Italy | Venice | We Crociferi

From Kastraki I took the train to Athens, where I once again stayed at my Favorite Hotel in the city. I could not resist climbing the Hill of the Muses again for another view of the Acropolis and the Parthenon.

The Acropolis, topped by the Parthenon (click on photos for enlargements)

The Parthenon. Unfortunately it always seems to be under repair.

The Acropolis at night, from the balcony of my hotel. The Parthenon is not visible from this angle.

Then took an early morning flight to Istanbul. Would have loved to stop for some mutton kebabs at the take-out place next to my Favorite Hotel in Istanbul, but of course I cannot enter Turkey because of the recent Visa Snafu. So I caught a connecting flight to Venice. The plane left Ataturk Airport in Istanbul at 5:36 p.m. It was dark at ground level when we took off, but we emerged from the low, heavy cloud cover just in time to see the sun sinking halfway below the horizon, now banded with fiery reddish-orange light that gradually faded into a dome of deep cobalt blue. For the next hour or so we chased the sun westward. Several times it reappeared above the horizon only to sink again. We finally lost the race with the sun and arrived at the predictably named Marco Polo Airport in total darkness at 5:50 local time, for a flight of two hours and fourteen minutes. There is no line at Immigration and my portmanteau is the second piece of luggage to emerge on the conveyor belt.

Marco Polo Airport has undergone major remodeling since I was here last. A fifteen minute walk on a new sky-bridge ends at the dock where water-buses now leave for the island of Murano and Venice itself.  From the water-bus it is impossible to make out anything in the dark and the fog. After about thirty minutes the lights of Murano Island water-bus stop appear out of the gloom. A half dozen people get off and we continue on another fifteen minutes to the  Fondamente Nuove stop on the north side of Venice itself. I am the only person getting off. Most passengers are continuing on to the hotels around St. Mark’s Square, on the south side of Venice, which offer more convenient access the city’s more famous sights. During the day numerous water buses to the airport, outlying islands, and other parts of Venice itself all converge here, and the walkway, lined with ticket vendors and attendant kiosks selling selling water, snacks, and souvenirs is usually bustling with transients. Now the Fondamente Nuove is eerily quiet. I look up and down the 800-yard long fog-shrouded walkway and do not see a single person; it appears as if the city is  deserted. 

I veer off Fondamente Nuove onto Salizzada dei Specchieri (street of the looking-glass makers), which is also suspiciously, forbiddingly empty. After a hundred yards or the eight massive  Corinthian columns that make the facade of the Church of the Gesuiti (Jesuits) rear up out of the gloom on my left. Above the entablature carried by the columns statues of the twelve apostles and assorted angels appear out of the fog. I get the discombobulating feeling that they are gazing down in judgment at the lone wanderer on the street below. Not that I am the first to be put off by these statues. W. D. Howells (1837–1920), erstwhile editor of the “Atlantic Monthly” and author of Venetian Life (1866), observed that “the sight of those theatrical angels, with their shameless, unfinished backs, flying off the top of the rococo façade of the church of the Jesuits, has always been a spectacle to fill me with despondency and foreboding.” A later observer, James Lees-Milne, in his Venetian Evenings, noted: “To my mind these statues look more like lost souls about to throw themselves in despair to the bottomless pit, only prevented from doing so by the rusted iron bands which tie their loose limbs together and keep them in.” By now a surprisingly chilly and uncomfortably damp wind is gusting through the street, adding to my discomfiture. The tee-shirt and Mongolian cashmere sweater I had donned that morning in Athens are clearly inadequate.

The Salizzada dei Specchieri opens out into the Campo dei Gesuiti, a long narrow square likewise empty. On the left side of the square, abutting the Church of the Gesuiti, stands an immense white-walled five story building that was once a Jesuit monastery. It has been transformed into both living quarters for students and a hotel for the public. Veering off the square and through a portal I emerge into a huge courtyard lined by a colonnaded passageway. In the courtyard and passageway are huddled groups of people, presumably students, the first humans I have seen since arriving at the Fondamente Nuove. Lady Gaga booms from the sound system of a cafe off to the side, accompanied by a buzz of conversation and laughter. I am back among the living. 

The receptionist assigns me to a room on the fifth floor. You have to use your key card to use the elevator. After passing through three unmarked doors and wandering down several long corridors I finally locate my room in an isolated cul-de-sac. I cannot help but wonder if I have been purposely exiled to this out of way corner of the huge building, away from the younger and more livelier residents. If so, this suites me fine. The last thing I need is some noisy college students next door. According its website the We Crociferi has shared dormitory-style rooms, private rooms with bath, studio rooms, and small apartments complete with kitchens. It is not clear how many of these units it hosts, but the entire facility has 255 beds, all of them singles. The website is quick to point out that these single beds cannot be joined together. Perhaps this is a residual holdover from its days as a Jesuit monastery, and now an attempt to maintain some degree of propriety among the college students who stay here. Some on-line reviews, apparently from adult couples, grouse about the lack of any double beds in the rooms. Why these people find such a problem with a single bed is beyond me. If they want to couple they can do so on a single bed. I have done it more times than I can count. Then they can retire to separate single beds. Or they can just remain in the single bed, which may result in even greater intimacy, since you simply cannot roll over to your own side of the bed after coupling is completed. In any case, my room has three single beds, only one of which I will be using. As far as I know I will not be doing any coupling in Venice.

Room decor is minimalist; gray concrete floors with no carpets or rugs, and whitewashed brick walls. In keeping with its function as student quarters a built-in formica topped desk extends the entire length of the front wall. Study lamps on flex-arms light the desk area, there are no less than eight—eight!—electrical outlets, and the overhead lights are more than adequate. Actually this functional work space, often so sadly lacking in even much more expensive hotels, is the real reason I am staying at the We Crociferi.  As a bonus my room, although isolated, looks directly down on the Campo dei Gesuiti  and has a great view out over the roof tops of Venice, with the dome-topped 182-foot campanile, or bell tower, of the church of Madonna dell’Orto soaring up off in the distance.

The We Crociferi on the right, in daylight

One of three courtyard at the We Crociferi

Courtyard at the We Crociferi

Courtyard at the We Crociferi

Courtyard at the We Crociferi

Arcade at the We Cruciferi

The Church of the Gesuiti, to the left of the We Crociferi. The angels on the facade are less dread-inspiring in the daylight

182-foot campanile, or bell tower, of the church of Madonna dell’Orto visible over the rooftops of Venice

Greece | Athens | Mouseion Hill | Hill of the Muses

Wandered up 485-foot Mouseion Hill for a panoramic view of the Acropolis. The hill got its name from the 6th-century BC poet and seer Musaios, who was supposedly buried on its summit. Because of its association with Musaios, reputed to be the son of the legendary minstrel Orpheus, it is also known as the Hill of the Muses. Part way up I passed by the Prison of Socrates, where, according to legend, the great philosopher was confined before he was forced to the drink the Hemlock.

 Prison of Socrates (click on photos for enlargements)

Socrates was an enigmatic character, to say the least. He was born not far from Athens in 469 B.C., the son of stonemason who aspired to be a sculptor. His mother was a midwife. Socrates too may have worked for awhile as a stonemason before finding his true calling as a free-lance philosopher and teacher. With thick lips, bulging eyes, and a pot-belly, he was a notoriously unattractive figure. He seldom bathed or washed his clothes and went barefooted most of the time. His wife, the shrewish Xanthippe, henpecked him unmercifully. He apparently managed to father three sons with her, all of whom turned out to be dolts, but his main interpersonal relationships seemed to be with young men. It is unclear if he served solely as an intellectual mentor to the young men who flocked around him to hear his teachings or if he also had sexual relationships with at least some of them. In Athens at the time it would certainly not have been unusual for a married man like Socrates to have young male lovers. Many married men, we are led to believe, preferred the company of young men or boys and only coupled with their wives for purposes of procreation. When they just wanted to get their rocks off they preferred other males. In any case, Socrates had ample opportunities to meet young admirers. One of his students, Xenophon, who had became smitten with Socrates at a young age, wrote that:

Socrates was always in the public eye. Early in the morning he used to make his way to the covered walkways and open-air gymnasia, and when the marketplace became busy he was there in full view; and he always spent the rest of the day where he expected to find the most company. He talked most of the time and anyone who liked was able to listen.

In this way Socrates acquired a large following, especially among the aristocratic young of the city who were thrilled by his charismatic personality and provocative teachings.His influence on the young and the ideas he was putting into their heads eventually aroused the suspicions of some important people. Finally a politician by the name of Meletus had the philosopher arrested. The charges read:

This indictment and affidavit is sworn by Meletus, the son of Meletus of Pitthos, against Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus of Alopece: Socrates is guilty of refusing to recognize the gods recognized by the state, and of introducing other new divinities. He is also guilty of corrupting the youth. The penalty demanded is death.

At that time trials took place at some public forum, probably in the open air, in front of a very large jury. Important trials had a jury of 1,501 citizens; even private suits were heard by juries of from 201 to 401 members. The jury cast its ballots in secret and fifty percent of the votes plus one were needed for a conviction. We do not know the exact size of Socrates’s jury, but he was found guilty by a majority of sixty votes. At that time both the prosecution and the defense could suggest a punishment and the same jury that decided the case could choice which one they preferred. The prosecution demanded death. Socrates, rather cheekily, first suggested that the proper punishment for his supposed offensives would be a government pension for the rest of his life, since he was, in his own opinion at least, a benefit to society. Then, acting on the advice of Plato and other close friends, he suggested a fine of 3000 drachmas. The jury was not amused by his insouciance; more voted for the death penalty than had voted for his conviction.

The sentence may have been carried out here at the prison where he was supposedly held prior to the trial. Other sources suggest he died in another prison in the ancient Agora. In any case, in the presence of several close friends and disciples (Plato, who was ill at the time, did not attend) Socrates downed the concoction of poison hemlock. The bystanders broke down in tears. One of those present, his disciples Phaedo, left an account of Socrates’ reaction:

“Really, my friends, what kind of behavior is this? Why, that was my main reason for sending away the women, to prevent this sort of commotion; because I am told that one should make one’s end in a peaceful frame of mind. Calm down and try to be brave.”

Phaedo goes on:

This made us feel ashamed, and we controlled our tears. Socrates walked about, and soon, saying that his legs were heavy, lay down on his back—that was what the prison warden recommended. The man (he was the same one who had administered the poison) kept his hand on Socrates, and after a little while inspected his feet and legs; then pinched his foot hard and asked if he felt it. Socrates said no. Then he did the same to his legs; and moving gradually upwards in this way let us see that he was becoming inert and numb. Presently he touched him again and said that when it reached the heart, Socrates would be gone. The numbness was spreading about as far as his groin when Socrates uncovered his face—for he had covered it up—a nd said (these were his last words): “Crito, we ought to sacrifice a cock to Asclepius. Make sure it’s done. Don’t forget.” “No, it shall be done,” said Crito. “Are you sure that there is nothing else?” Socrates made no reply to this question, but after a little while he stirred; and when the man uncovered him, his eyes were fixed. When Crito saw this, he closed the mouth and eyes. Such was the end of our comrade, who was, we may fairly say, of all those whom we knew in our time, the bravest and also the wisest and most upright man.

The citizens of Athens eventually had a change of heart. Meletus, who had brought charges against Socrates, was eventually tried and executed for his role in this sorry affair. Another of his accusers, Anytus, was exiled to a backwater port on the Black Sea, where he was eventually stoned to death by an angry mob. Meanwhile, a statue of Socrates by the famous sculptor Lysippus was erected in Athens. And of course, it is Socrates that we are still talking about today, 2500 years later.

Continuing on up the trail to the summit of Mouseion Hill, thoughts of Socrates still reverberating through my mind, it occurred to me that there are a few modern philosophers who might benefit from some time behind bars in Socrates’s Prison; for example, the incorrigible  Post-Modern Neo-Nihilist and irrepressible popinjay David Weinberger. At least Weinberger, famous in college for his Dionysian revelries and unbridled bacchanalias and infamous as a shamelessly slavish sycophant of the insufferable German doofus and dingbat Marty “I Invented Being and Time and If You Don’t Like It Bite Me!” Heidegger, would have time while behind bars to rethink his rebarbative theory that Everything Is Miscellaneous. Socrates was forced to drink the Hemlock, but Weinberger continues to walk the streets of America a free man. Did I mention that Weinberger is also a rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth foe of the otherwise beloved Dewey Decimal System and a perennial front runner on Bucknell University’s list of Worst Dressed Alumni?

View of the Acropolis and the Parthenon from part way up Mouseion Hill 

 View of the Acropolis and the Parthenon from near the summit Mouseion Hill

As mentioned Mouseion Hill is also known as the Hill of the Muses. For centuries poets and song-writers, including Van Morrison and Bob Dylan, have come here to perform and seek inspiration. Also see One Irish Rover.

Van Morrison and Bob Dylan on the Hill of the Muses (not my photo)

 The trail continue on to the ruins of the mausoleum and monument of Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos 65–116 AD), a well-known prince of the Kingdom of Commagene, on the summit of the hill. It is not clear, but the monument may stand on the older grave of Musaios.

 See Commagene on the map (in pink)

Although born in Commagene, Philopappos spent much of his life Athens and was well-known as a benefactor of the city. He was a boon companion of the Roman Emperor Trajan and Trajan`s successor as emperor Hadrian. After he died in 116 his sister Julia Balbilla and prominent citizens of Athens erected this monument in his honor on the summit of Mouseion Hill.

Ruins of the mausoleum and monument to Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos