, some friends of mine had stayed in what was then a tiny fishing village called Myrtos on the island's south coast, and I knew when I landed in England in April that I would be spending the whole month of August there, taking a long break from what was otherwise an always-on-the-go itinerary.
The ship from Athens arrived at Crete's port of Heraklion early in the morning, and I had several hours to wait before a semi-direct bus would take me southward. I spent the best part of that morning in a café off what was formally known as Eleftheriou Venizlou Square - named after a Cretan statesman but much more widely known as Lions Square because of the wonderful fountain at its heart.
Crete was under the control of Venice, the commerce- and conquest-oriented Italian city-state, for more than 400 years starting around 1200 AD. Through Venetian influence, the entire island but particularly its main port moved past the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance. The Lions Fountain, which dates to a point late in the Venetian regime, is formally known as the Morosini Fountain to honor the city commander who headed a drive to bring water from a nearby spring into the heart of the city.
It's a beautiful example of Venetian civic architecture and sculpture of that period: powerful, stately and every bit an expression of strength and confidence radiated by one of the great powers of Mediterranean trade and politics for the best part of 800 years.
But Heraklion's history stretches back quite a bit farther: It was the principle city of the Minoan civilization, which thrived on Crete from 2700 to 1420 BC, and the city is dotted with inklings of that era - a stirring place to visit in more ways than one. These traces are essentially prehistoric, but it is thought that the Minoans and their culture were destroyed when a great volcano erupted at nearby Thera (now known as Santorini, another incredible place to visit).
But back to the fountain: It was sculpted in the early 17th Century by Venetian craftsmen and is among the finest examples of art from that period that survives on the island. I saw it on several occasions during my stay: I received letters through the American Express office in Heraklion and made the eight-hour excursion twice in hopes my correspondence would catch up with me there. (It did, thank goodness.)
Heraklion and Myrtos were sleepier places 40 years ago, but I understand that the fountain has recently been restored to a level of performance that far exceeds what I saw in 1978 and that the square itself is a happening place - right in line with its historic role as the city's largest open gathering space.
I'd love to go back to Crete, although this time I think I'd stick to Heraklion: I have unpleasant memories of the bus trip and some harrowing hairpin turns in the island's high mountain passes. But maybe they've widened the road by now, and perhaps even added a few well-placed guard rails?
Through all my years of writing these Travelogues, I have discussed less than a handful of traveler-accessible watershapes that didn't make the grade. It wasn't that they were horrible, but rather that they were a little bit "off" in my estimation. Just recently, however, I saw a fountain that should never have been built - it just wasn't worth the bother - and it's the first time in writing more than 100 of these essays that I'm actually advising
In my pre-WaterShapes days, I worked for a publishing company that specialized in technical and scientific magazines. My job there in the early 1980s was starting new magazines, one after another. The work involved extensive travel, frequently to Washington, D.C., where I'd attend trade shows and
The Japanese Garden at the Huntington Library, Art Collection and Botanical Gardens has a huge advantage over its neighbor, the Chinese Garden: It's been there about 100 years longer. As was discussed two months back (click here), the Chinese Garden was first opened at
During the recent International Pool|Spa|Patio Expo, I stayed in New Orleans at an unfamiliar hotel three or four blocks off the waterfront and a couple blocks from the French Quarter. I arrived late and didn't have the opportunity to get my bearings, so I started the next day by opening the drapes to survey the city from my 13th-floor vantage point.
It was a first for me: In all of my travels, I've rarely ever stayed in a hotel with a 13th floor, let alone been assigned a room on one. And as unluckiness would have it, the view to the horizon wasn't much, just the tops of warehouses with a big bridge in the middle ground.
But straight down below me was a strange sort of park with odd walls, a clock tower, a colonnade and a structure that suggested the Grand Canyon to me. I checked it out before heading over to the convention center and saw that it was called Piazza d'Italia. In walking through the space, I soon recognized that the canyon-seeming formation was a fountain basin and that the "excavation" was shaped like the Italian peninsula, with Sicily lashed on at the toe of the boot to complete the package.
The view from my hotel window. (Please pardon the glare!)
I took some snapshots and, when I returned to my room that evening, learned that the space had been designed by the internationally renowned post-modern architect Charles Moore in association with Perez Architects, a local New Orleans firm - and that it had started a steady slide to dereliction almost as soon as it was completed in 1978.
I also learned that the piazza had been fully restored in 2004 - but I can't swear by it's current status, because it wasn't operational for the week I was there. It's often called the first post-modern ruin, which is amusing. But it was just plain sad to see how much effort had gone into creating a space that just didn't seem to belong.
It's a nasty twist of urban planning and New Orleans history: The piazza was intended to spur a neighborhood revival, but the city never caught up with the program despite the fact that several nice restaurants, including one of Emeril's local outposts, had come to the area.
So instead of being the core of a vibrant village, Piazza d'Italia is caught in the shadow of a huge hotel and cut off from nearby streets by a big parking lot that replaced a bunch of old buildings that at some point had the misfortune of catching fire. In fact, if I hadn't found the space from above, I seriously doubt I would ever have spotted it from street level.
It's almost beside the point that I don't really like the piazza, with the fountain operating or not. There's little to love in the self-indulgence and self-satisfaction that marks so much of post-modernism, from the winking references to antiquity and classical forms to the rib-nudging use of neon in the lighting program. I know I haven't seen Piazza d'Italia at its best, but in both concept and execution it seems overblown in the way so much architecture was at the close of the last century - too divorced from the immediacy of human experience to be beloved, a stage without actors, an uncomfortable public forum.
Maybe splashing water would help, but don't quote me on that because being inoperative when I saw it was only one problem among many. It's still worth seeing, I'd say, but it's just so weird!
To learn more about the fountain and piazza (and see many more photographs), click here.
