Bears, Bears Everywhere

Bern, for those not in the know (as we were before this trip), was named for the bear. Or rather, for a dead bear, since that was the first animal to be hunted and killed by a local ruler when he first set up shop here. Bern, makes much of the bear. Bear representations are all over the place—we saw them on flags fluttering along the streets of the Old Town; we saw them in murals outside buildings; as part of the parade of mechanical figures on the Clock Tower; on countless souvenirs; even embossed on manhole covers. And yes, we also saw a fountain with an upright statue of a bear clad in chainmail and helmet, equipped with fearsome weaponry.

Which brings me to the fountains. Frankly, I tend to associate an abundance of fountains with Rome. So, when I read in our trusty guidebook that Bern has lots of fountains (most of them very old—15th and 16th century), I was exuberant. I adore fountains, the more ornate the better (which is why Rome was a hit with me). I was still gushing, happy as a clam, when we got out of Bahnhofplatz, obtained a map of the city from the local tourist information centre, and set off down Spitalgasse. Approximately halfway down the street, we came upon the first of the fountains, the Pfeiferbrunnen—the Piper’s Fountain, and reality kicked in. Unlike the fountains of Rome, the Bernese fountains aren’t elaborate, huge affairs with gallons of water gushing all over the place. If you’re expecting something like the Trevi or the Four Rivers at Piazza Navona, let me disillusion you: these are smaller, way smaller. Each fountain is basically a tiny outlet for water, a circular stone basin into which up to four narrow pipes dribble water. By and large, the only decorative element is the statue that surmounts the fountain—and these are what make Bern’s fountains in a class by themselves. The statues are always carved, vividly painted and gilded, and though they don’t look like high art, they’re eye-catching enough.

The Piper’s Fountain, for instance, has (well, obviously!) a piper, dressed in blue and red, playing what looks like a Swiss version of bagpipes. At his feet, looking up with a definitely annoyed expression, is a large bird—a crane or a heron, perhaps. And all down the column, till the fountain itself, are more decorations: bells, swags of greenery, a little group of dancing jesters, gargoyle-like creatures, and more. All slightly eerie, though the cheerful band of orange-red geraniums around the fountain helps make it look a little friendlier.

A couple of minutes’ walk along Spitalgasse and we arrived at Bärenplatz, once a moat but now far from it. This is dominated by a large domed building with `Imperial German’ written all over it (figuratively, not literally) and a market of somewhat crummy stalls in front. A few steps beyond, and we went through the tunnel-like aperture of the Käfigturm (the Prison Tower), and onto Marktgasse. And here was yet another fountain, the Anna Seiler Brunnen. Anna Seiler’s claim to fame is that she helped fund the setting up of Bern’s first hospital in the 1300’s. Atta-girl! This fountain’s much like the Piper, in that it has a rim of geraniums around the rim, but that’s where it ends. The column in the centre of the fountain is plain grey stone, with not a shred of decoration on it until the very top, where a statue of Ms Seiler stands. She’s in a sort of Florence Nightingale-ish position, one hand holding a basin while the other empties a pitcher into it. Yes, I suppose you can’t really show her administering to a suffering patient: there’s just enough space to fit oneperson onto the top of the column.

At the far end of Marktgasse, we were faced with a dilemma: should we go straight, past the Clock Tower and down Kramgasse, or should we turn left towards Kornhausplatz, where the deliciously evil Kindlifresserbrunnen (the Ogre Fountain) stands? Kramgasse won, mainly because we decided we wanted to see the Münster and Einsteinhaus before lunch—and both lay in the direction of Kramgasse.

Beyond the Clock Tower, a bylane took us to Münstergasse and then onto Münsterplatz, with the cathedral looming magnificently in front—and yet another statue, very appropriately the Mosesbrunnen, stationed at the near end of the square. Moses obviously had more clout with the Bernese than poor Anna Seiler; his statue has some fancy carving and gilt on the column as well, and the square basin of the fountain itself is carved. As for Moses, he’s richly clothed in gold-trimmed blue and white, and holds the two tablets of the Ten Commandments in his left hand. His right hand points to the second commandment (thou shall have no other gods but me), according to our guidebook an important tenet of the Lutheran faith. The book is silent, however, about the strange clumps of stuff growing out of the top of Moses’s head, like bunny ears. Very strange. Tarun and I decided it was probably some fanciful way of denoting a halo.

Having duly seen—and admired—the Münster, we walked down Kreuzgasse and worked our way back along Kramgasse towards the Clock Tower, passing an unusually plain fountain on the way. This one had its circular basin, its rim of geraniums, some carving on the grey stone obelisk topping it, but that was all. Even the official tourist map, though it showed a little icon of the fountain, didn’t bother to assign a name to it.

So on we went, to the next of the lot: the Simsonbrunnen, the Samson Fountain. This one’s striking, the statue lavishly gilded and the column below painted in stripes of grey and orange-red. Samson doesn’t look even faintly Biblical—his clothes are definitely medieval European, and the curly hair and beard definitely not the flowing locks one would have expected. The gilded lion whose jaws Samson’s pulling apart has a much longer mane, though his ribs stick out so much, we wondered if Samson should’ve got credit for bumping off a creature so emaciated.

A few steps further along the street, we came to another statue, and one which we unanimously accorded Number One position on our list: it’s so representative of Bern! This is the Zähringerbrunnen, in honour of Berchtold V, Duke of Zähringen, founder of Bern (also the guy supposed to have killed that first bear after whom Bern was named). The column is painted and gilded in stripes along the sides and topped off with some nude torsos at the top. The Zähringen statue is, appropriately enough, a statue of a bear dressed in chainmail and bristling with gilt-hilted swords and daggers. In his right paw he holds a red-and-gold standard. The best bit about him is his helmet: it’s golden (not very effective as a means of defence, I’d think) with a sort of dome on top and a cage-like front. Cool! And as if that wasn’t enough bear, there’s a small bear sitting at his feet too.

By this time, we were very hungry, so we trotted off towards Kornhausplatz—and what’s perhaps Bern’s most famous fountain, the Kindlifresserbrunnen, the Ogre Fountain. The base of this one is trimmed with gilded and painted bears (Yes! What else?), wearing chain mail and carrying flags but with no helmets, sad to say. The statue at the top of the fountain is the biggie here: it’s an ogre with at least four naked and chubby babies in tow, all dangling from his belt by straps. He’s in the middle of eating a fifth kid, its plump bottom just about disappearing into his mouth. Ugh, ugh, ugh!! I don’t like my statues quite so graphic, especially not when I’m in the middle of lunch.

But yes, Bern’s fountains are worth it all. Not Rome, but endearing, interesting and with a character all their own.

Both Tarun and I are mad about medieval cathedrals: those soaring spires and endless stained glass windows exercise a strange fascination on us. Anyway, having pounced on a map of Bern from the local tourist information centre, the first thing we did was to check out the location of the local cathedral and head there straightaway.

The Münster stands in a vast paved square, Münsterplatz, which is thankfully free of pesky souvenir sellers, buskers and hordes of tourists, who tend to ruin one’s photos by coming in the way. At the far end of Münsterplatz (the near end, if you’re approaching from Münstergasse—the Bernese obviously aren’t very creative when it comes to names; I’m surprised the river isn’t the Münster-something-or-the-other rather than the mundane Aare), the first bit of interesting architecture is a gaudy statue of Moses. His head’s ornamented with strange rabbit ear-like tufts that stick up from his head, one cluster on either side. Not a halo, as one would expect on a saint or an angel, but something approaching it—deputy saint? Dunno.

But I digress. The Münster. This was, on the outside, a disappointment, because the Swiss had taken it into their heads to do some renovations just then. Spoilsports. The cathedral, therefore, had an unsightly petticoat-like bit of scaffolding round its spire, and any chances of a decent long shot went kaput. Tarun and I, however, are nothing if not resilient, so we tut-tutted and went closer.

And by golly, the façade below all that scaffolding is impressive, especially the tympanum (which I’d always thought was an eardrum—one lives and learns). Well, this is one helluva tympanum, and quite literally too. It depicts the Last Judgment, with the saved going cheerily off, all fully clothed, to the joys of heaven, while the damned (all stark naked) are led off into hell, to be thrashed, burnt, turned on the wheel and generally made to pay for their sins. At the top sits Jesus, surrounded by the apostles and a couple of angels; below are what we presumed (a wild guess, this) to be saints, all of them dressed in white robes. One was wearing a ship captain’s peaked cap and another definitely had a tricorn on his head, so we couldn’t be sure. But all that gilt and paint and carving was pretty impressive.

Inside, too, the Münster’s quite the ticket—and glory be, no scaffolding! The vaulted ceiling’s painted with a repetitive arabesque pattern of black on cream. In the middle of the ceiling is a circle with a solid, gilded rim and a bear painted on the inside. I ask you. What on earth do bears have to do with churches?

Our guidebook (a Dorling Kindersley Eye Witness) tells us that this is a three-aisle basilica with fan vaulting, side chapels and a tower. Work on the Münster began in 1421 and went on till the 16th century (how enlightening; the 16th century was 79 years away from 1421, so one can’t be sure how long they slogged away at it). At any rate, the church stood around till 1893 before someone woke up and added a spire to it.

History and stats done, it’s time for a quick roundup of what appealed to us. The choir stalls—all well-carved and well-polished wood—are a neat bit of work (we hadn’t yet been to Strasbourg, where the Eglise St Pierre le Jeune has choir stalls that would make this lot look like a toddler’s weekend whittling). The stained glass is pretty enough, the section behind the altar depicting the life of Christ. The organ, all gilt and heavy wood, isn’t bad, just a bit too baroque.

With our taste for the ridiculous, our favourite bit of the Münster proved to be a side chapel that shows the plight of the wicked: a richly dressed and somewhat porcine man being harried by a grinning skeleton that dances around, poking, prodding and generally being nasty.

And yes, the pulpit’s smart too. It has statues of the saints carved in stone, and looks impressive, if a tad dusty. We later discovered that these aren’t original; the actual statues were destroyed in the zeal of the Reformation and these are mere replacements.

But, replacements, dusty pulpit and petticoat-clad spire aside, the Münster is worth a look. Free, too, unless you want to go up the spire and get dizzy. That costs CHF2. Do remember to do a circuit round the outside of the Münster: we went looking for loos and instead found a pretty park looking out over the jade-green Aare below. Very pretty. And if you wriggle a bit and get some leaves into the picture, you can manage a decent shot of the Münster without the scaffolding getting in the way. And yes, do look out for the gargoyles on the roof of the Münster: deliciously nasty creatures.

I’m not sure why I thought it a good idea to visit Einsteinhaus. As everybody who knows me will testify, I’m not the sharpest pencil in the pack when it comes to anything even vaguely scientific. And E=mc2 has never made any sense to me. But I suppose the news that Bern’s famous bear pits were devoid of bears had unhinged me a bit (no bears in Bern? How?!), so when I glanced up and saw a large photo of Einstein beaming from a window on Kramgasse, I dragged a surprised Tarun along to have a look.

Our Swiss pass had allowed us free access to just about every museum and attraction in Switzerland, so we were a little put out to discover that Einsteinhaus, being privately owned, doesn’t honour the Swiss pass. But we mulishly decided that since we’d taken the trouble to trudge up the stairs (narrow, spiral and steep), we weren’t going to back off. We therefore paid up CHF6 each, glad that we could now spend the next couple of hours or whatever getting our money’s worth.

Our money’s worth, as it turned out, was meagre indeed. Okay, there is a historical significance to 49, Kramgasse: Einstein actually lived here between 1903 and 1905 with his wife and child. He developed the Special Theory of Relativity here, and began work on the General Theory of Relativity—for which he is better known—in the same house. The Albert Einstein Society made 49 Kramgasse a museum in 1979, and undertook renovations in 2005.

I have to admit: I wasn’t particularly impressed. If you want to see a good example of a celebrity’s home turned into a museum, Mozart’s house in Salzburg is top notch. It’s a superb tribute to the man, and has loads of stuff that either belonged to him or was connected to him in some way. Einsteinhaus, in comparison, falls flat.

On the second floor (just opposite the reception for the museum) is a small room that’s been decked out in early 20th century style. This has old furniture, antimacassars on the sofas, hand-painted crockery in the sideboard, and a dozen or so photographs featuring Einstein: as a boy (deceptively angelic), with his colleagues, with his wife, etc. There are pictures of his parents too, but not much else. That done—barely ten minutes of peering at the photos—and we were directed upstairs, where a brief (20 minutes? I didn’t time it) video of Einstein’s life and work can be viewed. This is projected onto a large screen and is available in different languages. The catch is, everybody in the room at the time (it seats at least 30 people) get to hear the same language. We were over halfway through the English version when a couple—obviously not English-speaking—entered, sat down, and began chatting loudly enough to be very distracting.

Overall, I’d say Einsteinhaus is avoidable. It’s interesting and historic, but not very creatively designed. Not, in my opinion, worth CHF6 per person.

No Swiss city’s complete without a clock—the more complicated, the better. I mean, keeping 6,500 flowers blooming simultaneously and not succumbing to heat, insects, and toddlers with itchy fingers is quite a feat (I’m referring to the flower clock at Geneva, by the way). Bern, by virtue of being the capital, must of course be tops, so they have a very fancy and historic clock, at the Zytglogge, the Clock Tower.

The Zytglogge, appropriately enough, has moved with the times. Between 1191 and 1250 AD, this squat stone tower functioned as the western gate of Bern. In 1405, the tower was rebuilt following a fire, and some bright spark decided it was perfectly suited to be a prison for prostitutes. Our guidebook didn’t offer any insights into when it ceased to house the local hookers, but it must have been, at the very latest, around 1530 or so when the clock was installed. The most lusty of whores—and their guards or keepers—could hardly have been expected to live with the bell clanging loudly about their ears every hour.

Which brings us to the clock. This was designed in 1527-30 by Caspar Brunnen, and—Swiss clock that it is—even 500 years later, is precision itself.

The Zytglogge is hard to miss. It stands at the intersection of Kramgasse and Marktgasse, with a huge dial, glittery with gold paint and crimson, the hands ticking away industriously. We were on our way to the Münster, so didn’t have time to dawdle, but promised ourselves we’d stop by later—which we did, at 3.45 that afternoon. It meant hanging around for 10 minutes watching other tourists hanging around, but then, this is the greatest show in Bern!

The point is, every hour, 4 minutes before the hour strikes, a series of little mechanical figures in a special niche next to the clock face present a little show. A gilded rooster flaps his wings; a figure dressed as a jester, strikes a pair of bells; another figure, bearded and looking like a portly alderman, turns an hourglass upside down. And, in case you thought they’d forgotten Bern’s favourite animal: a little procession of bears, each of them dressed (why, I don’t know) as a warrior, goes by. One bear’s even astride a horse. Kinda cute, but awfully slow—this is spread out over 4 minutes, so the rooster flaps his wing, then everybody stares expectantly at the niche for half a minute before some other mechanical figure starts jiggling.

The clock face is interesting, though, with its multiple aspects: you can see not just the time, but the date and month too, on concentric circles forming the clock. And for anybody who can’t, by looking around, guess whether it’s night or day, here’s the bonus: this is a 24-hour clock! Above the clock face and the mechanical figures is a larger, more prominent clock face which shows only the time—you can see it quite a way off, so it’s probably more effective for people in the vicinity.

Standing around and gaping at the Clock Tower is free. A small fee is charged if you want to climb up to the tower. Do look at the murals on the buildings round about: they’re delightfully old-fashioned.

We were ravenous when we reached Kornhausplatz, so we did a quick survey of the vicinity and settled on the first restaurant whose menu looked interesting (read traditional) and affordable.
This was the Restaurant Brasserie Anker. Definitely not posh, with its red-and-white checked tablecloths, the dim interior dominated by dark wood and beer, and a huge menu featuring photographs of each dish.

Outside, it was a little more cheery; the tablecloths were solid red (hides foodstains better, I guess), and the chairs were actually upholstered. We sat down, glanced through the menu and placed our orders, more or less on the basis of how filling a dish looked. Tarun ordered one of the house specialties, rösti with bratwurst (and a mug of dark beer); I opted for another specialty, the Berner Teller: sauerkraut with different meats. I was hungry enough to eat a horse, so that was fine with me.

A waiter, who spoke passable English, came by with our drinks—I’d asked for a Coke—and, after a wait of about ten minutes, with our food. Tarun’s meal came in a cute skillet stuffed to the brim with rösti. Tarun, who likes his meat, was disappointed to see that the bratwurst was relatively meagre. And yes, as if to drive home the point that this was Switzerland, the dish came topped with a tiny Swiss flag. Cheesy (or cute, however you look at it). The rösti, to give credit where it’s due, was yum: crisp and delicious. But there’s only so much potato you can have.

My food was what Tarun should’ve ordered: real meaty. The sauerkraut was piled next to an equally large heap of what I figured was some sort of beans (I later discovered Berner Teller—also known as Berner Platte—is traditionally served with green beans. These may’ve been green in an earlier life; by the time I got them, they were a dull olive, limp and long dead. ‘Has-beans’?). There were boiled potatoes, and the rest of the plate was occupied by the meat: pork knuckle, smoked beef tongue, a big chunk of bacon, Bernese sausages and chops. Except for the pork knuckle (which was low on seasoning; in any case, I’m not keen on stuff in the knuckle and trotters category), it was all pretty good, but oh, so filling. I ploughed gamely through it all (with some help from Tarun), but ended up leaving much of the sauerkraut and the beans.

We paid CHF55 for the entire meal, including a tip. Except for the beans, the food was good enough—not fancy, but adequate. The portion sizes were more than enough, and we even got some complimentary bread.

The only niggle was that if I lifted my head and glanced up, it was to look straight up at the Statue of the Ogre next to the restaurant. A very graphic carving of a creature swallowing babies is hardly likely to help improve your appetite.

The Kunstmuseum (the Museum of Fine Arts) can be a pain to get to because it’s tucked away in what I’ll call the inner elbow of the Aare. The rest of the city’s big attractions—the churches and cathedrals, the Zytglogge, Kornhausplatz, Einsteinhaus, etc are all on the east-west axis of the old town; Hodlerstrasse lies way up towards the northeast. We had some trouble finding it and ended up walking quite a lot, but eventually decided it was pretty much worth it. This is one good museum.

Our Swiss pass was accepted here too, so having brandished it, we headed off into the first of the galleries. This area, as luck would have it, was hosting two special exhibitions: Wilfred Moher and Tracey Emin.

Tarun and I are incorrigibly old-fashioned and prefer art that
(a) looks pleasing (Constable, Reynolds, da Vinci, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Corot, van Gogh, et al), and
(b) we can understand without getting stressed. This means anything that needs reams of explanation doesn’t often score with us.

Moher’s exhibition, its huge canvases splashed and streaked with greys, browns and blacks, depressed us thoroughly and we sought refuge in Emin’s work—which was, on the surface, prettier, but even more horrifically depressing on closer inspection. The artist’s embroidered blankets, neon lights, photo-cum-painting-cum-whatnot combinations, arrays of plants, unmade beds and highly descriptive diaries lay bare Emin’s tumultuous past of childhood rape, alcoholism, abortion, mindless sex, nicotine addiction, etc and appeal to a lot of people, but we thought all of it highly overrated.

So it was with a sense of relief that we headed for the familiar and much-loved: the Old Masters, housed on the ground floor of the museum. The earliest paintings here are from the later medieval period: still lifes (okay, not very popular with us, since we find dead birds and obviously fake fruit or flowers tedious), portraits, allegories and the like. These are mainly by little-known artists and range from run-of-the-mill to ho hum.

But perseverance pays, and we finally arrived at a set of galleries peopled by our favourites. There are big names here: Monet, Rodin, Manet, Delacroix, van Gogh, Pissarro, Picasso, Juan Gris, Joan Miro, Matisse, etc—most of them superb. Among the works I liked were a striking nude by Rodin, a The Children of Advocate Meyer by Edvard Munch (a far cry from the unsettling harshness of the famous The Scream: this one’s a peaceful, sweet study of three siblings) and the stunning Ice on the River by Monet—shimmering, gloomy, and remarkable. There were some Dalis too, brightly coloured, with strong lines and distinctive curvy shapes; and a mesmerising Dead girls by Ernest Biéler, an exceptionally beautiful painting, all flowing lines and muted colours. Another set of works that the museum is very proud of (but which we didn’t particularly enjoy) is the Paul Klee collection, including Ad Parnassum, inspired by pointillism but not quite there, I thought.

Where the Kunstmuseum really bowled us over was with its collection of works by the two Swiss painters, Ferdinand Hodler and Albert Anker. Ferdinand Hodler, after whom Hodlerstrasse (on which the Kunstmuseum is situated) was Bernese, and his works display a very wide range of styles and subjects. We especially liked Le Lac de Thoune and Morning at Interlaken—both definitely impressionist landscapes—Hodler’s self-portraits, and the absolutely superb Joyful Woman. This one, a female figure standing, arms outstretched, her red gown flowing about her body, is all strong, fluid lines, sheer genius in its simplicity. In a very different style are Hodler’s Parallelism paintings, peopled by tall, slim figures that stand parallel to each other. One of the best examples of this at the museum is The Chosen One, a striking painting indeed.

But if I were to be asked to settle on one painter whose works at the Kunstmuseum I really enjoyed, it would have to be Albert Anker, the 19th century painter who is often accorded the status of Switzerland’s `national painter’. Anker’s canvases depict daily life: snapshots of everyday happenings such as a girl carrying a loaf of bread; a storyteller regaling a group of children while a woman works in the background and hens peck about; and a still life with a homely ceramic cup, a loaf of bread and a plateful of jacket potatoes. All of these, by the way, are descriptions of paintings at the Kunstmuseum. The Ankers are all unpretentious, peaceful, sweet paintings. So lovely, in fact, that I ended up going back to them again and again, until Tarun had to pull me to continue!

Verdict: good museum; in fact, very good. Whatever your taste in European art (I’m assuming there are some of you out there who don’t care for wishy-washy stuff like Anker!), you’re certainly likely to find something that appeals to you. And, since they host temporary exhibitions every now and then, you just might strike it lucky and find something exceptionally interesting while you’re visiting.

Entrance to the museum is CHF7 if you don’t have a Swiss pass. No photography is allowed inside the museum.