Since my last update, I have been to a colourful dressing-up party in the Austrian outback, themed “Pimp your tradition.” I have stormed through Art Basel, gone straight to Germany where I had promised my mother to watch an epic production of the Passion of Christ in a tiny little mountain village called Oberammergau.

You might rightly ask why the Passion would be performed in June? The answer is that in the 17th-Centuary when black death was ravenously scavenging the villages the people of Oberammergau prayed to God that if their village was spared they would stage the Passion every 10 years from then onwards.

Elizabeth with her sister dressed for the Austrian Outback

They have kept their promise and the production has grown into an incredible performance, becoming number one tourist attraction and putting the sleepy little place on the map. Today, it draws an international crowd and is always booked out. I am sat next to an Indian family and there are lots of Americans and many other nations trying to follow the play by eagerly reading their little programmes wrapt in layers of blankets. The play is entirely made up of locals.

Every single participant has to have been living in Oberammergau for at least 20 years or he must have been born there. Even the play’s music, was written by a local or a contemporary of Wagner explaining the somewhat imposing sound. I find it hard to believe that every single person is really from that little village with little more than a couple of thousand inhabitants. All the actors, even the professional choir and orchestra? Apparently so.

If so then that alone was worth the trek. My mother left after the first half as she thought Jesus made a bit of a poor figure resembling a stoned ‘68 Hippy, rather than the Messiah. Adding to that was the fact that it was freezing cold and the play lasted 5 ½ hours. A little ambitious even if only performed every 10 years.

From the blistering cold I dashed back to Vienna in order to board a plane; direction Greece. I am now peacefully sitting on the terrace of a beautiful little house overlooking the barren sun-drenched island of Patmos. Little paths leading nowhere circle the island and little white cube-like houses sporadically appear around me and in the distance. The famous monastery sits right behind me and has been here since the year 1000. It is still today a functioning Greek Orthodox abbey. The smell of incense fills the narrow little maze-like paths. All around is the glittering dark blue sea, which here appears to be so pristinely calm.

What a stunning place this little speck is. There is a bit of an-at–the-end-of-the-world-feeling to it. To start with it takes a day to get here. I took a plane from Vienna to Samos where I was nestled next to brightly dressed package tourists. From Samos onwards it became very much a private affair. Our host sent us his sailing boat and through bumpy seas we cruised for another couple of hours all the way to Patmos where we arrived, a little green in the face and exhausted, to crystal clear water so clean and cool there is not a jellyfish insight.

But there is also a very peculiar vibe to the island probably best described as charged. This must be the reason it has attracted so much spirituality in the past. From my balcony I can see the hill where the Prophet Elijah apparently sat. The island is both meditative and serene at the same time as slightly suffocating. It doesn’t require a huge stretch of imagination to see why St John the Apostle came all the way to Patmos to write the Apocalypse in a cave, around the corner from where I am staying.

But there are stunning moments to be had. The other night, for example, we drove up to the Prophet Elijah’s little chapel to watch the spectacular sunsets and moonrise. It was a full moon that night and as the sun disappeared like a big red ball in the sea the moon arrived on the other side of the horizon slowly fighting her path through the mist. It was windy and quite chilly up there on the hill and the moon kept us waiting like a true prima donna. Once she did finally show her sleepy face however it was a splendid sight. The truest beauty in Patmos is however its waters. Rarely have I seen such quality in the Mediterranean.

On that note you must excuse now I would like to take dip in the sea now.

Tags: Art Basel, Germany, Greece, Passion of the Christ, Patmos, Vienna

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 29th, 2010 at 4:22 pm and is filed under Princess Diaries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

I have always been intrigued by how sunshine impacts on life. As soon as the dreary sky clears and constant rain swaps with white fluff flying through the blue sky, every city brightens up in its own way. New York for example practically moves out onto its sidewalk with the first rays of light. Every restaurant plonks its tables outside and wherever you look small jumble sales pop up, with people getting rid of their old clothes. Even the food stalls, so typical to New York life, seem more abundant. In New York everyone eats from the stalls it is not viewed as one might think, touristy or even sloppy but very New York. True to the big apple there are no limits set to the creativity of sidewalk menus, from breakfast vendors filled with bagels, muffins and freshly brewed coffee too deliciously grilled Hallal beef, Vegan foods and kosher meals, not forgetting the famous hotdogs.

Elisabeth von Thurn und Taxis at the Maison Martin Margiela Exhibition

 How much New York depends on its lively streets becomes apparent in spring when it gets warmer. London has a much smaller outdoor life. In part this is probably due to the weather but it’s more than that. Here greasy foods from generic super chains such as Subway are consumed, mostly in doors. Except on a couple of weekly markets there aren’t even that many food stalls around. Might it be too messy for London’s clean streets (I’m referring to West London) or might it be a dreaded Health and Safety regulation to prevent people from choking on a bite of sausage whilst crossing the road? When finally the street does come alive in London it is therefore even more noticeable than in New York. Last night was such an example. I was at the opening of the infamous Maison Margiela retrospective.

The Maison Martin Margiela Exhibition at Somerset

For 20 years this label has been at the forefront of fashion, very much in a league of its own. Deconstructed tailoring, bizarre fabrics, cut-outs revealing bits of skin rarely on display, Margiela’s creations appear closer to art works than they do to trendy bits of fashion fluff. Add to this the fact that no one knows who Martin Margiela actually is since he has never given an interview or had his picture taken and the cult following is not surprising. There were bunches of hipster kids and Central St Martin fashion graduates who had come to pay homage. Of course fashion’s Madame, Daphne Guinness could not be missing nor could party hopper Dinos Chapman. Mr Margiela was of course not there. The Belgium who recently retired leaving his company in the hands of a team of designers, managed to keep his identity concealed throughout his entire career. In a world of “I want to be a celebrity” that in itself is an impressive piece of work. But what am I doing getting sidetracked from my pondering on the weather. Aside from an interesting show well worth a trip what delighted me was the rain free semi-warm evening. It changed everything. Somerset House is a stunning venue with its vast courtyard and its beautiful terrace but on a balmy summer’s night it is an even bigger pleasure to hang out there. And the kids did hang-out, sipping Gin and Tonics and finally feeling like there might be hope for a bit of British summer after all. The good thing about London is you rarely get blasé about sunshine. We simply don’t get enough of it. Even on an ordinary Thursday morning as I sit by my window writing away I am watching people flocking onto the streets with their kids and their dogs, direction park. I just saw a woman coming back from her morning run waving her hands in the air. Now that’s what I call sunshine enthusiasm.

So is there a downside to a bright blue sky? Aside from the fact that working indoors becomes a lot less appealing, I can’t think of anything bad about it. Having said that having access to an immaculate garden square without a set of keys is most definitely a downside to the weather. Would it be raining I wouldn’t care about not having a set even though I am paying council tax on that stupid square already. Now I have to tackle my landlord who for some reason is getting all stingy on me. Nothing surprises me in this city. Come sunshine come rain London is unpredictable and often a bit of a struggle. You simply can’t really get blasé about anything here. Just when you think things are flowing smoothly they suddenly turn sour, a leak that never dries up, a letter threatening repossession because a former tenant hasn’t t paid a bill, you name it I’ve handled it. Maybe that’s the downside to the sun, life only feels lighter it doesn’t really get lighter. But maybe that’s what makes it interesting? Wouldn’t I get bored if I knew we’d have sunshine every day for the next couple of months? Well, I would at least get a little less appreciative I suppose. As Mr Margiela shows us, it’s all about uncertainty and unpredictability. Let’s all be a little more erratic like the British weather and throw in a couple of U-turn just when they think they got us all figured out.

• New York City inspires British luggage tradition

Tags: Daphne Guinness, Martin Margiela, New York, Somerset House

This entry was posted on Monday, June 7th, 2010 at 6:19 pm and is filed under Princess Diaries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.