En Route Page 3

  Alas, other things have been lost with the disappearance of the folded map. Terrain. Scale. Colours. And, perhaps most regrettably, the painstakingly rendered little drawings of monuments, landmarks and topographies in isometric perspective that imagine you as a bird hovering above your environment and all its possible destinations. Instead, the small screen compresses space into a digital pixel zone that gives you a minute-byminute positioning—flat, unromantic and non-picturesque.

  True, the freebie Galeries Lafayette Paris map, dispensed at the various Gares, coordinates, with prominent drawings of the main monuments—Notre-Dame, L’Opéra, Eiffel Tower, Centre Pompidou, Arc de Triomphe and, obviously, the shopping icon that is the eponymous Lafayette—intersected by Baron von Haussmann’s radiating boulevards, lacked a little in the detail. The disproportionately large drawn monuments tended to subsume the real space around them, swallowing rues, allés and passages by the hundreds.

  But being temporarily lost in the shadow of the obliterated cartographic parts and wandering aimlessly delivered one to the joy of mystery finds—the marionette shop, the cane-handle carver, the wigmaker, the traces ecrites dealer, the corkscrew carpenter.

  Alright, it is unlikely one needs a marionette, or a signed letter from ‘Little Girls’ crooner Maurice Chevalier, but a cane with a beautifully carved duck, dog or bear head as a grip … well, maybe later; and a beautifully wood-turned, never-fail corkscrew … a must! It is not only that these shops were noticed; it is the opportunity to imagine the history they represent that is so rich—a story of craft and particularity, of artisanal attention, past times and the keeping of memories. Sadly, they have all vanished now, swallowed up by another kind of obliteration—the contemporary emporia of the high street consortium store.

  At any rate, and back to the freebie map, as long as you circled and eventually located a major façade, aided by the nice little drawing, you were almost inevitably near a Métro, and home and hosed. Assuming, of course, that you could decipher the conveniently positioned Métro station map that had another kind of eliminating obstruction—the smudge made from numerous grubby fingers settling upon the point of departure and erasing the detail … again.

  No such issue with the hand-held GPS, although the screen murkiness and glare of the sun on the finger-greasy surface can have a similar disorienting effect. And the lack of topographical detail—steps, hilly bits—consigns many strollers, used to the flat lands of car culture, to huff and puff up unexpected ascents looking decidedly flushed and flustered.

  Alas, centuries of cartography are being compacted and made anaemic. No more the marvel of a map conjured from the mind’s eye and the gathered empirical knowledge of wandering, recording and discovery, conjoined with compulsive technique to create an imaginative aerial view, such as the de’ Barbari map of Venice—the astonishing Pianta Prospettica Della Città.

  If there is a milestone in isometric cartography, then surely Jacopo de’ Barbari’s achievement is a monumental one. Carved fastidiously into six massive pear wood blocks for printing onto the largest sheets of paper ever produced in Europe at that time—circa 1500—the de’ Barbari map is a benchmark of topographical information, not to mention a wondrous piece of artistry.

  Armed with pencils and measuring apparatus, de’ Barbari and his assistants assailed the estimated 103 vantage points of Venice to record the island, its snaking Grand Canal and the jumble of buildings that made up ‘Golden Venice’, a miracle of a place that had emerged from the swampy Veneto lagoon to become an empire of wealth and power.

  De’ Barbari’s towers, churches, bridges, piazzas, fountains, palazzi, waterways and gardens created from the squinty work of obsessively detailed carving in relief, and printed in mirror image, are still, to this day, providing information to historians about the Venice that once was, and in many parts still remains.

  But beyond its domestic, topographical and architectural information, the map tells us so much more about the Venetians—their history, myths, maritime life and the way in which they saw themselves as central to a cosmology lived between heaven, earth and sea.

  De’ Barbari’s marginalia vividly brings the golden epoch to life. Hovering over the whole map is the classical god Mercury, who presides over prosperity and the mercantile, trade and travellers—befitting the status of Venice in its heyday as a mighty military port.

  De’ Barbari also imagines the god Neptune at the mouth of the Grand Canal. A protector and a symbol of strength, de’ Barbari’s muscular Neptune, hoisting his trident and sitting astride a dolphin that resembles a dragonfish, symbolises the Venetians’ mastery of the sea. Like Neptune, the Venetians ruled the waves, patrolling and controlling the Adriatic.

  Around Neptune, de’ Barbari has assembled an armada of impressive galley ships—sturdy, roundish vessels with sails for speed and breadth for capacity. The extensive fleet is also shown massed near the legendary Arsenale building, where the Venetians’ innovative and technical boat-crafting skills ensured a continual supply of boats to defeat their rivals. Along the canals are pictured the small boats and gondolas that enabled domestic transportation: a constant stream of water activity indicating the fluidity of trade and commerce.

  The classical ‘eight winds’, depicted as blowing faces nestled in tufts of cumulus clouds, are deposited in the corners and edges of the map, where they illustratively send wind forth in fortuitous ways to enable the Venetian fleet to move at will and with speed.

  With all this bluster and activity, fanciful fates, spiritedness and implied movement, de’ Barbari’s vision is not a flat map of streets and squares but a scene alive with the life force of a place that has for centuries captivated and romanced the world.

  Yes, okay, modern cartographers have noted, even bemoaned, the fact that de’ Barbari’s majestic map has three different isometric perspectives, giving the island of Venice, its façades and piazzas a jaunty angle every now and then; somewhat Byzantine, in fact—recalling that Venice lives in the crease of East and West.

  Nevertheless, the de’ Barbari, even if not perfect, has sent out a challenge to the digital generation who have been attempting to translate the work from wood and paper to pixel and CAD. They are trying, essentially, to reproduce in digital ways the three- dimensionality created by the master in analogue fashion with the nicks and gouges of his knives. Progress.

  When I first encountered the de’ Barbari, its wooden blocks were naked and available for close inspection. These days they are displayed under museum glass, safe from gelato-sticky fingers, in the wonderful Museo Correr, but you can still see the fine detail of the work.

  Of course, fifteenth-century Venetians, and those before and after, had no need of such a map, nor would the common Venetian be able to possess such a precious and immediately fabled object. This was not a map for folding and consulting, but a trophy piece to hang in the libraries and studiolo of the most important—an exhibit.

  The citizens of Venice understand their maze of a city with its fondamenti, calli, callette, ruga and those places that have disappeared over time—the rio terà (a waterway filled in and made solid), salizida (a path made of slate) and piscinas (places where fish could be trapped after the aqua alta, ‘high water’). For centuries Venetians have developed an innate navigational memory and skill that enable them to move with fluid efficiency, unlike the wildly confused tourist who scuttles like a demented lab rat around the impossible urban network.

  In more treacherous times such navigational knowledge enabled a movement of secrecy and subterfuge in the ominous labyrinth, unknowable and unsafe for invader, enemy or spy but helpful to a clandestine lover such as Casanova who used the Venice maze to evade discovery by cuckolded husbands and those who pursued him for crimes against morality and the church.

  An infamous place that still—despite Google Maps’ efforts to plot all of Venice—causes some GPS agitation is the Calle dei Assassini, a place convoluted and perfect for an ambush, where a less lucky ‘Casanova’, A
lvise Guoro, met his death. This site of crime, well known to local Venetians, is not only a historical place of entrapment, but a locality that gave rise to a cautionary approach to Venetian death sentencing.

  In this spot, in 1507, Guoro, a playboy womaniser, met his unfortunate demise at the hands, it was thought, of a young baker (fornaretto), Piero Fusiol. But master Piero was merely visiting his fiancée near the calle and did not commit the deadly deed. His innocence was discovered only after his death sentence had been carried out, and the horror of this mistaken identity and unnecessary execution led the Venetians to always consider povero fornaretto when judging a crime. Young Venetian children are still told to look heaven wards towards the red porphyry head that sits atop the Basilica San Marco and think about povero fornaretto. It’s unlikely this is a likeness of the young unfortunate, but that’s no impediment to a moral tale.

  Speaking of heads … a while ago I wandered off the plot for a moment in Paris (I couldn’t read the GPS), taking an unexpected detour up the Rue des Martyrs, a road I had not travelled for years and one, I am embarrassed to admit, I had never linked to the legend of St Denis, who, it is said, walked from ‘The Mountain of Martyrs’ (Montmartre), the site of his beheading, along the path, holding his severed head until he dropped at the spot where Paris citizens built a basilica in his name.

  Since acquainting myself with the St Denis legend, I now see historical personages—cephalophores—carrying heads everywhere: settled in niches, atop pillars, depicted in frescoes and paintings. They’re bobbing up like apples in a barrel. Even in contemporary visions.

  Recently, in a jet-lagged stupor, I switched on the hotel TV and found coverage of a catwalk parade at the Milan Fashion Week event and the unveiling of Gucci’s new- season releases. (Yes, okay, I was desperate; there were only Italian astronomy programs on all 100 or so other channels.) Gucci designer Alessandro Michele had his models walk spritely along the runway holding their own (prosthetic) heads under their arms. Who would have thought! The cephalophere is alive and well and back in fashion. Although one of the models, Unia Pakhomova, looked a little peaky and the commentators seemed rather taken aback. There were hand-held baby dragons, too. Then I fell asleep.

  Which brings us back to de’ Barbari’s imaginative marginalia of free-floating heads in the cumulus clouds on his wonder map of Venice, and the importance of monuments and points of note, in isometric perspective or otherwise, to assist the traveller. Venice has always captured the imagination of the spatial plotter. And remains a litmus test for navigational enquiry.

  In fact, studies in cognitive psychology examining spatial discourse and navigation, and in particular the research led by Michel Denis, have used the befuddling warren of Venice as a test case for identifying the most useful kinds of navigational ‘route’ descriptions.

  It will come as no surprise really to learn that while a left, right, left, right set of directives will be reasonably adequate, the route instruction is far more successful when combined with significant markers, monuments and points of interest at pivotal intersection points. Even noting a kiosk is helpful. Such information plots a spatial narrative that assists the traveller to orient themselves via a number of interactive cross-referencing clues.

  No doubt this is one of the reasons I consult my destination via ‘street view’ before I head out. I have a much greater chance of finding a place if I know it is next to a florist or bakery, or across from a lavender-coloured laundry. If, however, they paint it green in between Google capture and my travel date, I might be in some trouble.

  While not as elaborate nor as artistically sophisticated as the de’ Barbari, maps made by amateurs have great appeal for me—especially those created by locals who have such a strong sense of their place that they build into their schema little drawings of points of interest, helpful signposts and navigational hints in styles ranging from wonky outline to detailed. Not so much isometric presentation as iconic portraits of things, these naïve designs have tremendous charm.

  For instance, at the end of the Byzantine Trail—a rocky donkey track ascent, descent, ascent, descent (in continuum) from the old Greek town of Lefkes to the not-as-old town of Prodromos—you will find a quaint handmade town map.With peeling paint on wooden board, this little map bolted to a whitewashed wall follows the conventions of the ‘you are here’ orientation but also vivaciously depicts the old windmill with little spidery sail masts, giving it a sort of whirligig character; the old bakery, with smoke coming from its chimney; several churches—one with three arches, another with a double-barrel roof, one with a small cross; and, should you be peckish and in need of sustenance, helpfully, the cheese dairy and the souvlaki shop.

  Like many handpainted self-styled maps on the island of Paros, the Prodromos one conforms to the ancient style of showing the village as a kind of island, with the sinuous lines of a place that once enclosed itself as a walled town and created its own serpentine pattern of small streets and internal shapes. The little markers, picked out in blue with white infill, in compliance with the national colour scheme introduced as law in 1967, indicate the map is probably circa 1970s. The cracking and peeling-away paint, like that on an icon painting, is not so old, but delightfully weathered all the same.

  On the return journey, upon finding oneself almost back in Lefkes, the number of confusing options to re-enter the village has prompted yet another helpful set of signs. The man who daily feeds a dozen or so cats has undoubtedly become weary of pointing people in the right direction to the town square and has obligingly painted two signs that indicate a shortcut via stairs and around corners, indicated in jaunty lines and darting arrows with a couple of clues—trees and churches (of course)—along the way. These vertical instructions, layering street upon street in a non-topographical yet readable fashion, are hugely welcome after a three-hour trudge. At the end of his diagram awaits a cooling lemon juice at the local taverna, but that is not on his map.

  As befits their location, these hand-drawn folk maps have something of the Byzantine spatial logic, combining what cartographers call survey (above) and route (within) perspectives—a mixed scheme that allows a lovely eccentricity of place to emerge.

  I don’t know if they still teach map- making and reading at school. I found it thrilling, learning about legends, grid referencing and topographic contours. Recently, while throwing out things from my mother’s storage, I found a number of ‘imaginary place maps’ I had drawn aged around eight. They share something of the affectionate mapping of the Paros naïves—island-like, colourful, full of information.

  Invariably, as if inculcated by the ancient cartographer in me, I have decided upon some standard and helpful markers—a church, a hotel, a windmill and a castle—and travelling routes and wayward tracks. But clearly the pirate in me also wanted buried treasure, coves for ambushing, a burial site for the unfortunately plundered and a few hazards like lava pits, quicksand deserts (marked with skulls from the perished) and waterfalls for picturesque content.

  Rustling around I also found some photos (which is rare, we were not a photography family) of roadside poses—me and my mother in front of mountain ranges. It’s autumn, I can tell from my brown and orange jumper of the Sarah Lund kind and Mum’s yellow, blue, green and white kilt (we were on our way to Canberra, I think, to visit the nation’s capital and its landmark institutions). Another shows Mum and me with sea behind us (I think we were in Ulladulla—a different holiday—I have shorts on). Mum and me on the side of the road with a big banana in the background, me squinting—so summer probably—and likely as not on the developing Gold Coast of the 1960s. Eureka! I found some old strip maps too!

  Being one of the ‘football, meat pies, kangaroos and Holden cars’ generation, at a time when the road trip was the holiday of choice and economy (unless you were one of those enviable caravan-by-the-sea families), I have fond memories of the RACV strip maps. Up the Hume Highway, along the eastern seaboard on the Princes Highway, across the Western Highwa
y, down the Stuart Highway. From Melbourne to the far-flung parts of this sunburnt country, we could experience the sweeping plains, ragged ranges, far horizons and jewel sea that we had read about in the green school reader, courtesy of Miss Mackellar, all annotated and informed by the helpful scribes of the RACV cartographic service.

  The appearance of a fresh map, with the line-drawn picture of a family preparing for travel—Dad, Mum, Child (usually a girl until the late 1970s), always just the trio of travellers, resembling my own nuclear unit; the Dad leaning proprietarily on his prize possession, the sedan automobile, the luggage placed in front of him, ready to be packed in the boot, shown open; the Mum standing behind him with her handbag on her shoulder; and the Child wearing something similar to a school uniform, positioned between the grown-ups—meant a trip.

  It also meant a 4 a.m. start, squabbles about what could and could not be taken, whether to wear pyjamas, the anxiety about ‘going’ before you left, the decision to pack a thermos flask and breakfast or to stop in Albury–Wodonga (definitely the best choice, a very excellent squishy, grilled cheese sandwich was to be had in the Shell service station at Albury–Wodonga), the tapping of fingers on the wheel to the sounds of ‘Hit the Road Jack’, ‘King of the Road’ and ‘I’ve Been Everywhere’, as if pre-programmed for our adventure by 3UZ, the ‘Have fun!’ radio station, and, before the journey began, the inevitable but unanswerable query—‘What is she doing?’ followed by the frustrated command, ‘Go and get your mother!’

  But once on the road, the RACV strip map provided hours of exciting anticipation. Read aloud from the front seat, the strip map delivered a scrolling linear narrative through town after town.

  Before Albury, Euroa—the location of one of the Kelly Gang’s audacious and, if accounts are to be believed, convivial bank heists, firmly lodging affection for lawlessness in young minds. The RACV strip-map storytellers recounted the bravado, the hostages, the National Bank’s losses. The whole region known as ‘Kelly Country’—Beechworth, Benalla, Glenrowan—places where history and legends were made, where outlaws and law enforcers came face to face and where the final calamity of the shootout between the gang and the troopers was enacted. Ned Kelly falling, despite his iconic metal armour, and eventually being captured. The strip map made folklore come alive.