The Architecture of Iranian Bazaars

Imamzadeh Zeid at the
Grand Bazaar in Tehran

By Heidi Noroozy

A trip to Iran is never complete without a visit to one of the country’s many bazaars. These marketplaces date back to the fourth century C.E., when they were built along major trade routes, often at the intersections of several thoroughfares. Cities had areas reserved for trade, where small stores and merchant stalls grew into sprawling covered markets. The term comes from the Middle Persian word, baha char, which meant “place of prices.” Bazaars have long been commercial and financial centers as well as a focus of social and religious life.

In its simplest form, a bazaar is defined as two rows of shops facing each other on either side of a street and connected by a stone roof. This definition hardly does justice to the enormous complexity of these structures, with their labyrinths of streets and multiple levels. Iranian bazaars combine typical features of Persian architecture: arches, domes, and vaulted ceilings, brickwork, decorative tiles, and even paintings.

Historically, bazaars were organized into sections, each dedicated to a specific trade, and this layout is still largely preserved today. You seek out one area for spices—to find it, just follow your nose—and another for kitchenware, a third for gold coins and jewelry. The stores are tiny, sometimes only large enough for a small sample of wares, the bazari (merchant), and two or three customers. Often, each section forms a self-contained “neighborhood,” with its own teahouse, mosque, public bath, and Hosseinieh, a space for religious ceremonies.

The Bazar Bozorg, or Grand Bazaar, in Tehran, is the largest in the world, although it is far from the oldest. Only 200 years old, it features 6 miles of covered space. This central marketplace is a must-see stop for any visitor to Tehran, but it’s best to take a local guide along. Having grown haphazardly over the course of two centuries, it has no uniform architectural style but consists of a jumble of covered corridors, open streets, courtyards, and caravansaries. As far as I know, there is no map to help you navigate the place, and even asking for directions can be of little help. A lot of bazaris and laborers working here only know their part of the labyrinth well and have no more than a vague notion of what lays beyond.

Carpet section of the
Grand Bazaar in Tehran

Tehran’s Grand Bazaar was once the center of financial and even political power, and its bazaris played a significant role in the Islamic Revolution. Today, much of its financial clout has shifted to the northern part of the city, but you can still see the money changers along the streets, sitting among stacks of dollars, euros, and rials.

One of the most fascinating features of an Iranian bazaar is the caravansary, a spacious, domed hall often located at the back of the marketplace but sometimes at its very heart. This chamber was once a place for caravans of traveling merchants to put up for the night or set up temporary stalls for a few days before moving on to the next town. The advent of motorized vehicles has now displaced the horse-drawn carts of earlier eras and put an end to this function. Today, a caravansary is known as a sarai, or sometimes timcheh, and forms a central courtyard surrounded by shops (as opposed to the long hallways in the rest of the bazaar). The goods sold here are often the finest luxury items, carpets, and works of art.

Caravansary in the Kashan Bazaar

The Vakil Bazaar in Shiraz is one of the most beautiful in the country. Built by Karim Khan Zand, who ruled Iran from 1750-1779, it has a largely cruciform shape, with arched columns, decorative brickwork, and openings in the vaulted roof that bring in light and fresh air. Its former caravansary, the Serai Mushir, is located on the south side, where vendors sell traditional handicrafts, many of them made by the local Qashqa’i tribes.

Handicrafts on sale at the
Sarai Mushir in Shiraz

My favorite bazaar, though, is the one in Esfahan, which departs from the usual labyrinthine layout. It is mainly rectilinear, built around the perimeter of the city’s enormous Naqsh-e Jahan Square with shops on the ground floor and storage space and offices upstairs. Like Vakil, it features typical Persian architecture with arches, vaulted ceilings, and decorative brickwork. But it dates back several centuries earlier to the time of Shah Abbas I of the Safavid Dynasty. All around the main entrance at the north end of the square, you can still a series of fading frescoes depicting Shah Abbas’s wars with the Uzbeks. In the arch between the paintings, stretches an ornamental structure known as stalactite work—a series of small niches layered on top of each other like a honeycomb.

Frescoes and honeycomb arch of the
Isfahan Bazaar

The Esfahan bazaar is famous for its handicrafts, made right on the premises. The workshops are located in the back corridors, where you can watch artisans stamp colorful patterns on cotton tablecloths or hammer intricate designs into copper and bronze bowls.

To truly experience an Iranian bazaar, with its riot of colors, cacophony of sounds, spicy scents, and crush of humanity, you have to visit one in person. Just watch out for the carters pulling their wagons piled high with goods through the corridors. They don’t stop for pedestrians!

Or check out this panoramic view of the Esfahan Bazaar.

Off The Beaten Track: “Zwischennutzung” in Berlin: An Ocean of Green

Our guest this week is Malte Göbel, a journalist based in Berlin (who also happens to be Heidi’s cousin). He’s lived, studied, and worked in Germany, Italy, Canada, and the United States. Last year, he took a five-month trip around the world and reported on the places he visited for the German travel site, Abacho.de. If you read German, you can follow Malte’s world adventures on his blog, immer nach westen. More about Malte and his work can be found at www.malte-goebel.de.

Berlin is a green city –hardly a street exists without trees, and there are lots of parks everywhere. But just two years ago, a huge space opened to the public and became Berlin's biggest park: the former Tempelhof Airport. It is a historic site, where 200 years ago the German gymnastics movement was founded by “Turnvater” Jahn (a prominent German gymnastics and nationalist activist of the time), where the Berlin’s first airport opened, and where in 1949, when traffic to West Berlin was blocked by the Soviet Union, airplanes landed every 90 seconds to airlift food and supplies into the city.

In 2008, the airport was finally closed, and nobody knew what to do with the area. Some people proposed building a mountain on the site—a real mountain, 1,000 meters high, with space for hiking and skiing. Of course, the idea was more of a humorous suggestion, but it stands in stark contrast to what really happened with the former airport: nothing.

In 2009, people held protests, demanding that the site be opened to the public. Riot police fought them back and beat people up when they tried to climb the fence. Then in 2010, the city of Berlin finally gave in and opened the Tempelhofer Feld for everybody—in its current condition, as a form of Zwischennutzung.

“Zwischennutzung” is a typical procedure in Berlin, in keeping with the city’s image as described by the bon mot, “poor, but sexy.” It means that you own a site, but don't have money or any idea of what to do with it, so you give it to somebody else for a limited time and allow them to create something there. Then, after a couple of years, when you find a corporation to invest money, build a mall or condos, you take the land back and sell it. So one day in the future, the former Tempelhof Airport will be divided and sold (with only a small piece remaining as a park).

But for now, it's Berlin's latest big attraction. Berliners and visitors flocked to the site as soon as it opened, although they dispersed into its vastness right upon entering. One of the site’s forms of Zwischennutzung is the “Allmendekontor”, a public neighborhood garden. Since nearly a century of use as an airport has left the ground contaminated, people had to build raised beds for herbs and vegetables (also because it's easier to tear down raised beds once the Zwischennutzung is over). The site is situated in the neighborhood of Neukölln, where most of the residents are poor, so people started to create their own raised beds out of things they found on the street: plywood and old furniture of all kinds such as cupboards, tables, and cabinets. A sofa and a bathtub were turned into vegetable beds; even an old guitar is now a planter.

The result is a unique vegetable garden, free for everybody to walk through and enjoy (although the vegetables are only for those who plant them). There are places to sit everywhere, things to discover such as a beehive behind a bush and a high heel shoe nailed to a pole. It's one of the best places to watch the sunset: The city is far away, the sky is wide, the horizon is broad. It is almost like the view you get on an ocean of green.

The Reigning Saints of Georgia

By Edith McClintock

In Georgia, every other person seems to be Nino or Giorgi, which did make it easy for me to remember names. They are named in honor of St. Nino and St. George, both adored saints within the Georgian Orthodox Church, which governs much of Georgian life. 

Saint Nino

Saint Nino brought Christianity to the ancient Georgian Kingdom of Iberia in the early 4th century, and within Eastern Orthodoxy she is considered “Equal to the Apostles”, a designation given to saints who spread Christianity as much as the original apostles.

The Georgian Orthodox tradition places Nino as the daughter of a Roman general from the region of Cappadocia in present day Turkey and even a relative of St. George. Interestingly, in the Western Catholic tradition, St. Nino is a slave, although not nearly as well known—I, admittedly, had never heard of her before traveling to Georgia.

According to legend (and there are many, not all in agreement, nor historically accurate), Nino received a visit from the Virgin Mary who gave her a cross made from a grapevine branch and told her to take Christianity to Iberia. The grapevine cross, with its downward arms, is now a symbol of the Georgian Orthodox Church and has many legends of its own.

Saint Nino's
grapevine cross

Nino is said to have traveled to Iberia first by way of Constantinople and then Armenia, where she was nearly beheaded by the Armenian King Tiridates III. She arrived in Iberia around 320, when the Georgian Kingdom was heavily influenced by the Persian empire and had a mix of pagan religious practices. Nino performed a miraculous healing of the Georgian Queen, Nana, who in turn became a convert to Christianity.

Later, Nana’s husband, King Mirian III, became lost in darkness on a hunting trip but after praying to Nino’s god regained sight and found his way. Around 326, King Mirian asked Emperor Constantine for missionaries and priests and declared Christianity the official religion of Iberia. Today, St. Nino’s tomb is still shown at the Bodbe Monastery in the Kakheti region of Georgia.

Saint George

Georgian coat of arms

Although Georgia (called Sakartvelo in Georgian) is not named after St. George, its English name is considered by some to have been derived from the saint’s prominence in Georgian history. St. George is, however, the patron saint of Georgia and is displayed killing his dragon on its coat of arms and on its flag in the form of a red cross on a white background.

George (Giorgi) is not only a popular name in Georgia, but also a favorite church name. There are 365 Orthodox churches named after St. George based on a rather gruesome story that he was cut into 365 pieces after he fell in battle with each piece buried in a different corner of Georgia (or the Kingdom of Iberia as it would have been at the time). This is notwithstanding the likelihood that the historical George, if he existed, was from Lydda (now Lod, Israel) and a soldier under the Roman Emperor Diocletian.

Georgian flag

The most popular legend of St. George around the world is, of course, the slaying of the dragon. Despite many versions, at its most basic it is the same as St. Nino’s story—the conversion of pagans to Christianity. In fact, St. Nino is credited with bringing the legends of St. George to Georgia. And his veneration in Georgia is ancient—the earliest eastern texts and images of St. George are eleventh-century Georgian.

But back to the dragon—George uses his cross (or the sign of the cross) to protect himself and slay a dragon that is blocking a village water source (possibly in Libya) and demanding maiden sacrifices. In thanks—or awe, or demand from St. George for his heroism—the townspeople convert from paganism to Christianity.

Saint George slaying the dragon
in Freedom Square, Tbilisi

St. George is also said to have descended from heaven to lead the Georgian army on a white horse through many battles and therefore represents national liberation. Today, a golden statue of George slaying the dragon rises above Tbilisi’s Freedom Square—the site of mass demonstrations during Georgia’s Rose Revolution and independence from the Soviet Union. (Strangely, while I was in Tbilisi last year the metro began announcing stops in English in addition to Georgian, but called it Liberty Square rather than Freedom Square, although I think it was just a translation glitch rather than an official English name change).

Georgia commemorates St. George not once but twice a year in May and November, celebrating both his birth and death. But it is November 23 that is the national holiday, with schools and businesses closing. It is a day for church (likely a St. George church), a variety of regional traditions, and of course a Georgian supra with hours of toasts offered to the family's many Giorgis. 

The Godmen of India

I probably should keep my trap shut and just not “go there.” Not today, the 65^th birthday of the world’s largest democracy. But then, this week’s topic practically begs it. Perhaps especially today…
 

A swami opened the Woodstock Music Festival, coincidentally on today's date in 1969. (Photo: Mark Goff)

When I think of saints and sinners with regards to India, one of the first groups to come to mind is, of course, corrupt politicians, but also those multitude of priests and swamis who occupy temples and religious centers on practically every block of urban and rural area of India I’ve traveled to.

The English word "pundits" comes from the Sanskrit word pandits, which translates as “learned men,” and in India, generally refers to Hindu priests. The Indian pandits carry out the daily rituals of washing idols, decorating them with garlands of flowers, and laying out offerings of fruits and sweets early each morning (let me repeat, each morning), after which they clean up those same offerings and garlands at the end of each day, only to repeat this day after day except for those more auspicious days that require even more flowers and more offerings. In between, they pray, chant, meditate, dole out blessings and advice, and perform important rituals such as weddings and baptisms.

I have no doubt that the vast majority of these individuals and institutions are honest and well meaning, and that the pandits themselves provide uplifting and powerful messages to their followers.

But over the past decade or so, something has happened in the country that seems to defy logic. Most of us probably see part of this phenomenon a lot, whatever part of the world we live in: the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. Granted, the middle class in India are faring economically much better than ever, but that may be despite the Hindu nationalist leaders who incite a sort of religious mistrust of the other and whom most ordinary people have to circumvent to achieve any real progress.

My issue with the excess of temples and spiritual advisors, though, and maybe this is just me being overly cynical, is how specifically does it help a country that’s sinking deeper into poverty atop the vast but crumbling infrastructure? I get that there are psychic and personal rewards that come with prayer and faith, but shouldn't it accompany some sort of parallel trend of positive social change? In fact, many of the country's deepest problems are worsening, even as new ones spring up.

On top of that, the temple business is often just big business. On a recent visit to Mumbai, I read a top, front-page news story about a pure gold idol that had been stolen overnight from a local suburban temple. I'm still thinking about that story. All that gold in all those temples! All those offerings of other valuables, not just gold, silver, and the like, but the fresh fruits, milk, sugar, and other consumables from ordinary people. It’s more than likely a thief stealing an idol from a neighborhood temple would be doing so out of necessity, maybe to feed a family rather than from pure greediness.

Speaking of greed, the extraordinary hypocrisy of some godmen in deceiving the masses of followers who believe in them is depressing, even frightening. You can find loads of examples of who did what through a quick Internet search, so I’ll spare you names and dates, but some of the most common tactics these mystics and soothsayers use are performing “miracles” and “magic;” claiming to be an incarnation of God; promising “instant nirvana;” curing cancer, depression, or even family squabbles with holy water or ash. At times, it’s worse. Secret international bank accounts (fat ones), or else the opposite, such as overt displays of wealth (luxury cars, business-class air travel, lofty price tags for “purchasing” a blessing). Worse still, accusations of fraud, sexual abuse, rape.

Despite many such instances of improprieties of one kind or another, the Indian public often buys into the sham. Literally buys in, donating both their money and time. Admirably, Indians have a great deal of faith and spirituality as well as trust in their religious leaders. But when their godmen claim to be gods, performing miracles like popping a gold coin out of their mouths, how do these same leaders explain not being able to solve any of the country’s major social ills yet still command a following?

Sixty-five years ago, India gained its independence after a very long and hard-won freedom struggle. In a speech this week to commemorate today’s independence day, newly elected president, Pranab Mukherjee, said what India now needs is a second freedom struggle, this one against hunger, disease, and poverty. I agree, though I have to add, the freedom from false gods would be a great first step in that direction.

Jiri – Gateway to Mount Everest

Jiri, Nepal
Photo by Krish Dulal

Last week, our guest blogger, Tracy Tyson, wrote about her road trip from Suspa to Jiri, Nepal. This week, she continues the adventure with an account of her visit to the town and surrounding area at the foot of Mount Everest. You can read Part I here.

Now that I’d reached Jiri, I decided there was no rush in finding a room. Maybe it was because after six months among the Nepalis I had absorbed some of their “things-always-work-out-somehow-in-the-end-so-why-stress-yourself?” attitude.

Fifteen minutes later, a man approached and handed me a business card for his guesthouse. We set off to take a look at the rooms. The place was nice, but when he told me the price—100 rupees—I nearly fell over. Not because the amount was a lot but because it was so little (not even $1.50). Sometimes you can bargain the cost of a room down a bit, but I've never been given such a cheap quote initially.

We’d spoken Nepali on the walk to the guesthouse, so maybe he decided to give me a discount for attempting the language. In Kathmandu, I paid four times as much for a room that wasn't nearly as comfortable.

Because I was in no rush, I decided to check out a few other places before committing myself. The next guesthouse was even nicer, and the room cost only 50 rupees. Once again, I’d spoken Nepali with the owner. Too bad my efforts to speak the language don't have the same effect on Kathmandu landlords.

Stupa in Jiri
Photo by Sundar1

All the rooms in the second guesthouse were named after Nepali mountains, and mine was called Everest, which is the closest I ever got to the real thing on this trip to Nepal. Fortunately the name didn't reflect the room's elevation and I only had to climb two flights of stairs to get to it. Leaving my backpack in my new room, I decided to take a walk while there was still daylight.

My first stop was a huge stupa, a shrine shaped like an upside-down bowl with a steeple-shaped peak on top. The bowl part is usually painted white, and the top of the peak is gold. The lower part is white and has four sides, at least two of which display a pair of painted eyes that represent the Buddha’s all-seeing gaze. Between the eyes there's a long squiggle that resembles a nose, although it's actually the symbol for the number 1. I'm pretty sure it represents the unity of all things, a belief central to Buddhism. Stupas come in all sizes. Some are small, just a few feet in diameter and others are quite large and can be over 100 feet. The Jiri stupa is around 30 to 40 feet in diameter.

After sitting by the stupa for a bit, I climbed to the top of a nearby hill, mounting a staircase to the summit. On the way down, I followed a path that led through an evergreen forest clinging to the side of the hill. After a 45-minute walk through a lovely landscape, I came to a small stream with a huge yellow raspberry bush growing on its banks. Luckily, it stood on the side of a hill, so I could climb up behind it in order to reach those high-placed berries. I scratched my arms up getting to them, but the snack was worth every thorn prick.

Main street in Jiri
Photo by Sundar1

The berries did little to take the edge of the appetite I’d worked up on the hike, so I returned to the guesthouse for some dinner. While perusing the menu, I noticed an “Other Items” heading, which contained “Toilet Paper” for 40 Rupees and “Hot Shower” for 50 Rupees. I wondered how you got a hot shower on a plate, but the fact that hot water cost as much as the room explained why I'd found only cold water in the shower earlier in the day. After a tasty dinner of momos (a Tibetan dumpling) and vegetable thukpa (a Tibetan noodle soup), I hit the hay so I could catch the early bus for the trip home.

I may never have gotten closer to Mount Everest than the name on my hotel room, but the moments of contemplation at the Buddhist stupa, followed by a comfortable hike through the forest and a Tibetan meal at the end of the day, made for a memorable experience.

Sufis and the Quest for Divine Love

Whirling Dervishes
Photo by Thomas Maltby

By Heidi Noroozy

Until a few years ago, what I knew about Sufism could be summed up in two words: whirling dervishes. You’ve seen them, those Turkish men spinning to the rhythm of music and song, arms outstretched, white skirts floating about their legs. They seem to be in a trance, an ecstasy of communion with the divine. I knew about Sufi poets such as Rumi and Hafez, whose verses are filled with images of wine and intoxication. But I never understood what either the twirling or poetic imagery really meant.

Then, on a visit to Paveh, a village in Iran’s western Zagros Mountains, I met my very first dervishes. As soft afternoon sunlight fell through the windows of a house perched high on a hill, I sat across a vast Persian carpet from a row of women who wore white chadors and had taken seats on the floor along the far wall. Soon they were swaying gently from side to side to the rhythm of a daf, a round drum held in the palms and played by tapping with the fingers of both hands. With the image of Turkey’s whirling dervishes so firmly planted in my mind, it had never occurred to me that Sufis could also be female.

Sufism is the mystical side of Islam. Its adherents are called sufis or dervishes, and they seek divine truth and love through direct encounters with God. Their name is said to come from the Arabic word for wool, a reference to the garments that early Sufis wore, and is sometimes also associated with the Greek word, “sophia,” meaning “wisdom.”

According to the Sufi path, religious knowledge must be learned through a teacher and cannot come from books or purely intellectual learning. This belief has led to the formation of orders, centered around a spiritual leader (sheikh or murshida, if the leader is a woman) who teaches and guides his (or her) followers.

The whirling dervishes are more properly called the Mevlevi Order, and they trace their roots back to the 13^th century Persian poet, Rumi. According to legend, Rumi was walking through the marketplace when he heard the goldsmiths praising God in rhythm with the pounding of their hammers. The sound filled Rumi with such joy that he stretched out his arms and began whirling with delight.

Hafez tomb in Shiraz

I don’t know if this story is true, or if it arose after the fact as a way to explain the practice of whirling, but it has the ring of truth to it. Spreading your arms and spinning does indeed create a sense of pure joy. My three-year-old niece does it all the time when she can’t contain her happiness.

Sufi spiritual practice is known as dhikr (remembrance), which involves ceremonial activities that can take many forms: chanting, music, dancing, meditating (muraqaba), ecstasy, and trance. The whirling dance of the Mevlevi Order is a form of dhikr called sama (listening), which includes the music of sacred instruments (drums, bells, and flute), singing, and poetry recitation. But not all Sufi orders use music in their practice, and some—such as the Naghshbandis, a Sunni-based order that traces its lineage directly to the Prophet Mohammed—perform their dhikr rituals in silence.

Women have been part of Sufism since the very beginning. Mohammed’s daughter, Fatimeh, received revelations of the divine and is believed to be Islam’s first mystic, although the term, Sufi, had not yet been coined. A century later, Rabia al Adawiyya (717—801), was the first Sufi mystic to describe the relationship with the divine in terms of love by referring to God as “the Beloved.” She introduced the notion that a Sufi’s journey is not to seek entry into paradise after death but to experience divine love in the here and now.

I don’t know what the Sufi women in Paveh were chanting. Maybe the name of Allah, maybe poetry verses. But what the words meant is entirely beside the point. I felt the peace and calm that filled the room and held me captivated for an hour. Perhaps longer. The time hardly matters, since I lost track of it after the first few minutes.

Every day for a week, the Sufis returned to the house where I was staying. The woman who lived there, a member of my husband’s extended family, had recently returned from a trip to Mecca, and the female dervishes wanted to celebrate the happy event with her. After the ceremony, one of the younger women passed around a tray with tiny cups of water supposedly from the holy Zamzam Well in Mecca. (I didn’t sample it.)

Touba Mosque of the Mouride
Sufi Order in Senegal
Photo by Jean Claude Perez

Later, someone gave me a string of prayer beads, another souvenir from Islam’s holiest city. I’m not religious and haven’t a clue how to use the beads, but I hang them from a lamp next to my computer. Periodically, I look at them and perform my own kind of dhikr: remembrance of the afternoon I spent in the presence of divine love.

Sufism is sometimes mistakenly described as an Islamic sect, perhaps because of the way the dervishes are organized into orders focused on a spiritual leader. In fact, Sufis come from all branches of Islam—Sunni as well as Shia—and live all over the world. They are men and women from all walks of life whose only difference from other Muslims is their mystical approach to spiritual practice.

Off the Beaten Track: In Dutch Herring Heaven

A native of the Netherlands, Irene de Vette works in Rome as a food and wine writer, sommelier and food tour guide. Her love for Italian food and wine is endless, but Irene also has an insatiable appetite for other cuisines. For this blog post, she goes back home. Find Irene’s recipes on www.saltimbocca.nl

It’s definitely an expat thing. That specific craving for a motherland food that hits you at the most random times. On home visits, the first thing you do once you get off the plane is to immediately gorge on that long-missed item. I have American friends who O.D. on hamburgers back in the States, Mexican friends who put away as much fresh guacamole as they can hold and French friends who have buttery croissants for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

For me that food is herring. A silvery, oily delight that just doesn’t travel at all. And although the fish is ubiquitous in Germany and Scandinavian countries as well, the Dutch variety – raw, sort of – makes for one of the best treats in the world. Especially eaten the Dutch way: you grab the little monster by its tail, dip it into some raw onions and scarf it down, tilting your head back. The mere sight makes foreigners’ eyes pop out.

The Dutch have been eating herring for some 1000 years. Back in those days, only seafarers’ towns near the North Sea had the pleasure of eating haring, though, because the fish spoiled easily and quickly. After a process called haringkaken (gibbing) was introduced in the 14^th century, herring became known in other parts of the Netherlands as well. Gibbing involved removing the gills and part of the gullet to eliminate the bitter taste. It was still heavily salted back then.

Nowadays, the fish is cleaned except for the liver and pancreas that release enzymes for flavor, then frozen so nasty bacteria don’t stand a chance. Finally, it's brined in a slightly salty solution. This process of ‘sousing’ makes the fish incredibly tender and mild.

Early June is an exciting time. The Hollandse nieuwe (new Dutch fatty herring that has reached the appropriate size for consumption) is announced with a bang. On Vlaggetjesdag  (Flag Day) at the end of May, a herring boat race announces the new season. Then, out of nowhere, red, white, and blue stalls pop up to brighten Dutch streets. There, the herring is extracted from the ice on order and further cleaned. When you’ve polished off your fish, napkins, lemon water and breath mints are at your disposal (you’ll need them). It’s quick, healthy, and delicious.

Some of my Italian acquaintances tend to make fun of Dutch cuisine, which, they claim, is non-existent. ‘What do you eat’, they rhetorically ask me, ‘Ah yes, bread and unsalted potatoes. You poor people.’ While I never doubt the Greatness of All Things Italian (God forbid!), I wish I could drag them to the herring stalls. But then again, those same acquaintances are not particularly known for their adventurous eating outings. Too bad for them!