Travelogue
One of the most fascinating college courses I ever took was on the history of science and technology. It focused entirely on Europe, which was limiting. But as I discovered almost immediately, there was so much cool stuff to cover that broadening the content would have turned an already brisk survey into no more than a shallow collection of dates and places.
The ten-week curriculum was divided into ten categories, and the one that has stuck with me most was a three-lecture series on water. It started with the Roman aqueducts and the rise of the concept of taming wild water for the benefit of urban populations, then moved on to the development of dams, reservoirs and organized irrigation systems. The third lecture was about bringing all of that engineering around to displays of power - which, for the most part, was about the use of water in fountains.
The third lecture's key example of applied technology had to do with the Machine de Marly, an attempt by 17th-century engineers to deliver enough water to run all of the fountains and waterfeatures installed at Louis XIV's Palace of Versailles outside Paris.
It turned out that the water program for the grounds far exceeded the capacity of local supplies to feed all of the jets, cascades, basins and waterways with functional head pressure. Stories have it that groundskeepers had to be constantly apprised of the king's location so that any vista he might observe would be fully operational while all other systems were turned off to produce the required pressure. Even at minimal levels, it was virtually impossible to keep everything flowing at once.
Enter Arnold de Ville, who adapted - on a grand scale - technology he'd seen at another French castle, working up a system of 14 water wheels, each 38 feet in diameter, to power 250 pumps that were to lift water more than 500 feet from the River Seine to an aqueduct purpose-built to speed water on its way to Versailles.
But the new availability of water didn't really help: Instead of using it to drive existing fountains at Versailles, the ingenious supply system was used largely to develop new gardens at the nearby Chateau de Marly, another royal estate where Louis XIV spent his time while the palace at Versailles was under construction. But even had the entire flow been delivered to Versailles, the sad fact is that it would still have been wholly inadequate to the purpose: Water rationing remained a constant limitation on the grandeur to which the king aspired.
The Machine de Marly is long gone and in fact lasted only 130 years after its debut in 1684 - a term of service in which the only constant was apparently the need to address breakdowns. Modern pumps finally replaced steam engines and assorted other approaches only in 1968.
As far as I know, the only visible signs of the original system are some reservoir walls along an old roadway between the river and the palace, so this is unique among subjects of these Travelogues in that I'll make no pitch for you to seek anything out. Versailles, of course, is worth a long day's visit, but there's no need to scour the woods looking for systems and structures of a long-gone hydrological wonder.
Whatever its shortcomings, the Machine de Marly was a singularly ambitious approach to what seemed at the time a solvable technological challenge. As our teacher expressed it to us back in 1975, the system's essential failure is less important than the fact that, in its time and place, it could be visualized and attempted - and raised the hydro-engineering bar to a level that hadn't been seen in Europe in more than 1,000 years.
There's also the fact that it allowed the architects at Versailles to carry on as though water supply was not going to be an issue. As a result, the watergardens and fountains are among the most unbridled expressions of centralized administrative power in world history. I'm no monarchist, but I do like the fact that watershapers were the ones who made so much grandeur possible.
I had traveled through Italy before, but I'd never been to Venice - and arrived there late in June 2017 with all sorts of expectations and suppositions about what I'd find, especially when it came to water. The city is a collection of islands in a marshy
The watershape was way off any path I'd ever beaten around New Orleans: It sits north of downtown along the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, and I was genuinely surprised to make its acquaintance.
This was back in November 2016, when my wife and I were heading with my brother and his wife to their home in Mississippi after my work at International Pool|Spa|Patio Expo drew to a close. We rolled up West End Boulevard to where it turned into Lakeshore Drive, figuring we'd move along the waterfront until we could conveniently jump over to Interstate 10 and leave the Crescent City behind.
But soon after we made the right-hand turn along the water, I spotted a fountain and made us stop: We'd essentially tripped over the Mardi Gras Fountain, which I'd never heard of before, and paused briefly to give it a look.
It reminded me immediately of the fountain in the Plaza de España (click here), which I'd seen many times through the years while walking along the Mississippi River toward the convention center. Both installations feature lots of tile plaques, but I found those associated with the Mardi Gras Fountain to be much more interesting because they colorfully memorialize the various carnival krewes that participate in local parades and various other Mardi Gras festivities.
I was a big fan of the HBO series Treme and saw a unique part of New Orleans heritage coming to life before my eyes.
The fountain itself, however, wasn't all I might have hoped. Yes, the water danced with gusto, with clusters of jets sending water to various heights in a varied array of patterns. But if ever a themed fountain called for music, this one is it: While the jets conjured some of the visual magic of a New Orleans parade, without sound (other than the watery kind) it all fell a bit flat for me.
Since returning to California, I've read up on the Mardi Gras Fountain and have come to appreciate its unusual history. First dedicated in 1962, it was designed by Blaine Kern in association with a local architecture firm. Kern was no fountain guy: He was a Mardi Gras float designer who came back from a trip to Europe filled with impressions of great fountains and started a personal crusade to get one built in New Orleans.
The original fountain came in with a modest outlay of $42,000, including 70 tiled plaques set like teeth around the basin. The fountain shot water 30 feet into the air, and on warm summer evenings, all lit up, it drew substantial crowds to water shows. But by the 1990s, the watershape had fallen on hard times and was decommissioned.
In May 2005, the fountain was treated to a $2.5 million restoration, with new electrical and mechanical systems to go along with new paving and landscaping. Hurricane Katrina massively abused both the fountain and its park just a few months later, and it was 2013 before another hefty infusion of cash brought the space back to life with a new set of upgrades and a bunch of new tile plaques.
Knowing what I now know about the fountain and its story, I'm more inclined to be charitable about its musical shortcomings and accept it on its own considerable merits. It has its shortcomings, in other words, but I appreciate it for what it is - a wonderful, personal celebration of New Orleans' Mardi Gras heritage and generations of urban (and urbane) entertainment.
Bottom line: The fountain's fine. As for the plaques, they're cool beyond belief.
For a video of the fountain after dark, click here.
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
