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Travel Europe - Food for the itinerant soul

 
Hi, I'm Anthony, 24, a Sydney-based writer. Enjoy tasting the Ambrosia that is Europe.

Travel Europe - June 2006

A city located in southern Germany, Stuttgart is the capital of the state of Baden-Württemberg with a population of approximately 590,000. It happens to be the sixth largest city in Germany, as well as the home of Porsche (motor enthusiasts will notice that the city name appears in the centre of the badge). The region also currently has Germany's highest density of scientific, academic and research organisations, and tops the national league for patent applications. Woo! Patents! Everybody say "Gooooooo Patents!" Pom-poms etcetera.

Another interesting bit of trivia for bored readers: Stuttgart also has two Max-Planck Institutes. Fancy that. Now, as you already know, Max Planck is considered to be the founder of quantum theory. His most famous discovery was probably the Planck length - a very small length which he found when he first looked between his legs.


The Planck length is the unit of length in the system of units known as Planck units. (Gee, way to explain a complex concept Max.) The Planck length is deemed "natural" because it can be defined from three fundamental physical constants: the speed of light, Planck's constant, and the gravitational constant. Easy.

Thus, in metric units, the Planck length is approximately 10-35 meters (indexed). The estimated radius of the observable Universe is therefore 1.2 × 10 to the power of 62 Planck lengths. (That's alot, in case you were wondering.) The 'Planck mass' is roughly the mass of a black hole with a Schwarzschild radius equal to its Compton wavelength (I hear Schwarzschild also makes excellent shampoo). The radius of such a black hole would be, roughly, the Planck length.

Fascinating.

Actually, it is fascinating, but not if it's in Greek. Compare. Here is the significance of the theory in Greek:


The following thought experiment illuminates the above fact. The task is to measure an object's position by bouncing electromagnetic radiation, namely photons, off it. The shorter the wavelength of the photons, and hence the higher their energy, the more accurate the measurement. If the photons are sufficiently energetic to make possible a measurement more precise than a Planck length, their collision with the object would, in principle, create a minuscule black hole. This black hole would "swallow" the photon and thereby make it impossible to obtain a measurement. A simple calculation using dimensional analysis suggests that this problem arises if we attempt to measure an object's position with a precision of less than a Planck length.

This thought experiment draws on both general relativity and the Heisenberg uncertainty principle of quantum mechanics. These two theories combined imply that it is impossible to measure position to a precision less than the Planck length. Hence in any theory of quantum gravity combining general relativity and quantum mechanics, traditional notions of space and time will break down at distances shorter than the Planck length or times shorter than the Planck time.


Now, here it is again in layman's English:

Say you want to measure how far it is from your place to your mate's place, right? And you want to know exactly, not roundabout, but a precise measurement, so you know if you have time to shag his ex-girlfriend before you head over. (30 micro-seconds could be the difference.) So you pull out your little pocket electromagnetic ray gun and fire off a few rounds of light beams at your mate. Now your mate is probably a) dead; b) a pile of red embers or c) all of the above. But say your ray gun was hell powerful, and the little light beams were so effective that when you fired them off, they opened up a little blackhole sucky-vortex thing, which like gobbles up your mate (see a) above). According Max, it would probably swallow up your lightbeam too, and then you'd have no idea how far away your mate's place was, no idea how long it would therefore take to get there, and you'd be up for murder/global apocalypse. In short: don't use your ray gun to measure distance, use a good ole fashioned measuring wheel and count the clicks, you moron.
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Australia - Welcome to Stuttgart

June 23rd 2006 02:52
The reason for all this talk of football and crying and hugging and gyrating circles of magical Alice in Wonderland bliss is simple: the Germans are not really renowned for their emotional outbursts. They suffer the emotional ailment laid out in the preceding posts as if it were a permanent ideology-pathology. This is the nation that gave us Nietzsche. And before him -Schopenhauer. And after him - Hitler and his merry Henchmen. (OH! Faux Pas, mon amis! You mention Hitler! Shame on you!)

But even without Hitler, the Teutons never came closer to outward emotion than with Wagner, and let's face it, Debussy absolutely sh*ts on Wagner for expressionism.

Germans seem to be a naturally stoic race of people. Or at least, that's how it looks to us ignorant anglocentric Western types with our Big Mac worldviews and heart-on-the-sleeve romanticism.

In truth though, the Germans are deeply emotional - some say the most depressed nation in the world behind Japan. And what do depressed people do all day? They sit and weep.

So in the context of the Great Football Love-In, spreading itself across Germany right now, Germans might feel a little terrorised by all the emotion. They might feel a little unsettled. Maybe even 'challenged', to use a psychological term. They might all simultaneously pull out copies of Thus Spake Zarathustra and remonstrate themselves for forgetting the three Rs of nihilist philosophy: Resign, Resign, Resign.

Ok, not true, not true.

But I do wonder about how different cultures express emotion - and I just don't see Germans behaving in the same way as Aussies at football games.

"On zi count of sree, vee vill celebrate in unison"

Ah, stereotypes. So on to Stuttgart, where right now, Aussie expats are running amock and Germans are ogling in amazement.

"On zi count of sree, ve vill all scream "Bring back Schwarzter!"





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For aeons sport has had this loosening effect on men. While the Sapphists were lolling about on the Island of Lesbos, the men of Ancient Greece were wrestling each other at the base of Mount Olympus. Sport has always sanctioned male behaviour which is otherwise taboo. Outside of sport, the concept of eros remains firmly demarcated from masculinity. Today we have merely replaced wrestling with various codes of football. We use these 'codes' to keep a lid on a desire to connect with other men emotionally; to express affection for them; to love them. Journalist Rob McFarland recently wrote that "Anger, disappointment and excitement are all appropriate emotions for public consumption, but sorrow, heartache and misery for some reason, aren't."

The experience of thousands of men at Olympic Park confirms that description. But with Australian triumphs of that calibre so infrequent, it can't be healthy to wait until the next big win to have a good cry. At least in Columbia, if they lose, they get it out of their system right away with a riot or they pop off a few rounds into the air, and oops, we need a new forward line. (Everyone take a step forward. You! In the back! Yes, compadre, I'm talking to you - now you play midfield.)

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...Four years earlier, it was a different story. Following the Socceroos' bitter 3-0 loss to Uruguay in Montevideo, we all watched as Tony Vidmar cradled his head and wept. As the siren wailed the death knell of Australian soccer, Vidmar became the conduit for the nation's tears. It was the portrait of a dream shattered. And it reminded us of one of our most resilient taboos: the grown man crying.

In an age of diagnostic excess, the pundits had a field day scrutinising whether sportsmen should cry openly. There were even echoes in some quarters of Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own: "There's no crying in football!" But when thousands of grown men erupted into tears last November, there wasn’t a psychologist in the house. As Australia watched the nail-biting penalty Schwartz-out, all the pundits were silenced, the witchdoctors vindicated and John Saffron added to Soccer Australia’s payroll. With that shirtless wonder Aloisi came an outburst of emotion so effusive it flushed across the crowd like a benevolent tsunami, washing away four years of recriminations.

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Being in Frankfurt now (in my mind's eye anyway) well, it's simply bliss. Sure, the World Cup only rolls around once every four years, but if you can jetset over to the Hinterland, then why not? Do it. Go on. Take that extra online market research survey, beef up your bank account, get yaself a ticket, and squat in some Lederhausen-clad jaunty bugger's backyard. Clear that rash right up.

We all know the string of symptoms World Cup fever can induce. With the insomnious nights come behaviours that should otherwise be hermetically sealed and placed in a time capsule. Every four years, Australians are accustomed to claiming English heritage for about 3 weeks. This interest in genealogy normally disappears without any good explanation around semi-final time. Then there are the frequent trips to the markets for soccer paraphernalia. Once again, these normally dissolve during the Spin Cycle - a term which also refers to the period following England's exit from the Cup. And who could forget lounging in nothing but holeproofs and underdungers with the boys, ay? Laughing at Pele’s erection problems; screaming ‘Batistuta’ sporadically when Argentina isn't playing; reliving every goal with an undersized sponge replica, air-planing through to the kitchen with pyjamas over head, hitting your elbow on the fridge, clutching your ankle in agony, having a quick fit, giving yourself a red card, throwing a tantrum and telling the Ref he’s a trundle bed in Italian; relishing the thought that if Italy lose, the residents of Leichhardt will light flares and set fire to stuff; relishing the thought that if Italy win, the residents of Leichhardt will light flares and set fire to stuff.

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Flying to Germany

June 14th 2006 03:42
So my flight to Rome was somehow rerouted to Frankfurt, Germany. And due to a space-time anomaly, I ended up in June 2006. Yes! I write this to you from the heart of Germany itself: the Reichstag!

I'm here addressing the German Parliament on the benefits of training young children to be goalkeepers and shuttling them down to Australia. My reception was a little underwhelming, but then again, it's probably the single greatest display of emotion by the Teutonic race since Wagner was set to Apocalypse Now.

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The next city on my itinerary is Rome. As I leave Venice, I'm tempted to just swing my hips over onto my 7-inch stilettos and ponce on out of here like some catwalk model with oversized glasses and no concept of hubris. Venice was far too short-lived; beautiful reflector-glass Venice, lagoon under the sun, idyll on the cusp of a bitter empire. I wish I had seen it in its wintry glory...the colourful masks, bird-faced women and men squawking all over the place, stealing nature's thunder in a midnight soiree of peacock flourishes and lace-faced levity.

I'm not done with you Venice. There's plenty more festival in this travelogue...
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I fully intended for this to be a long post. I really did. But instead, ill save you the meadering whimsy, and enlighten you fast and furious, Tokyo style. Shootin from the hip:

- The main thing you need to decide with Venice is when to go;

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Venice Do's and Don'ts - Pt 2.3

June 3rd 2006 07:44

My trip to Saint Mark’s Basilica was fairly uneventful. Sure, I saw the outside, but as far as interior exploits go? The ‘When Good K-9’s Go Bad’ tour of Venice would have to wait for another trip. For a start, the line was incredibly long, winding its way all the way back to Milan. By the time I reached the front, my Swiss female friend had arrived on a ferry, having flown direct from Switzerland, and I was forced to jettison my site-seeing agenda.

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23 Posts dating from May 2006
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