Book Reviews, Mind

Ottomans & the Turks

Leave a comment

For centuries the Republic of Turkey, and its predecessors, occupied the center of the known world. The land of Anatolia connects the peoples of Asia, the Middle East, Russia, Europe, and Africa. Sometimes by war, always by trade, the lands of Turkey have been significant in the time of man. Today, Turkey is a complex a place as there ever was. The debate over the meaning of Europe, the role of religion in politics, nationalism, and the bloody history of the last two centuries are unavoidable when you step foot on Turkish soil. Trust me, I experienced it every day while living in Istanbul. Understanding and appreciating Turkey requires the expansion of the mind to such places as the Eastern Roman Empire, the Ottoman Empire, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, and Islam.

1453 By Roger Crowley

The first book I read on the subject, and the first book I recommend to friends when they ask me about Turkey, is Roger Crowley’s 1453. It’s true what they say, Istanbul used to be Constantinople. Those five words contain more history, violence, ideas, and story lines than any other sentence in human history. The Roman Republic had expanded from a city to a kingdom, into an Empire, and grown so large that half would fall, what we know as the Byzantine Empire, to continue its legacy. Out of the Asian steppes and Arabian deserts rose a new type of power, and the Ottoman sultans came to the Bosphorus to seize the Roman legacy and inherit its future. The Siege of 1453 is the clash of these two monumental histories colliding on the Bosphorus. The ramifications are still being felt, but the days of the siege itself should not be forgotten. 

The siege brought forth diverse armies and pitted Byzantine Emperor Constantine XI against Sultan Mehmet II – a.k.a. Mehmet the Conqueror – engaged in the most extreme bravery, cowardice, and treachery in a battle over the destiny of god. The revelation of the first siege cannons on the battlefield instantly made the fortified cities of the world vulnerable, and the dynamic use of naval power exemplified human ingenuity and determination. 

The impacts of the fall of Constantinople were immediate and severe. At a time when the history of the Roman empire stretched uninterrupted from the Emperor Constantine XI back over a thousand years to Romulus and Remus, civilization suddenly had to grapple with the permanent demise of the empire’s last vestiges. For Europe, after enjoying extensive trade networks, reaping benefit from Roman expansion, and engaging in multiple crusades to the Holy Land, the East suddenly became a forbidden, mysterious, and impenetrable place. The very existence of the Islamic empires and caliphates would change the arc of European history. For their part, the Ottoman Sultans would look upon Europe, finally unguarded by Byzantine armies, as a prize rightfully theirs. 1453 reads like a novel and the walls of the room I read it in felt too confining as the tale unfolded on the pages in front of me. Crowley followed specific individuals, traced pivotal happenings back to anodyne decisions, and told the story of a battle that was anything but a foregone conclusion. As I finished the final page, I felt the shock of reading a breaking news story. Based purely on momentum, I turned to Roger Crowley again to further my education on the growing Ottoman Empire.

Empires of the Sea by Roger Crowley

I had the fortune of visiting the island of Malta as part of a military staff ride. A staff ride is an educational program that combines academic study, role playing, and visiting of the actual site to get into the minds of the military commanders and understand the decisions they made. The islands of Malta lie between Sicily and the shores of North Africa and has endured two great sieges in its history. During World War II, as part of the British Empire, it survived constant bombardment and blockade by the Axis powers. The fortresses built by the Knights of Saint John served as headquarters for the Allied commanders as they launched Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily, in 1943. The island’s fortifications existed because of another siege nearly 400 years earlier – that of the Ottoman Empire. Part of my preparation for that staff ride was reading Roger Crowley’s Empires of the Sea.at

The Mediterranean Sea was the other center of the world. Without knowledge of the Americas and East Asia, the ancient world knew the Mediterranean – the Middle of the Earth – as the focal point for trade, communication, and human civilization. Less a barrier, the sea was the highway of the ancient world connecting Carthage and Rome, Egypt and Anatolia, the Holy Land and Europe. The expansion of the Ottoman Empire gave them control of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea, creating significant problems for the kings of Europe. Control over the sea meant control over the known world and the islands of the Mediterranean became the outposts of empires dependent on the sea of their prosperity and survival.

Roger Crowley wrote a second engaging book describing the island battles that defined the competition between the Christian and Islamic Empires of the late Medieval and Renaissance eras. The islands Cyprus, Rhodes, Crete, and Malta had immense importance for the Ottomans, Venetians, Genoese, the French and Spanish kings that sought to control god and destiny on earth. The siege of Malta is another study of individual bravery, folly, indecision, calculus of war, and the luck of a single arquebus shot. As in 1453, the events of 1565 had implications for the world beyond the short days of battle, but to ignore the siege itself would deprive us all of the fascinating stories of the besieged Knights of Malta, the incredible personalities commanding the Ottoman military, and the Ottoman way of war.

The Ottoman sultans reigned for centuries. Even after the empire was mislabeled to “sick man of Europe” the Ottomans adapted and persisted. My experience in Turkey involved a lot of late night discussions on the origins of the Turkish Republic and the legacy of Mustafa Kemal, so for this article I’ll skip the detailed Ottoman histories – with a passing mention of a few worthwhile reads.

The Ottoman Endgame by Sean McMeekin

Modern Turkey did not simply come about from an election or conquest. To come into existence the world had to go to war, empires had to crumble, and heroes had to rise as impostors wilted under the pressure of the moment. The end of the 19th century and beginning of the 20th was an immensely important few decades. Each decision made leading up to the First World War was meant to expand influence, flex power, and further the old world order. No one thought these calculated decisions would ultimately bring the downfall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Ottoman Empire, Imperial Germany, the Russian Empire, start the decline of the British Empire, sow seeds of French decolonization, while giving rise to an entire new world order. Sean McMeekin’s book, The Ottoman Endgame, tells one aspect of these unimaginable times – the specific history of the Ottoman Empire descent and imploded, giving way to the forces of nationalism, democracy, and the right of self-determination. His writing only suffers from copious dates, names, and facts that you would expect from such a complicated story, but it brings to life the most extreme of human dramas. McMeekin does an excellent job of highlighting the foreign policy decisions and diplomatic wrangling done in bad faith, poor foresight, with wildly unreasonable cause-and-effects. Although primarily about the fall of the Ottomans there is plenty there on the other European empires and the cataclysm of World War I. As a history lover I found it gripping, as a foreign policy wonk I took copious notes

McMeekin explains the machinations of emperors and their advisers, but touches down to the actions of the common solider, the unnamed actors in the arc of history. This quote captures the eloquence of his writing with the balance he maintains:

“Battles, alas, are not fought on paper, but on rough and often unpredictable terrain, by officers and men subject to all the limitations posed by nature. They are fought against opponents who may summon dirty unexpected valor when they are pushed against the wall.” – p. 252

Atatürk by Andrew Mango

There is no understanding modern Turkey without knowing Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. He is a giant in the history of the world that does not get nearly the recognition outside of Turkey that he should. Every year, at the hour of his death the Turkish people stand motionless for a minute of silence to commemorate the great man. Cars stop on the highway, students stand in their classroom, and the average citizen pauses on the sidewalk. His legend has inspired millions, but his legend is based on in mountains of facts. Andrew Mango’s book is a historian’s book, full of details. Atatürk led an immensely interesting life and shaped what has become one of the strongest and most influential countries in the region. Reading about his influences and experiences in early life that shaped his actions is the benefit of every biography – including this one. His experiences growing up in the Ottoman Empire’s army, his bravery in conduct, and his political acumen are worthy of closer study. 

 

Furthermore, in present-day Turkey, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s vision, policies, and actions cannot be understood without appreciating Atatürk’s long shadow on Turkish politics.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. 

Soul, Travel Vignettes

Palio di Siena

1 Comment

Where Tradition Lives in the Spirit of the Community

Jockeys race the Palio in Siena, Italy July 2, 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Culture, Tradition, Passion, Adventure; these are the watchwords which brought Andy and I (and our families) together and was the genesis for Pushing Horizons. Thus, we could not refuse an opportunity to experience the Palio in the Medieval city of Siena, Italy. Nor could we think of a better way to officially launch pushinghorizons.com for our family, friends, and like minded individuals.

The (still) Medieval City of Siena, photo by Andrew Zapf

To think of the Palio as only, or even primarily, a horse race is to miss the deeper undercurrents that surround the event. This is, above all, about community. Each neighborhood, or contrada, in geographic boundaries established in 1729, passionately support their respective horses and jockeys (if victorious). The seventeen contrade, with colors and symbols that hearken back to antiquity and with elements of mythology (wolves, giraffes, dragons, panthers, and even snails), form the identity and loyalties of the youngest children to the oldest grandparents.

Members of Contrada della Torre, or Tower, display their colors in parade before the Palio Race, July 2, 2019. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Andy arrived three days before I did and immersed himself in the nuances of the race, its tactics and traditions. By the time I had entered the walls of the old city on July 1, he also had arranged for us to experience one of the most evocative events of the multi-day pageantry that is the Palio – a dinner the night before the race with one of the contrade in the streets of their neighborhood.

Among the faithful of Onda, or Wave, the night before the
Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

We sat down with the members of Capitana dell’Onda, or Wave, at tables lit from above by decorative fish-designed lamps symbolic of the contrada and laid out through the twisting streets of the neighborhood. The community served a multi-course meal to over a thousand assembled along Via Giovanni Duprè. Young teenagers, on the cusp of adulthood, ladled out plates of prosciutto and melon, chicken and potatoes, and creme caramel. Others replenished dwindling stocks of wine and scurried back to the kitchen for more bread rolls. Children ran through the tables pelting each other with corks from the growing number of empty wine bottles. Throughout the night, members would break out in to song, singing the ancient dirges of Onda; castigating their rival – Torre – or extolling the virtue of their tribe.

Make no mistake, this was tribal. The grandmother across from us explained how her husband had registered her children in the Onda community even before they were born. Once registered, your membership in a contrada could not be changed and lasted until death. Senior representatives of the contrada are a part of wedding ceremonies and the grandmother’s daughters, now mothers themselves, proudly explained how at death members of the community would be escorted at the funeral by those bearing the Onda colors.

The love these people had for their contrada manifests itself in the horse race and this maybe one of the most interesting and hidden elements of the event. Leaders are selected by the community to serve as “captains” of their respective contrade. Captains marshal the resources of their community to achieve victory at the Palio. Jockeys are bribed, favors are paid for, alliances between contrade factor into the scheming, and large war chests are collected to influence the outcome of the race. A horse trainer, and contrada captain-to-be, told us that up to two million euros were spent on a single Palio by some contrade to ensure victory. The reward? Adding the Drappellone, the official Palio banner, to their neighborhood museum, and the glory associated with being a member of the winning contrada.

Horses are “randomly” assigned to the ten contrade competing in the Palio, eliciting cheers from the “lucky” and groans from the “unlucky.” Photo by Andrew Zapf.

To the uninitiated, these machinations behind the scenes seem to corrupt the heart of the race. However, such views fail to grasp that intrigue is as much a part of the Palio as the sweat soaked horses and men in the arena careening fearlessly around the Piazzo del Campo. This is life, or war, and no effort is spared to achieve victory. The jockeys are mercenaries, and never fully trusted by the contrade that hire them. Members of the contrada guard the jockeys in the frenzied days before the race to ensure that rival neighborhoods do not find ways to compromise them.

In one of the numerous practice runs before the actual Palio, a jockey looks back at his opponents. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Gamesmanship even extends to the six trial runs held in the days before the race. The trials familiarize both horses and jockeys to the Palio racetrack, dirt covering the ancient stones of the Campo. During the trials some horses are raced at full speed, while other jockeys disguise their horses’ ability with casual cantors around the dirt track. These trials also, inevitably, feed the growing excitement of the city. We witnessed one such practice run. In bleachers around the Campo groups of various contrade, divided by men, women, and children, their colored scarfs fluttering, cheered.  The honorary Carabineri horse guard trotted around the track and stopped to salute the contrade children given privileged seats along the track.  Like their parents, and those who sat in the seats before them, they carry the mantle of their community into the future. The elderly lady standing next to us exclaimed “bellissima” in ecstasy at the pathos of the scene. 

Carabineri Honor Guard salute the children of the Contrade. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

On July 2, the day of the race, people thronged the streets of the city, many still groggy from the festivities of the night before. A last practice run was held in the morning. After looking at photos I sent from the practice, my four year daughter called to tell me she predicted that the Red and White clad jockey would win. Across Siena, in ten different contrada chapels, the horses were blessed – “Go! And return victorious!” was the final charge of the priest. We joined the faithful who waited outside the Onda church to catch a glimpse of their champion.

Then we funneled into the standing room only arena in the middle of the Campo and waited for the event to begin. Amidst the blare of bugles and beat of drums, the inhabitants paraded around the track in the medieval uniforms of their ancestors. In an endless procession, jesters, acrobats, archers, guild members, knights, and noblemen marched around the track. At the end of the parade, gigantic oxen pulled a large carriage displaying the prize Drappellone.

Gigantic Oxen pull a wagon in the parade carrying the Drappellone, the prize of the Palio. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

The mayor of Siena walked to his position on an ancient wooden bridge that overlooked the race. Captains of the various contrade, looking all the world like mob bosses, shook the hands of their followers, gave back slaps to their peers, or scowled behind designer sunglasses before taking their seats. Finally, the horses and their jockeys entered the Campo. Young men from the contrade screamed encouragements. Above from ornate balconies, the wealthy and connected stared down at the spectacle. In the middle, the rabble – us among them – fed the nervous energy of the horses.

A Contrada captain hugs his members before the race. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

A hushed silence overcame the thousands of fans in the square as the horses lined up. The collective excitement was palpable. The race would begin when the last rider-chosen by lottery-entered a roped off area at the start line. This rider, who by the nature of his position at the back of the pack has little chance of winning the race is ripe for deal making. How and when he initiates the race can advantage another jockey. To the growing frustration of the audience, there was numerous false starts. Riders jostled and a horse threw his jockey. Time and again, the horses had to be reformed.

Then, suddenly, the race had begun. Man and beast galloped at incredible speeds around the track. The jockeys beat each other with rods and careened inches from the ancient statues that adorned buildings. The audience cheered. Contrade loyalists howled. The jockey for the Chiocciola (snail) contrada led the pack. He was chased relentlessly by the red and white clad jockey for Imperial Contrada della Giraffa (Giraffe). Three times the the horses galloped past us, flinging dirt in the air. Our jockey from Onda blocked Torre – they would finish ninth and tenth. At the last turn, and final second, Giraffa edged past the leader to take the victory.

The Giraffa Jockey closes in on the leader, Chiocciola. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Just like that, in little more than ninety second, the race was over. The Campo erupted into chaos. Fans rushed the track. Defeated contrade members bawled. The victorious Contrada, Giraffa, ecstatically crowded around their heroic jockey Giovanni Atzeni; featured in an earlier documentary film about the Palio. They lifted him onto their shoulders and paraded through the streets chanting the old dirges of their community. The fierce passion of victory covered Atzeni’s face.

Giovanni Atzeni filled with the fierce passion of victory. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

Andy and I were stunned by the excitement of it all. I called my daughter to tell her that her prediction had been correct. We had been witness to a tradition, stretching back into antiquity, kept vibrantly alive by the commitment and spirit of the community. It was time for the Imperial Contrada della Giraffa to enjoy the fruits of their victory and carry the Drappellone back to their neighborhood.

Ecstatic Giraffa Contrada members hoist their victorious jockey upon their shoulders and carry the Drappellone back to their neighborhood. Photo by Andrew Zapf.

No city is immune to change and Siena is not the same as it was when the Palio began hundreds of years ago. However, the spirit of the the contrade and the communities they stitch together is the thread that connects the past to the present. Whatever the future brings, the Sienese will look towards the next Palio on the dirt of the Piazza del Campo.

Roland Minez is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. 

Soul, Travel Vignettes

Giostra del Saracino

1 Comment
Tensions flare during the Giostra del Saracino. Photo by Andrew Zapf

I apologize for writing this vignette. It’s not my story to tell, and yet, I’m telling it. I feel like I was a guest at another family’s dinner table and now I’m telling you about that family’s quarrels. It’s not a secret, what I’m about to tell, but it felt intimate at the time. The story of Arezzo I wanted to tell began very differently. I was there to see a spectacle. I wanted to experience Tuscany and somehow associate myself with something different. When I arrived at the Arezzo train station I was armed with the confidence of a little bit of knowledge of the city and a bit of experience in Italy. By this point the charms of Italy had blurred together and I was seeking to know the place in high contrast. I was in town for the Giostra del Saracino, the Joust of the Saracen, an event mythologized into the city’s military preparations for the much-feared Saracen armies of the East. The Districts of Arezzo would assemble their men for military training and drills, and what may have started out as soldierly one-upmanship became a point of test of skills between the soldiers of each District. Nowadays, the Joust doesn’t pit men directly against men, but the skills competition persists against a quintain representing Burratto, King of the Indies.  

When you enter the city from the train station you don’t realize that you are on a hill. As you head northeast, the rise of the road is almost imperceptible. In only a short time you would pass through the Medieval center and cross il Prato, stopped only by the far edge of the park wall. Looking out over the vista toward the Arretine hills, only then do you realize the city’s defensive position – and you also begin to realize its small size. The Districts of Arezzo don’t appear out of nowhere for the Giostra. Throughout the year the Districts provide social glue to Arretine society, hosting social events, providing youth activities, and keeping the members engaged. Their is identity attained through the Districts and the colors and pride were on full display. Around town the neighborhoods of the Districts proudly displayed their flags and symbols. I passed beneath blue and yellow flags of the Porta San Spirito, the green and white flags of the Porta San Andrea, and the green and red flags of the Porta Crucifera walking between the train station and the Piazza Grande. I had no connection to the city, no friend, no guide, so I was completely unaffiliated. This allowed me to appreciate the pageantry objectively, but it also placed me firmly on the outside. I didn’t dare wear the colors of any respective District, saunter into any headquarters for the traditional pre-joust dinner, or attempt to ingratiate myself. I was an outsider and I had no right to experience the Joust with all the trappings and camaraderie entitled to an Arretine citizen.

The armies gathering in the streets grew as the day wore on. Photo by Andrew Zapf

But, the ticket I bought gave me the right to watch Joust with my own eyes. In the morning I watched the Proclamation of the Joust by the town herald, and I listened to the beating of drums as the neighborhood’s costumed representatives assembled and paraded in the morning in ritual procession. I watched, but couldn’t interact. The program did not require my participation or even my attendance. I milled about during the day, poking my head into a church or shop along Corso Italia here and there as I waited for the minutes and hours to pass. Every now and then my path would cross with a band of Medieval characters on their way to some assembly area, or banging on their drums. As the hours passed the groups became larger. 

Children of the districts participating in the Proclamation of the Joust. Photo by Andrew Zapf

At first it was only a trio of soldiers carrying a spears and shields. Then I saw groups of archers bearing heavy crossbows and heavy shields, intimidating in their heft. By 6 pm the occasional knight on horseback, with an entourage moved about the street. Their horses covered in colorful cloth and heraldic symbology. The town was militarizing. 

At exactly 6:30 pm and with the first bell of the clock tower, a threatening sky turned into divine fury. Giant drops of rain smacked the ground as if punishing some insult. For the joust, a carefully groomed dirt racing strip had been carefully constructed diagonally across the Piazza Grande. Initially it absorbed the rain, but within only minutes it became completely saturated. Mud began washing away from the tilted piazza in Wonka-esque chocolate-colored rivers. If the divine had any opinion about the jousting, the message was clear. It was no passing storm. The dark clouds lingered and the rain continued to fall after the sounds of drums had long ceased. The piazza emptied of all potential spectators while workers frantically fought the forces of nature. I retreated to a trattoria for sustenance, and a little prayer that the joust would still happen. 

Decorative knights enter the piazza as part of the grand processions. Photo by Andrew Zapf

I sat solo in the trattoria. A solo traveler is rarely given the best table in a restaurant, and that night was no exception. I sat cramped between an umbrella rack and a wall, with a muted television directly over my head, with few direct sight lines to any staff. It mattered not at all, after each course I checked to see if the rain had abated outside before ordering something else. In this manner a glass of wine, calzone, gelato limone, and cafe espresso crossed my table without fear that I was missing anything. The Grande Parade was cancelled, so I ate on, holding out hope for a truncated joust.

Ceremonial helmets behind my hotel before the grand procession. Photo by Andrew Zapf

After coffee I returned to my hotel to track the officiant deliberations on a television channel dedicated to the Giostra. The hotel was deathly quiet. The streets surrounding it had been blocked for the Grand Parade, and only a back entrance allowed me to access my room. By 8:30 pm the rain had stopped and men were replacing soupy mud with fresh earth on the racing strip. While Arezzo held its breath the army silently moved closer and closer, as if to prepare a surprise assault on the piazza at a moment’s notice. 

The backdoor of my hotel led to a tiny neighborhood park, and in those minutes it became an armed camp. Horses, lances, shields and crossbows leaned against the thin iron fence, while soldiers bearing various coats of arms milled about, smoking cigarettes and taking discreet pisses in the darkening corners. Someone was distributing sandwiches and water bottles. Only the electronics betrayed the authenticity of the assembled medieval army.

A rider charges down the strip, lining up his lance to the target. Photo by Andrew Zapf

The Giostra del Saracino would go on! The rain had stopped and the earth repaired in the piazza. The grandstands began filling with previously unseen dignitaries and tourists. I found my way to the standing-only section where I would watch the events with the neighborhood youth. More than any time before, I was a stranger in a strange land. The procession of costumed men and women wasn’t only met by cheers of adoration. The rival districts were jeered vehemently, and despite the language barrier, I was aware of colorful barbs being screamed with full-throated passion. 

Using any means available to distract a rival. Photo by Andrew Zapf

As archers and foot soldiers took their positions along the sides of the racing strip, the proximity and anticipation combined into tension and antagonism. As knights of the joust each took their turn, accompanied by the encouragement of their district and the derision of their rivals. Hundreds of smartphones were held up, not to record the events, but to shine the flashlight toward the rider’s eyes – quite beautiful as a spectator, but no doubt distracting as a competitor. Silk flags clutched in angry fists mixed with middle fingers in an added layer of non-verbal communication. Occasionally, an opinionated spectator pushed their way from the back of the crowd to the front to shake their arm and deliver their insult with sniper-like precision at a specific person or section. All the while I became increasingly more aware of the precariousness of my position in this sea of emotion.

Wearing the colors of the city of Arezzo as the procession pauses at the edge of the plaza. Photo by Andrew Zapf

One by one the eight riders had taken their turn. An officiant would precede them holding their lance. At the far end of the dirt racing strip he would hand over the lance and ride off. The knight, all alone, would tuck into the furthest corner of the piazza looking down the lance, looking for the straightest edge like a billiard player. The horse would stand stoically, seemingly oblivious to the noise of the crowd and happily of unaware of the obscene gestures aimed at their rider. Before they spurred their horses into a sprint the knights often turned in their charger in circles, staring down the stip, attempting to isolate their target amidst the lights, colors, and distractions. From my vantage I could barely see the riders’ faces, but there was no mistaking the forceful kick and energy as spurs jabbed against flesh and the powerful animals exploded into motion. 

With each run the crowd would erupt. The scorecard would get whisked away by the tenders, only to be seen by the judges’ eyes. While the judges’ deliberated, the scarf-wearing crowd would taunt their rivals, promising an embarrassing score, or assuring the opposite. Within a few minutes the speakers would crack and the spectators would hush – anticipating the news. “Il cavaliere di Porta Santo Spirito. . . punti . . . quattro!” The crowd would accept the score with equal measure derision, dismay, and elation. Taunting, cheering, and debate ensued while the next rider took his slow ride to the starting point.

Just before midnight the final rider had gone down the course. With a relative hush the assembled city awaited for the result. Would a third round of jousting be needed to break a four-way tie? Or would a definitive winner be hailed? With the announcement of the final points the district of Porta del Foro had won for the first time in twelve years! All semblance of order evaporated in an instant. Members of the other district experienced anger, resignation, sadness, and not a few tears. The Porta del Foro, wearing purple and gold broke their orderly ranks to hoist their knights on their shoulders and accompany their president to retrieve the Golden Lance – the prize of the tournament. Among their number were alternating fists of joy and tears a joy. With the Golden Lance held high the Porta del Foro marched through the streets until they reached the Cathedral of Arezzo, where they filled the normally quiet duomo with the sounds of celebration. With prayers of thanksgiving, singing, and impromptu exclamations of happiness, I slipped out and returned to my hotel alone.

The Golden Lance held aloft by the victors. Photo by Andrew Zapf

I was a witness to a city celebrating its traditions at the pinnacle of their social calendar. The pride only an Arretine could truly appreciate was unaided by my presence or knowledge of the Giostra del Saracino. In the upcoming months the districts’ will prepare for the next giostra; the riders will spend hours in the saddle, the youth will practice their specific roles in the festivities, and dreams of future glory will be dreamt. This is not an event of a dying culture meant to attract tourist dollars. Far from it. While welcome, it was clear our presence, and that of other visitors, was incidental to the drama of the Giostra del Saracino. Which is exactly how it should be.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author.

Soul, Travel Vignettes

A Lunch Well Lived

1 Comment

The cat had grey fur and a seemingly regal face. It didn’t slink around warily as the other five street cats did when they smelled food nearby. She was calm, poised. She had always kept a respectful distance and our nonaggression pact towards one another had since grown into favoritism. This, and because it was the only cat of the lot that didn’t put scratches on my curious son’s shoulder earlier in the month, was the reason I was tossing leftover bits of sausage and cheese from one of the kids’ plates toward it. The kids had long since escaped to their games on the other side of the yard. I tossed the bits at a leisurely interval, pausing so she could eat peacefully without having to defend against her rivals. My unhurried movements also put my conversation with Roland into a graceful rhythm that matched the calmness of the moment.

Our families had come together for the weekend to mark a few milestones. A birthday, a holiday, and a chance opportunity for a Italian beach weekend. It was Memorial Day weekend in America, which didn’t mean much in Italy, but the World War II 75th Anniversary celebrations had finally reached the soft underbelly of Europe. In 1944, the Allied armies had crept up the Italian peninsula and smashed against the formidable Winter Line – Germany’s defense of Rome. By 4 June 1944, the Allied armies had liberated Rome, but not before suffering tens of thousands of casualties between Salerno and Anzio. Our reunion was the culmination of events that began in England and Indonesia and converged in Italy.Roland and his family had driven down from northern Italy while I made sure I rented a big enough house to accommodate while temporarily working near Rome. Having a similar viewpoint of Italy, Roland and I thought it important to use our proximity to attend the ceremony at the Rome-Sicily American Cemetery in Nettuno, near the Anzio beaches. So that Friday we did.

Rome-Sicily American Cemetery – 24 May 2019

The next day, Saturday, Roland and I were looking across a table with the remnants of a lunch well lived. Mountains of salads, mezzes, and cheeses had been reduced to nothing as hungry spoons dug into the piles of carrots cooked in olive oil topped in garlic yoghurt, gorgonzola stuffed mushrooms, and a creamy risotto. A selection of Italian cold cuts, grilled meats and sausages had met a similar fate, minus what was now being tossed to an almost-loyal feline. Half empty cups of water (naturale and frizzante), espresso and limoncello mingled with empty bottles of Umbrian wine and multi-colored sippy cups. It was exhausting to look at, but even more enjoyable to have experienced. It was midday and the in an hour we would take a walk to get gelato a few blocks away.

Rome is not known as a beach town, but as all Mediterrenean people crave the seaside, the towns of Focene, Fregene, Ostia, and others scratch that itch for an otherwise landlocked city. We had managed to find a location that put us midway between a string of charming Italian lidos (beach clubs and restaurants) and the gelateria and cafés away from the beach traffic. It was the perfect situation for four kids hungry for activity. The beaches in Italy are a remarkable place, organized for the enjoyment of any customer. Compared to an American beach visit, the logistics were remarkably simple. Nowhere were the giant bags of beach gear or oversized coolers filled with food and beverages. The Italians themselves dressed as if they just stepped off their yachts. The men wore their linen shirts and designer sunglasses while the women didn’t hesitate to embrace well-crafted outfits with an equal care given to hair, make-up and accessories. It was every stereotype of Italian style and the overfantisized expectations of Mediterrenean ease fulfilled.

Our particular choice of lido that weekend served salmon burgers and chilled white wine from the bar, served to us while sitting on pillowed rustic furniture placed in the sand. Our kids alternated between digging in the sand, hanging from some basic playground equipment, or splashing in the water under supervision. Later in the afternoon we heard the sounds of an amplified acoustic guitar. It was special because it was ordinary, untroubled by celebration or expectation. Kids played as kids ought to play. Occasional gusts of salt-tinged sea air blew threw our loosely buttoned shirts, our cheeks became gently kissed by the sun, and a glass of unremarkable wine aided in passing the time. Together with our wives, we talked about everything and nothing until the kids succumbed to adrenaline-fueled toddler exhaustion.

Sunday was the final day together. Without any intention of being tourists in Rome, we needed to step foot and walk the streets of the ancient city together. The threatening clouds unleashed their contents shortly after our arrival and before long a few soggy wrong turns forced us to abandon our leisurely stroll.  Shelter arrived in the form of an unexceptional ristorante winding down from a modest lunch crowd. The amiable host ushered us to the basement tables so we could spread out our rain-soaked jackets and children without disturbing the more civilized clientele upstairs. With dripping hair, wet socks, and fidgety toddlers we ordered rainy day comfort food. Foregoing more elaborate fare, Italian classics descended from the kitchen hand over fist. Baked lasagna accompanied vegetable soup, while spaghetti and penne doused in simple sauces confronted our children. By the end of this modest feast we had dry clothes, full bellies, and renewed enthusiasm for exploration – aided by a clear sky and the courage of a few carafes of house wine. With nowhere in particular to go, we continued walking through Rome. Time after that was measured in espressos, and four shots later we left the Eternal City for a night of well deserved sleep.

With only a hair of plan we turned a normal weekend into one that will live on in family lore for years. It wasn’t the Italian coast, the Roman streets, or the significant anniversaries that will remain with us. Rather, it was the time spent by the beach, in the yard, and hidden from a storm with our families around the table that transformed a daily occurence into a lasting memory. Life well lived at the table is part of our legacy.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. 

Book Reviews, Mind

My Father’s Library

2 Comments

My father’s library has always been a magical place for me. As a kid, I was amazed at his ability to answer my endless questions, fix my broken toys, and tell stories of people long since dead and buried. Where did he come by this knowledge? Now I see his library for what it is, a whole life experiences and knowledge that has collected in a single room of the house. There a etchings he bought while a student in in Vienna, artifacts from his days in the military, treasures from auctions he attended in rural Pennsylvania, and endless rows of books that reflect his varied interests. Behind each book was a world of information, mythology, history, or key just waiting to be bestowed on the next one to open it. As a child and as an adult, the pull of his library would shape my views on education, learning, and what it means to be a man.

I have come to appreciate my father’s library as a window into his life and times. There are books on the American Civil War, Cold War politics, and many books from his days writing his Master’s thesis on the ethnic and religious heterogeneity of the Yugolsav Republic – which would be extremely relevant after the fall of the Communism in Europe. He is a man that surrounded himself with the heroes of the ages, great speeches, monumental events, and fantastic tales of intrigue, bravery, and treachery. From his library I have read many books. Some I’ve borrowed for an evening, some I have borrowed for years, and some have merged into my own library. Below is a selection that just might intrigue you:

Berlin Game By Len Deighton

Len Deighton novels have always been on the top shelf of my father’s library while I was a child. As an adult he told me he kept them out of reach, and out of sight of his potentially grabby and destructive sons because the Bernard Samson novels were his favorite.

When I did get around to pulling this from my father’s shelf I found some of the best writing I’ve read in years. Deighton’s characters are developed and believable without superfluous descriptions. His plots are intricate and realistic without relying on extravagance. And, most importantly to me, I feel the tone of the conversation, the tension in the room, and uncertainty of the characters commitments.

Some examples of his subtle romanticism and humor:

“Did you ever say hello to a girl you almost married long ago? Did she smile the same captivating smile, and give your arm a hug in a gesture you’d almost forgotten? Did the wrinkles as she smiled make you wonder what marvelous times you’d missed? That’s how I felt about Berlin every time I came back here.”

“Before pouring the wine, Silas lectured us about it, Chateau Palmer 1961, he said, was the finest claret he’d ever tasted, the finest perhaps of this century. He still hovered, looking at the wine in the antique decanter as if now wondering whether it would be wasted on the present company.”

“He liked skiing, golfing and sailing, and generally having a good time. Frank Harrington was waiting for retirement, something for which he’d been strenuously practicing all his life.”

“”For a month I couldn’t get her out of my mind. She occupied my every thought. I got no work done.’
“When was that?’ Dicky getting no work done was not enough to give me a reference to the date.”

It also gave me a window into how my dad was as a young man. To read books he thought were humorous, well written, and spoke to his own sense of adventure.

Out of This Furnace By Thomas Bell

This was the book my father gave to me as a teenager when he wanted me to know about my family history. As a child I heard stories of relatives I would never meet from the old country, so old that they no longer existed on the map. Although a fictional depiction of Slovak immigrants to the United States, the writing of Thomas Bell and the struggle of his characters resonated so strongly in my life that I still think about this book. It’s the story of a family, but also the story of an Old Europe and a New World.

The immigrants’ story is never a simple one. Packed with obstacles, language barriers, naivety, repeated disappointments, and hardship the immigrants gradually carved out a place in America through ambition, encouragement, and the belief in small successes. Bell’s character make such a journey as succeeding generations stand on the shoulders of their fore-bearers. This story inspired my father to know our own history better, it also motivated him in his own life – that a seemingly minor success in his own life could provide the opening for his sons or grandchildren to step through into greater prosperity and security.

The writing is eloquent and captures the uncertainty of those living in an precarious world. It held my attention and continues to hold my imagination. If anything, it can help each of us view our own stories while looking back across the wave tops of generations.

With Snow On Their Boots By Jamie H. Cockfield

My father was a student of history, which made him a student of war, struggle, and violence. The milestones of human achievement are often marked with the beginning or endings of war. As my interest in military service grew and developed from adolescence into adulthood, my father had one key and all-encompassing lesson. He strove to de-glorify war, to shine a light onto the darker aspects, and remind me that all wars destroy, disrupt lives, and kill the innocent. Jamie Cockfield’s telling of the Imperial Russian soldiers on World War I’s Western Front was part of my education.

It’s a nonfiction work, so you can imagine the arc as World War I progresses. However, the joy and horror of the book comes from the reader placing themselves in the shoes of the Russian soldiers, far from home, facing the horrors of the trenches, and learning of the fall of the Russian Empire. World War I saw the collapse of three empires and political and social movements that would churn into the storm of World War II.

This book sticks with me because it encapsulates the lessons of my father. The stories of those Russian soldiers did not end cleanly. They did’t go home to a reception of flowers and praise. They fought amongst themselves, were betrayed, forgotten, and had to forge new lives out of the clay of uncertainty. Some didn’t survive and oftentimes their individual stories had grisly and unfortunate endings. This was war and what war brought to mankind. My father never wanted me to forget that rippling effects of conflict touch places we could never conceive beforehand.

In Cockfield’s own words: “Home before the leaves fall’ the soldiers all shouted to their families in August 1914 as they marched toward an enemy who felt the same way. Both sides prayed to the same god for victory, with the equal assurance that that god was on their side. Like helpless actors in a play the script of which they seemed to have no role in writing, the leaders of the nations in 1914 helplessly played their parts as hourly Europe lurched toward war until all the major countries on the continent were sucked into a gigantic maelstrom that lasted for a horrendous 1,561 days, toppled four monarchies, destroyed a centuries-old social structure, decimated thousands of towns and villages, and left a number of dead that God alone could count. As for the misery the war caused, it cannot begin to be calculated. The dead can be buried and forgotten and the villages rebuilt, but for the survivors the mental scars could not be erased except by death.” 

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. 

Book Reviews, Mind

Getting to Know Italy

2 Comments

This is a true story. Two years ago I never thought about Italy. Never. Italy was the Olive Garden of Europe. A last resort interest, only slightly boosted by the HBO series Rome. But three independent chain of events placed Italy front and center in my life. First, two years ago my family gifted DNA tests from one of those send-away DNA tests for Christmas and a larger-than-expected percentage of eastern European DNA (Slovak and Czech) led to some interesting conversations with my father about the line of relatives that probably died fighting in the Austro-Hungarian army during World War I. A casual study of The Great War’s Eastern Front ensued. Second, a family vacation to Italy usually prompts me to find some travelogue or history to put my experiences into a context. Third, the fates and fortunes of my work life allowed me to spend several months residing in Rome. Now, as I sit watching the Lazian sun slink away I’ve come up with a four-book reading list to better understand the Italy that was, is, and still can’t escape its many-layered past.

It’s not Gladiator and it’s not Under the Tuscan Sun, but it’s an Italy that is far more interesting than pasta and stereotypes.

~ AZ

Rome: A History in Seven Sackings By Matthew Kneale

There is no better place to dip into Italian history than to learn a bit about the history of the Roman Empire. However, you could go blind in both eyes reading its history or looking for the book that balances depth with brevity. Over a thousand years of wars, conquests, gods, legends, expansion and collapse can. There are certainly some sweeping histories and in-depth biographies that I could easily recommend – the material is just plentiful and all-encompassing.

Matthew Kneale takes a different tact and offers a limited telling of the city of Rome. Kneale’s approach is simple. He takes seven episodes when the city of Rome fell to invaders, explains the military campaign, but also describes the city as it is and how it has changed from his previous chapters. In this way, he offers a history of Rome that reads like a biography of the scenery to some of history’s greatest dramas. It’s a taste of Rome’s history for the short attention span.

It isn’t conversely, a good guide to visiting the city. While he mentions known sites and famous places, he frequently fails to close the loop on informing the reader which of Rome’s treasures were destroyed by invaders, carted off to other cities, currently located in a museum, or still viewable in Rome today. This is an amazing shortcoming considering that he has been a resident of Rome and wrote this history out of a deep love for the many layers of Rome’s story. I recommend the book because it works as Kneale designed it and for my purposes in reading it.

City of Fortune: How Venice Ruled the Seas By Roger Crowley

I know Roger Crowley’s writing from his two books related to the Ottoman Empire (Insert link to 1453: The Holy War for Constantinople and the Clash of Islam and the West and Empires of the Sea: The Final Battle for the Mediterranean 1521-1580) and I have found his histories riveting and novel-like. His take on the city of Venice and it’s maritime empire is no different. He covers a larger span of history, but nothing is lost in the telling. After the fall of Rome and the rise of Italy, the land was divided into city-states, principalities, all influenced by the Vatican cities ever-growing importance in world affairs. The story of Venice is the story of Italy.

From an era that gave as Machiavelli, the crusades, and a series of hawkish popes, the Venetian society is a wonder for how it grew, gained dominance, governed, and flamed out. Crowley devotes a lot of attention to different wars, rebellions, and politics of the era, but he also dives into daily life, societal norms, and life aboard a Venetian galley ship. Whereas the Roman Empire’s long history is too large to digest, the Venetian history almost begs for more detail. The face of Italy today – the city identities, the rivalries, and the religious ties – derive from this period.

The White War: Life and Death on the Italian Front 1915-1919 By Mark Thompon

I read this to learn about the Austro-Hungarian side of this fight, but ended up learning much more about Italian history than I expected. Mark Thompson provides a readable, enjoyable, and well-researched look that slices through some of the “common” understandings of the World War I’s Italian front the aspects that wove their way into the national mythologies of Italy. The most gripping aspects of this account are the political machinations that unfolded to bring Italy into the war (or bring herself into the war). Chapter 2 on the poet Gabriele D’Annunzio is astounding, and further chapters on the Italian Futurists, proto-Fascists is alarming because the themes of national redemption, “sacred history,” the modern-day “symbols of burning injustice,” and “a sense of jeopardized identity” of pre-fascist Italy is echoed by the populist and nationalist rhetoric of contemporary Western politicians. This telling of Italy’s conduct during the First World War ties the threads of Italian unification with fascist Italy in a way that makes modern political rhetoric uncomfortable. There are many lessons here for the politician and policymaker, for the citizen and the soldier.

While Rome stood for ages, modern Italy is a young project. Italy was born in the nineteenth century and the upheaval of the early twentieth century wreaked havoc on the nascent and fragile Italian state. From the perspective of only the last few decades Italy seems unified and understandable, but Thompson’s book provides such a powerful reminder of how complicated Italy can be. History is interesting enough, but The White War on the Italian Front is rich in this regard.

The Dark Heart of Italy: An Incisive Portrait of Europe’s Most Beautiful, Most Disconcerting Country By Tobias Jones

Which brings us to the modern era. Italy of today openly bears the scars of its past. While you can visit Italy and see the Roman ruins of old, you will also walk past Italy’s fascist past, but also the see firsthand the ruins of the Venetian and Genoese Empires. Nothing is hidden from view. Tobias Jones gives a fascinating outsiders look at the complex layers that make up and define Italian society. Part history, part personal memoir, Jones writes to explain why Italy is far more than a stereotype, there is order within the apparent disorder, and that modern Italian society is propped up by mystery, contradiction, and conspiracy – and somehow it all works.

As I was unfamiliar with Italian history and the Italian language, the drier portions of historical narration were a bit dull, but the effect was not lost on me. A better and more enlightening read on a visit to Italy.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. 

Book Reviews, Mind

Biographies & Travelogues

Leave a comment

Pushing Horizons is first and foremost about inspiration. The first and easiest way a person can travel is through the experiences of other people. In the first tranche of travel-related book reviews, we offer four books to ignite and fuel the passion for living boldly. Biographies can teach us about the long-game that one should consider in life, while travelogues can amaze us at the events and actions that shape a man’s path in life.

Patrick Leigh Fermor: An Adventure By Artemis Cooper

I enjoy reading biographies for their retrospection on the peaks and troughs of an awe-inspiring life – and the life of Patrick Leigh Fermor is no exception. Artemis Cooper writes an excellent portrayal of a man that lived a life of love for people, places, and romanticism. The most amazing part of his story is realizing that his literary success, fame, and adventurous life were far from pre-ordained – giving inspiration to us all. Absolutely follow-up this biography with Fermor’s written works.

Eastern Approaches By Fitzroy Maclean

This book has been around for years, but it lives in the shadows known only to a certain breed aware of its reputation. Anyone aspiring to become a member of the Foreign Service or Military  Foreign Area Officer program must have a bit of romantic adventurism in their heart. For those that dream of splitting their time huddled around a candle with guerrilla leaders and in meetings with heads of state – each trying to shape the fate of the world, you’ll find satisfaction in this book. Fitzroy Maclean’s memoir of his time during World War II appeals directly to those who appeal to be at the crossroads of history, all alone and unafraid. His travels in Stalin’s Soviet Union, his experience in the deserts of Libya with the Long Range Desert Group, and with the Partisans of Jugolavia are remarkable. Most interesting to me was his time spent in the Balkan forests and caves with Tito, shuttling between meetings with Allied Generals, and even Winston Churchill himself – trying to bring Allied support to the Communist Partisans in a “side show” of the world at war.

Everybody Behaves Badly: The True Story Behind Hemingway’s Masterpiece The Sun Also Rises By Lesley M.M. Blume

This is probably a four-star review for any big Hemingway-worshipers. Lesley Blume reveals Hemingway’s creative process as an extension of a flawed man. As a struggling would-be novelist, Hemingway arrived in Paris and carved out a life with his young wife. Everybody Behaves Badly recounts the life and times of Hemingway in Paris, the relationships he built and connections he made, and most importantly, the relationships he consumed with his creative energy in writing The Sun Also Rises – never to be repaired. It’s a book that reveals success to be its own form of tragedy. A must for any fan of Hemingway’s writing, the Hemingway legend, or the Hemingway lifestyle.

The Innocents Abroad By Mark Twain

From the great grandfather of American writing, Mark Twain’s unique style of observation, snark, humor that demands we all pay attention. As a newspaper correspondent, he traveled across the Atlantic at a time when the Grand Tour rite of passage was seeing its last days. He witnessed a Europe, Africa, and Levant when regional identities, traditions, and customs were as diverse and different as the place names. His observation previews the American way of commenting on Europe, but he also gives hope that travel can be fun without being too serious He takes the piss, pokes at the sacred, and teaches us that travel doesn’t have to be an academic study. He reminds us that every place is filled with people that don’t need to be studied academically, we can just enjoy the life in the way other people lead it.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.
Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. 

For those who love adventure, friends, travel, and all that is rich in history