Berlin: Europe's Most Under-Appreciated Capital

Poor Berlin. Whilst the drama of the former wall gives it high name recognition, it just doesn't rank near the top of most people's holiday sweeps through Europe. London, Paris, Rome, perhaps Madrid are the usual grand circle. But Berlin? Yes, it absolutely deserves to be up there with the luminaries.

The altar of Zeus from Pergamon, in the Pergamon Museum, is one of Berlin's blockbuster sights

I was there this week on that rarest of things: A fun business trip. The usual trip profile is airport to office or conference hotel, catch the city through a few windows and during your taxi to and from dinner, then return to airport. This time I flew out early to sneak a couple hours' sightseeing, and then discovered that our VP had arranged for us to do some teambuilding via a scavenger hunt across the city, rather than via communal PowerPoint endurance. Bliss.

Berlin is dynamic and edgy. Compared to London, it's sparklingly clean, everything is in good repair and beautiful new buildings are incorportated everywhere next to old ones. This, of course, is because so much of the city has been rebuilt. Even many of the oldest cultural icons, like the Cathedral, are actually brand new recreations of what stood there before. Architectural purists turn their nose up at "recreation". In my eyes it's built a gracious city filled with good buildings. I love it.

I feel a bit sorry for the Westerners, who are now seeing all the tourism and conference money heading to the East.

The old East Berlin is the place to be these days. I feel a bit sorry for the Westerners, who held out through the cold war and then contributed so much economically to unification. It must be irritating to see all the best hotels, restaurants, tourist attractions, etc. sprouting up on the other side. We stayed at the Hilton on Gendarmenmarkt, a massive and well-appointed conference hotel that could be in New York ... except that it's looking out on a square dominated by twin baroque churches and the bombastic National Theatre. (Let's face it, there's something about the Germans that makes them very good at big, bold and slightly domineering buildings.) Not priced for tourists, of course, but the location might be worth the extra costs. Walking distance to most important sights.

I'll mention three specific highlights.

For the best traditional German food, a trip to Lutter and Wegner, also on Gendarmenmarkt, is a must. This bastion of tradition has been there since the mid-19th century and has everything you'd expect. Dignified interiors, waiters with old world charm and peak efficiency, a fabulous selection of German white wine and, of course, requisite dishes like wienerschnitzel and apple struedel that prove German food can be sophisticated and delicate when done right.

For a unique sightseeing option, consider a Trabant safari. Trabants, or "trabis" as they're more commonly called, were the cars of the people churned out by the Communist government. They're a bit like old minis, but even more basic. How any of them are still on the road, I don't know. The trabi safari company has rescued a whole fleet of them and now runs tours in which a lead car takes two of three following cars around and gives commentary over a radio broadcast system. It's a fun, different way to see the city, especially for any car buff. Of course, someone has to drive, and there are no automatic transmission versions!
See www.trabi-safari.de for details.

Finally, for me the cultural highlight of Berlin is the Pergamon Museum. This is the German version of the British Museum, packed with incredible architectural and artistic relics of the ancient world. Not as big as the British version, but several of the displays are truly jaw-dropping. The museum's raison d'etre is the great altar of Zeus from Pergamon. The city is now a backwater in Turkey but at the time of construction a powerful Greek colony. This was, quite simply, one of the great architectural wonders of the ancient world (not in the official seven, but in the same league) and its west front has been excavated, brought to Germany in bits and re-assembled in Berlin to actual size. The relief sculptures are amongst the finest ever to come out of ancient Greece, and make the Elgin marbles in London pale into insignificance. In side galleries you have other massive facades brought home from the Greco Roman world, plus the Ishtar Gate from Babylon, again put back together to blow you away with its drama and scale. The galleries on ancient Mesopotamia hold what are probably some of the best collections in the Western world.

I'd dreamed of going to this museum since I was a kid. In my youth it was unthinkable. It was behind enemy lines, the cultural hostage of the bad guys. These days, you can stroll to it in 15 minutes from your five-star business hotel, grabbing a cappucino and a copy of the Wall Street Journal on the way. It does give me hope that the real Babylon, and Persepolis, and all those other magnificent sites in Iran and Iraq, may become accessible before I die. In the mean time, I'm glad the Germans carted so much of this stuff back for us to appreciate closer to home.

Kenilworth Ranks as One of Britain's Best Castles

Warwickshire is a county rich in historic sights. Between the Shakespearean theme park of Stratford and the Disney production values at Warwick castle, lesser sights are often left behind. Kenilworth Castle falls into this overlooked category, though it would get top billing in many less abundant counties.

Kenilworth is a magnificently picturesque ruin, surrounded by open countryside and a row of picturesque cottages, just outside the modern town of Kenilworth (mid-way between Warwick and Birmingham). Though built over more than four centuries, each owner expanded in the same remarkable stone, meaning that today you see a burgundy red ruin sitting amongst emerald green lawns. Under blue skies, it's almost too colourful to bear.

The castle is steeped in history. Simon de Montfort, brother-in-law to Henry III and considered the father of parliament, lived here. After that came John of Gaunt, whose ruined buildings here are actually the only late-gothic royal palace to remain in England. The star resident, however, was Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. He was Elizabeth I's favourite; life-long friend, rumoured lover. He turned Kenilworth into one of the grandest houses in central England and the queen came here to be entertained on many occasions. The grandeur of the remaining ruins makes it clear what a potent stage set this must have been. Sir Walter Scott's novel "Kenilworth" is set here. It's worth ploughing through the old fashioned prose to get a taste of the drama of the places.

Queen Elizabeth did indeed sleep here, though history remains undecided on whether she actually slept with the owner.

English Heritage owns and maintains the property and, as with many of their locations, you can get a great audio tour to take you around the places and paint pictures for you of what was once there. You can clamber up winding stares and perch on deep window embrasures overlooking peaceful rural scenes. There's also an excellent exhibit on Elizabeth and Leicester (who, sadly, looked nothing like Joseph Fiennes, who played him in a recent film.)

One of the best things about Kenilworth, however, is how pleasant the surrounding countryside is. While I'd always recommend getting up close and personal with your historic attractions, the truth is that your views and experience are almost as good skipping the admission fee and just walking around the outside. There are banks of hills on the side of the castle by the main road that make for fantastic picnic spots (though you can also take picnics inside the castle). There are hiking trails all around the site, cutting through fields blooming with wildflowers and inevitably looping back to the local village and its picturesque pub.

Kenilworth really is a sight that sooths the soul, and it's well worth a detour from the proven tourist track.

For the Best Trip to Athens, Get Out of Town

Reprinted from a letter home, February 2006

Athens, it turns out, is really a one-trick pony.

The Acropolis is the star of Athens; beyond that, things fade quickly

There's the Acropolis and its sister site of the national archeological museum,where all the monumental statuary is. That reminded me of Naples, where you have Pompeii and asimilarly crumbling but impressive museum. But after the obvious stuff in Naples you can spend hours and hours wandering around, sitting in cafes, drinking in baroque architecture. Athens is really not a city for wandering. The architecture is horrific: most of the buildings, even in the historic area, seem to beconcrete boxes thrown up in the '50s.

What's left of ancient Athens outside the acropolis is a set of ruined agoras, or fora, that are picturesque but limited. You can appreciate them and take a few photos from the street without feeling the need to wander amongst them. (For great urban ruins, Rome tops this by miles.) The shopping isn't even that enjoyable, because they have an almost Arabic ethos of coming into the street and trying to lure you into the shop with a hard sell if you only pause for amoment to look in a window. I detest that; turned me off of shopping all together.

This all meant that with four and a half days scheduled in Athens we'd pretty much seen what we wanted to in two. The solution is to hire private cab drivers. This is a whole separate economy in Athens. Taxi fares are regulated and relatively cheap. Thus drivers know they can make their best money cutting a flat deal with tourists to drive them for a half or full day. Prices range from euro 120 for a half day to 250 for a full day, the more expensive range also buying a more informed driver with better English.

Private cab drivers represent a whole separate
economy in Athens

It was these these outings that really made the trip,but racked up the costs. We took a half day trip to Cape Sounion, which is the southernmost tip in the state of Athens. A dramatic promontory sticking intothe sea, islands and mountains on view across thewater and a dramatic, ruined temple of Poseidon on topof the hill. We went, as tradition demands, around sunset, when the light is striking. We then stopped for dinner in a seaside cafe.

First of our all day trips was around the Peleponese Penninsula. We started at the ruins of ancient Corinth. A small but charming site on a hilltop with striking views. (Description sums up a lot of Greece, actually). It was chilly with bright blue skies and sun. Great for photos. Corinth is a big place of pilgrimage for the fundamentalist Christians because of its associations with St. Paul. I'm afraid I spent much of the trip contemplating what a spoilsport and culture-wrecker the man was, since most of the beautiful places we saw were left in ruins and abandoned when they were "supressed by the Christians". My heart ached to see exquisite ancient statues ... perhaps some of the finest depictions of the human form ever sculpted ... defaced with crosses carved across foreheads and chins. It made me even more thankful to the Renaissance Italians for making the ancient Greco-Roman world acceptable again. And even more depressed contemplating why so many religions feel the need to destroy in order to grow.

Anyway, from Corinth on to Ancient Mycenae, mythological home of the house of Agamemmnon, Clytemnestra, Iphegenia, et al. In fact, a very early hill fort (contemporary with the height of Egyptian culture) with the impressive Lion gates & beehive tombs, source of all sorts of gold now in the National Museum. From there a brief stop at a pretty seasidetown called Napflio, with a massive Frankish castlelooming above it. Finally to the theatre at Epidavros, considered the finest and best preserved theatre from the Greek world. The acoustics ares pooky. You stand on the marble circle at the middle of the stage and the sound quality changes immediately. It's almost like you're in a padded sound room. Your voice rockets back at you and you can be heard throughout the huge theatre and a little more than a whisper. I climbed to the top ... 50 some-odd rows ... and my mother and I could have a clear conversation in normal tones.

The theatre at Epidavros has some of the most
perfect acoustics in the world

The second day's tour was up into the mountains to visit theancient shrine of Delphi. The Oracle was so powerful throughout the Greek world that everyone agreed this was neutral, protected territory. So while the Greek city states fought and had their ups and downs over hundreds of years, Delphi remained peaceful and had money thrown at it. On the processional route up to the temple and oracle, each city state built a "treasury" to show off what they'd donated to the Oracle. The site is huge and spreads through what must be one of the most beautiful places on earth,climbing up the slopes of the second highest mountain in Greece (Parnassus) with white limestone cliffs looming above it, a valley spreading below and the gulf of Corinth shimmering in the distance. There's also a well preserved theatre and stadium, since both drama and athletics were part of the religious ceremony.

On this day we also saw a dramatic and mystical eastern orthodox monastery. The landscape was thrilling throughout.

So, the major lesson learned from this trip? Four and a half days in Athens is far too much, but the same amount of time spread across the southern part of mainland Greece can deliver a glorious, culture-packed tour. Highly recommended.

Let's Hear it for "The Bad Guys" Saving Planet Earth

I find it deeply ironic that the professions most intimately linked to the use of language are consistently seen as villains. Journalists, PR people, lawyers and politicians: we all craft and deploy words to enlighten people and persuade them to do things.

This should be a noble endeavour, and there's plenty of historic evidence that all of these groups have made the world a better place. Yet each profession consistently ranks at the bottom of surveys about trust and esteem. In fact, if Dante were writing today I'm sure he'd create a special ring of hell just for this fearsome four, where our bodies and souls were buffeted in circles by hot airstreams of words we'd used to manipulate the innocent. (As a special tormet, the words beating me would all contain inappropriately used apostrophes, just to exacerbate my intellectual pain.)

What's the problem with saving the planet while making some money, too?

Our most recent actions may, however, buy us some penance for all those imagined sins. That quartet tends to set the world's agenda, and the agenda has turned decidedly green.

We all know people who've been banging on about global warming for years. Face it, it was a side issue. Suddenly, it's everywhere. I defy you to sort through a stack of old magazines in your house (the task that brought on these thoughts) and make it to the bottom without encountering someone's "Green Issue". The journalists have engaged, with enthusiasm. There's no escape: It is the topic of the year.


The politicians are following where the media leads. The G8 did green deals, the press covered them doing green deals, the lawyers and PRs start planning to work with the green deals, and a virtuous circle spirals upwards. Every PR person I know is looking for a way to link to the green agenda. I'm up to my ears in planning for a sustainability campaign in the Autumn. And every lawyer I know is shifting towards looking at green legislation, making it or taking advantage of it.

Are all these people embracing sustainability issues for pure and noble reasons? Of course not. We're following a popular agenda, recently made overwhelming by our journalistic colleagues. Who need to sell papers, and know this is the ultimate fear, uncertainty and doubt story ... made more bankable with illustrations of cute polar animals. In the corporate sphere, helping the planet will not only enhance reputations; it will, inevitably, make a lot of people a lot of money. And why not? What's wrong with keeping the polar ice caps in place AND bolstering the economy? I refuse to feel guilty for jumping on this bandwagon. The quartet of wordspinners is joining together to influence the corporate world, and the big corporates can make inroads that individuals can't.

I'm feeling a rising tide of optimism about the planet. No matter how gloomy the picture, I can't believe that the combined money, good will and brains of the entire human race can't crack this. And thanks to journalists, PRs, politicians and lawyers, everyone is starting to work in the same direction.

That, perhaps, will earn me and my colleagues a few less days in our own special circle of hell.

London: A Golden City Built on Expense Accounts (Review: The Ivy; The Bleeding Heart)

One of the great misperceptions of the PR industry is that it's all about glamour. Each year thousands of students pack into "PR and Communications" courses (most of them fairly useless), envisioning an easy path to fame and fortune through the attendance of good parties and networking with the beautiful or powerful. These misguided throngs miss the real point of the industry: hard graft, large amounts of boring administrative details, standing in the shadow whilst others get the credit, being on the firing line from petulant executives and at the mercy of even more petulant reporters, and generally making less than colleagues in other disciplines.

All that said, the perks are nice. Just realise that perks are only the tip of a large and difficult iceberg, and you have to do a lot of boring back-office stuff before you get to put the icing on the proverbial cake. (Sorry about two metaphors in one sentence. I'm in PR. I can't help it.)

Those excuses made, let's talk about some of London's finest restaurants. This week I had the good fortune to be at two of the city's Top 10 on two consecutive days. The first is the one everyone's heard of; the second the one everyone should know. You're not going to get out of either without spending at least £35 for two courses with non-alchoholic beverages. But you're more likely to be ordering a bottle of wine and dropping £60 per person or more. If the prices worry you, don't go. The stress will spoil your digestion.

"British business is booming; the consequence is a culinary golden age."

I doubt that's a problem for the majority of the lunch crowd at either of these places: I'm sure 90% of the bills were going to end up on expense accounts. If you want an answer to London's surge in fine dining, look no further. This town lives on business deals, and deals are still shaped over lunch. The more successful and prosperous the business community, the more demanding the palates. British business is booming; the consequence is a culinary golden age.

The Ivy is the classic choice for media and theatrical types. Located in the centre of the theatre district, it's famous for attracting the famous. Say you've dined at The Ivy and the first question you're likely to hear is not "How was the food?", but "Who did you see?"
(Nobody I recognised, but I don't read enough gossip mags to be a good celeb spotter.) The service is impeccable and the atmosphere memorable without being overpowering; both essential for a good business lunch.

Ironically, I always find the decor of this supposedly "classic British" restaurant to be disconcertingly American. Dark wood panelling, diamond-paned windows of coloured glass, black and white photos of great film stars of the past. It's redolent of those high end, classic restaurants in big American cities that were founded after the war, became the choice of high society in the 50s and have been preserved in aspic ever since. A bit like being in the dining room at the Missouri Athletic Club, with better food and a younger, trendier crowd.

The menu, if you haven't been here, may be disconcerting as well. Strikingly simple, there's not much here beyond what might show up on a Sunday lunch table at home. Soups, roasts, grilled fish, homey desserts. Don't go to The Ivy expecting innovation; this is classic comfort food at its apogee.

Yes, the food is fantastic. I started with a crab bisque that was a model of the genre. Balanced and distinct flavours, obviously fresh crab, served piping hot. The bluefin tuna loin that followed was cooked simply but to perfection, with exactly the ratio of cooked outside and rare middle that this fish should have. That came on a bed of lentils prepared with sweet red onions; a brilliant counterpoint. We skipped desert but I will give a nod to The Ivy's famous sticky toffee pudding, which I've had on previous occasions. (Although, oddly, I think you get a better result when you use their recipe and do it yourself at home.)

On to the Bleeding Heart. You've only moved a couple of miles across town, but in atmosphere and experience you've just crossed the channel. The Bleeding Heart is French. Not stuffy, overbearing, Parisian French of stereotype, but the real experience you get with the locals in a country that's deadly serious about its food. Every waiter is French, the menu and decor staunchly gallic, the cheese trolley a gastronomic map of the country. If it weren't for the portrait of Charles Dickens (he mentioned the location in his novels), you'd swear you'd been through passport control on your way here.

The menu, though traditional, offers far more variety than The Ivy. It also offers daily specials, focusing on what's in season. The presentation of the food is exquisite; creative and beautiful without crossing the line into absurdity. ("Too much" would be when your food starts to look more like an architectural model than lunch.)

"Too much" would be when your food starts to look more like an architectural model than lunch.

I started with a tart of fresh spring vegetables and goats cheese. I thought I knew what to expect. I was completely wrong, and delighted to be so. The tart casing was philo-style dough, moulded into a sinuous-sided, shallow bowl. Exploding from this, artful as a miniature flower arrangement, was a profusion of whole baby vegetables anchored by the bed of goat's cheese. The chef had managed to get all the vegetables to that perfect state where they were cooked just enough, but retained the crisp bite freshness. From there I abandoned light eating and chose venison in a chocolate sauce with creamed cabbage. The venison was perfectly cooked and the sauce (savoury, not sweet, as in Mexican mole) a creative and unexpected match that still carried the contrast you get with the fruit sauces that traditionally go with venison. In for a penny, in for the proverbial pound, I gave in to the temptation of the cheese trolley. The only improvement needed was a glass of port. But my guest wasn't drinking, so neither was I.

Avoiding alcohol brought lunch for three in at £120. At The Ivy I was guest rather than host so didn't see the bill, but from my view of the menu I'd say that both restaurants are about the same, with the Bleeding Heart perhaps being marginally less expensive. The latter is certainly, in my opinion, better value for money.

If you're in London on expense account, try either. If you're spending your own cash, bypass the temple of the famous and go to the church of the gastronome instead.

The Myth of "Sex and the City"

The English-speaking world is filled with people ... especially Brits ... who are convinced that "Sex and the City" represents a true portrait of modern womanhood. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at this wild delusion. I'm brought to this thought by two events: a girls' night out and a cut wire.

First, the girls. It's Wednesday night and four old friends gather, not in some trendy New York nightspot but in a trendy pub in Oxfordshire. (Yes, there are trendy pubs in the English countryside. This one looks traditional on the outside, but indoors is a Thai restaurant with black and gold interiors, festooned with modern art and crystal chandeliers.) Beyond the number of women, their relative affluence and the fashionable setting, the similarities between us and Carrie and her gang dwindle quickly.

Two of us are married, one single, one divorced. There's not a Manolo-shod foot in sight, although we do spend some time admiring each others' handbags. Unlike the fictional New York girls, none of us are having frequent, mind-altering sex. The pair without partners are thinking a lot about it but lacking prospect; the married ones are generally too tired to attempt it. Nor, like the TV quartet, are we discussing what sex we've had in lurid detail. Although the smile that went along with one girl's mention of her second honeymoon in Florence said more than any graphic recap could have.

"There's not a Manolo-shod foot in sight, although we do spend some time admiring each others' handbags."

Most of the time we're talking about work, mortgages, household remodelling and mutual friends. Sure, we're talking about men, too. But we're discussing the jobs and ambitions of the husbands, or the potential and peccadilloes of the single girls' recent dates. We're a good deal gentler and more circumspect than our fictional sisters.

Second, the wire.

As little as three years ago, when contemplating the merits of a husband, my fantasies and hopes were still rooted very much in the realms of Jane Austen. Soul mates, emotional rocks, best friends and father figures who would transform your life. OK, I'll acknowledge a debt to Carrie and the girls ... an Earth-shaking physical relationship was on the list, too. Once again, however, reality is pushing up against the myth.

And this morning's reality is the fact that, while trimming the ivy on my garden wall, I cut right through the wire of my outdoor lights. A husband, one imagines, would have that inherent male ability to mess about with a tool box and fix things. I am faced with the ponderous process of calling my handyman, waiting perhaps weeks for him to have a free hour, and paying his hourly rate to mend my second of carelessness. Come to think of it, that will probably cost more than the bloody lights.

"A husband, one imagines, would have that inherent male ability to mess about with a tool box and fix things."

So here's the truth. The myths of sex, love and relationships in my city revolve around men who can fix things, contribute half the mind-numbing mortage and provide cheerful, witty companionship at a dinner party or on holiday. It's not a reality worthy of an hour on HBO, but it's a scenario most women over 35 embrace with delight.