Thrills of travel

Media

Part of The Carolinian

Title: Thrills of travel
Creator: Gansewinkel, Albert
Language: English
Year: 1953
Rights
Fulltext: Views of St. Augustine's Mission Seminary near Bonn, Germany. OME — Varona, 10 hours by train "Diretissimo". At first there were few passengers, and I had plenty of time to ponder on what seemed to be a greeting and everybody's comment "Fa freddo!" It was cold indeed, and we felt it. "Fa freddo"—that's all what is left of the Latin "Facit Frigidum", and that is not classical, either. But the Italians, all born ac tors and actresses, say it with grace, and with a melodious cadence, as if to compensate for the letters drop ped. After some time a young lady took her seat in our compartment. In a portfolio she carried a big book, from under her sleeves she pulled a few strips of paper full of scribbled notes. The big book and the small notes kept her busy for a while, till another young lady en tered. My curiosity had been arous ed already, but their conversation aroused it more; they talked ex citedly about Rousseau, Pestalozzi, their filosofia 'di educazione—well, that's my field, I couldn't resist any longer, inspite of my badly batter ed Italian I joined their conversation. It became rather amusing, they spoke an immaculate language and tried to understand my italicized Spanish. They told me they were young teachers, candidates for em ployment in a Government school; they were going to Brescia for a competitive test. I wish them by Very Rev. Albert van Gansewinkel S.V.D. • good luck, indeed, but I was afraid they should have used more the big book and rely less in the little notes under their sleeves. . . By five o'clock we reached the Italian Riviera. As in former years I admired the artful artlessness of Italian villages, cozy houses in a truly spectacular setting of the ForAlps. In the Casa Missionaria del Verbo Divino I was heartily wel come by confreres who did their very best to make me feel warm in the winter-cold building. Till eleven o'clock we sat together and still they were not tired listening to what I had to tell them about the Philippines and Cebu. The follow ing morning I showed my color slides of San Carlos to a hundred Italian missionaries-to-be. I had to make use of an interpreter, yet they were lost in admiration for more than an hour. In the afternoon I proceeded by bus to the famous lake of Garda; the truly fascinating panoramas belong to nature's most beautiful ones in the whole world. To meet, and stay with, Fr. Hetteger who had spent in the Philip pines the best years of his life, was my intention—and my delight. Was he glad! If he were not sick, he would come back to the Philip pines. The following morning I started out again for a day's jour ney via Milan to Fribourg near Bern, the capital of Switzerland. Early in the morning it snowed. Not having seen snow for 25 years, I enjoyed the feel of the soft and cool flakes on face and hands, but later the bus came to a place where the hard-frozen snow 'was blocking the road, and soon I realized that I would miss the train in Milan. That spoilt much of the fun. Fortunately, a few hours later, another train left for Bern, and late at night I reach ed the day's goal, the Anihropos Institute of the SVD. A simple countryhouse, in a snow-covered plane of fields and meadows, that is the renowned center of anthro pological and ethnological research. The Director, a close friend since student days, had sent me a special invitation to drop in; the Wieder - sehen was heartlifting; he showed me around, opened doors and drawers, cabinets and files; and I was all eye and ear, admiration, inspiration, joy—over our confreres' great contribution to Faith and Sci ence, and they in turn all the while kept on asking about the Philip pines for their information and en couragement. I had the great ho nor to greet the Nestor of Ethnolo gy, the Founder of the Anthropos— 1 met him at his desk in the libra ry, a venerable man of 85, still (Continued on page R) OCTOBER, 1953 Page 5 'JhJdttA Jitau-el (Continued from page 5) T3i{ y\Jest0tius JKotelos Where's that hammer! I want to knock some soluble sense into your heads. Don't blame this hombre for being a too nosey mosey sort of a gringo. But here's something interest* ing for the studes of this univ. Just shomp your decaying teeth into this column and we will keep things hum* ming. Brace yourselves. . . The Fr. Rector saunters into the Ca rolinian office (where's that place?) and solemnly says, "Boys, no politic al cackling. That's one. Don't use too many slangy phrases and state ments. That's two. The studes have to scurry and scratch for the nearest dictionary whenever they manage to peep into your columns." That's on the level. Yep, I really have a very poor estimatation, if you pardon my English. I saw a curtain--- no-no--- certain cute piece of property. She was sport ing a plume... er-er... a pony's tail. My attention was caught by the way she wore her upless dress done in se quins and laces. Her ballerina skirt flowing like the esteros in Manila and her shoes were a dreamy Opon-Mandawe bridge creation. Her long dark tresses were fluttering like wings of a sparrow, hopefully trying to catch the dying golden rays of the colossal sunset, sinking solemnly to end the life of a glorious day. Atta Boy! She even look extra pains to punctuate her foce with periods to make it look like a sanctuary of the eloquent moles. She really appeared to be rich, heal thy, and well. Rouge, lipstick, chalk, eyebrow liner, sandpaper were very much In evidence. My ugly puss drop ped to my boots when she entered a barong-barong. She was a s-q-u-a-tt-e-r. Meow-meow. Barranco, baranco, barong-co! Still crazy about the Barranco mambo, eh? Want to get acquainted with it? Here's the-pitch: Get set. Hands like a boy scout doing sema phore signalling. Fundamentals. Take a 100-meter dash. Stop. Crawl 50 yards more. Take a high |ump and jacknife 5 times. How's your joints? Another fundamental. A skip-hopjump routine. Snore, not swore, 16 times. Lie flat on your back. Roll to (Continued on page 10) studying and writing the whole day long. In the evening he honored me with his presence at my slide lecture, and I appreciated deeply his hearty applause. I should have liked to spend a lew more days with these ascetics of scientific research, but a pre-arranged schedule urged me to proceed further North, where "those at home" were wailing im patiently. A journey of twelve hours brought me from Bern to Bonn, West Germany's Capital. When crossing the border 1 saluted my fatherland with a prayer for all those who had died, and for those who had done wrong to the world. When in 1934 I bade farewell to European shores, heavy clouds hung over them, and a co-passenger sighed, "Clouds over Europe!" Yes, these clouds had developed into a devastating thunderstorm, and now—how was Germany now? Heavy fog deprived me of the pleasure of seeing anything worth while, but as the train was rolling on, my thoughts travelled ahead, always pivoting around one ques tion: my home, my folks, and friends, how would I find them? At times the train was crowded, but people disturbed me little in my re verie; they hardly spoke to one another, as if they were used to carry their worries alone and would not share their joys, either. One lady made an exception. My for eign-made suitcase and PhilippineAir-Line-travelling-bag caught her attention . and stirred her curiosity. casional demagogue who claims to represent the popular will which he himself has created by using tech niques ranging from simple decep tion to the more robust forms of vote getting. What about the expressions of sentiment which crystalize in pub lic meeting, and in the claims of countless political, economic, reli gious, racial, and welfare associa tions? Such associations have great importance in the development of public opinion, for they arouse at tention, excite discussion, formulate principles, submit plans, embolden and stimulate their members, and produce that impression of a spreading movement towards the upholding of right principles with a sympathetic and sensitive people. The information I gave her netted me an apple as a. token of "wel come and hospitality in a home land that rose from, the dead." Stopping a while at the big city of Manheim I was frightened by the sight of death and destruction; large districts lay still in ruins; war had been wild. At my arrival in Bonn, Fr. Jung, our Mission-Procura tor, was waiting for me. With searching eyes we took in one another's appearance and experi ence of the 20 years that lay be tween our last handshake and this thrilling moment. We had been friends and still were. It was al ready dark; of Bonn I could not see much. Soon the car stopped in front of the Mission-Seminary of St. Augustine, which had been my Alma Mater in 1925 and 1926. The gigan tic 600-room building, which in part we students had built with unskill ed, though diligent, hands had been greatly damaged in the war but had been fully repaired. As we entered the huge parlor, the old porter of former years greeted, re membering my name, a classmate grasped my hand in a cordial shake, the Father Rector came and the Father Provincial, and* many other friends of old, former professors or schoolmates,—all men matured in service and suffering — their eyes spoke and their mouths, asking more questions than I could an swer; the emotions were strong, the joy deep; brothers, co-officers in the army of Christ. (Continued from page 7) Yet as we well know, this ability to produce the impression of a spreading movement, has its dan gers, for there is such a thing as an artificial and fictitious opinion. The art of propaganda has been much perfected in our times. And it has attained a development which en ables its practitioners to skillfully and sedulously apply false or one sided statements of facts to be guile and mislead those who have not the means or the time to ascer tain the facts for themselves. The twentieth century is the age of the expert who knows how to build a private interest with public support and to the prejudice of the common good. Our rights and liberties must be secured by eternal vigilance!' Page 8 THE CAROLINIAN