2018年3月31日 星期六

Chasing the Spirit of a Fractured Spain Through García Lorca


Chasing the Spirit of a Fractured Spain Through García Lorca


Footsteps

By DOREEN CARVAJAL OCT. 24, 2017

The famous Paseo de los Tristes. CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
It takes about five miles along a red dirt road in the semidesert of Andalusia to reach the 18th-century ruins of the Cortijo del Fraile. Alone in the scorching sun and dry winds, the decaying Dominican farmhouse and chapel seems to stand through some sheer force of its literary fame.
It holds together with stones and mortar — a neglected national treasure that was the real-life setting for a classic tragedy of betrayal and murder in Spain’s southernmost region.
The arid lands and immense nights inspired the early 20th-century Spanish poet and playwright Federico García Lorca to write his greatest drama, “Blood Wedding,” based on the crime story in 1928 of a runaway bride who fled her arranged marriage on horseback to be with her true love. He was killed by her relatives, and she died decades later as an elderly recluse, buried in 1987 in a secret tomb.
If only the poet could write this last act of forgetting. García Lorca drew deeply on the landscapes of his native Andalusia and found inspiration in its history, colors and rural simplicity — crushed grass, the splash of fountains, the smell of the Sierra Nevada and the whitewashed caves carved into homes in the russet hills of the region.
CAMINO DE RONDA
Granada
C. GRAN VIA
DE COLON
SPAIN
Barcelona
Plaza de la
Romanilla
Madrid
ANDALUSIA
Chikito
Huerta de
San Vicente
Seville
C. ACERA DEL DARRO
Barranco
del Collado
de Víznar
ANDALUSIA
Purullena
Guadix
Graena
Granada
A-92
Níjar
SIERRA NEVADA
A-44
Almería
A-7
Cortijo del Fraile
20 MILES
“I feel linked to it in all my emotions,” García Lorca remarked in a 1934 interview in Buenos Aires, Argentina, for the publication Crítica, describing this passion as his “agrarian complex.” “My earliest boyhood memories taste of earth.”
To search for García Lorca’s Andalusia is to chase fragments of poetry and loss. He was silenced more than 81 years ago at 38 — murdered in the summer of 1936 by a paramilitary death squad at the outset of the Spanish Civil War for his anti-fascist sentiments and homosexuality. His burial site in an anonymous mass grave somewhere in fields outside Granada remains a mystery.
But his powerful voice is still one that binds this nation as it struggles with tensions between the Catalan independence movement and the Spanish state, which threatened to remove the region’s separatist government and initiate a process of direct rule by the central government in Madrid.
In August, the poet’s verses offered a measure of comfort after the deadly van attack along the Ramblas, the heart of Barcelona. Over booming loudspeakers, thousands of antiterrorism protesters listened to a recital of García Lorca’s tribute to his favorite thoroughfare: “The street where all four seasons live together. The only street I wish would never end.”
Photo
Restaurant on Street Market in Granada. CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
When he was 18, he set off from Granada in 1917 on the first of four expeditions by steam train with his art history professor and other students to tour Andalusia. It was then, he said, that “I became fully aware of myself as a Spaniard.” He was seeking memories of “the ancient souls who once walked the solitary squares we now tread.”
My love of García Lorca extends to all his writing that explores the rural tragedies of women in Andalusia and an earthy culture where death and love are deeply intertwined. I had never expected to visit his house in Granada, where the poet wrote his trilogy of greatest plays — “Blood Wedding,” “Yerma,” and “The House of Bernarda Alba.”
But a reporting assignment took me to the city one day, and I met his niece, Laura García Lorca, in his family home, Huerta de San Vicente, now a museum and whitewashed sanctuary, which is surrounded by linden trees and roses.
The downstairs living room was dark and smelled faintly of jasmine. It was furnished with black and white photos from many decades ago, along with García Lorca’s baby grand piano and a pensive portrait of the writer, with dark wavy hair and sharp eyes, wearing a mustard robe.
Photo
Tapa de Caracoles con Jamon at Chikito Restaurant.CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
His niece led me upstairs to his bedroom and study, furnished with a single bed and an oak desk stained with ink. And there we paused, the memories in this silent house so profound that her tears still flow. “The story is very present,” she said. “We share this as our loss.”
It was soon after that I decided to chase the spirit of this fractured nation through García Lorca’s literary inspirations in southern Spain. I began my first journey with a 10-day road trip with my husband, Omer, through Andalusia in a rented Fiat, hurtling on a smooth stretch of highway through golden hills and olive groves and white villages and ancient Arab fortresses.
We toured Granada, the poet’s hometown, where liberal and conservative political divisions still simmer in a lingering fight over control of García Lorca’s vast archives. In the meantime, the literary treasure has not yet moved from Madrid to a soaring new cultural center built to house it. But public authorities and the writer’s family are close to settling their differences and the archives are expected to arrive within months at the center by the tranquil Plaza de Romanillo.
Before his death, García Lorca alienated the local society by complaining that Granada was inhabited by a cold, introverted ruling class. Yet, despite the mutual loathing, he held court here in the 1920s with his young literary circle of intellectuals, “El Rinconcillo.” At a restaurant known then as Cafe Alameda, he would read his works aloud from the same corner table.
Photo
Ruins of Cortijo de Fraile in Almería, Spain. CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
Today his refuge is named Chikito, and the restaurant’s cuisine is typically Andalusian with a popular tapa of tiny snails with ham and almond sauce and its specialty, an oxtail stew. In 2015, the writer’s favorite corner was transformed into a shrine with a life-size bronze statue of García Lorca seated at a vintage marble table in a dapper bow tie.
The most touching tribute, though, is spontaneous — an annual midnight-to-dawn flamenco tribute every Aug. 19 on the anniversary of García Lorca’s death that is an open secret among performers and locals.
It takes place in the hills northeast of Granada in El Barranco de Viznar but it received little public attention on the 80th anniversary of his death a year ago near the likely mass graves.
In the balmy darkness, trembling voices rose from the forest to the sound of cante jondo or deep song — music that inspired the poetry of García Lorca, who was a musician himself. He likened its rhythms and wavering stammers to the trilling of birds and the music of forest and fountain. And he believed it had to be preserved because it represented the ancient music of the persecuted and oppressed of Andalusia — Arabs, Jews and Gypsies — who fled into the mountains in the 15th century to escape the Spanish Inquisition.
Photo
The oldest Triana or Isabel II bridge, rebuilt by engineers for Gustave Eiffel.CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
For the writer, other cities like Seville offered more openness and tolerance — something he considered a reflection of physical geography and the Guadalquivir River that flows within the city and outward to the Atlantic Ocean, shooting through, he wrote in a poem, like “a constant arrow.”
We traveled to Seville, where we sampled a boat trip along the olive-colored Guadalquivir for about a $20 ticket. But the hourlong ride seemed more languid than García Lorca’s dynamic description and the riverside more neglected. The highlights on the trip centered on passing under bridges, the oldest Triana or Isabel II rebuilt by engineers for Gustave Eiffel.
Instead we found more of the city’s essential soul or spirit of “duende” in the sprawling San Fernando municipal cemetery. At its entrance is an exotic neighborhood of tombs and shrines devoted to the city’s Andalusian aristocracy — flamenco stars and fallen bullfighters such as Francisco Rivera Pérez “Paquirri,” who is sculpted in a matador’s suit and poised to guide a bull’s final attack.
It was in Seville that García Lorca befriended Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, a bullfighter who was also a poet and a playwright. After Ignacio was gored in a post-retirement bullfight in 1934, García Lorca wrote his classic elegy in tribute to him, a 1935 poem of disbelief and grief about his death at 43.
Photo
Nijar Cemetery. CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
There is no more affecting place to read aloud his lament — “Oh white wall of Spain! Oh black bull of sorrow! Oh hard blood of Ignacio!” — than beside the matador’s simple grave. It lies in the shadow of an enormous tomb for his fellow bullfighter and brother-in-law, Joselito, who was killed in 1920 by a bull named Bailaor. That marble and bronze sculpture depicts Joselito in his draped coffin, shouldered by 18 distraught men and women. One of the figures is Ignacio, head cast to beseech the cloudless skies.
Death, honor and frustration are themes that endlessly fascinated García Lorca. In 1933, he staged the premier of “Blood Wedding” in Madrid, drawing on 1928 newspaper accounts of a defiant bride, Francisca Cañadas, who abandoned her fiancé — her sister’s brother-in-law — to flee hours before a pending marriage deep into the countryside with her beloved first cousin.
Her sister and her husband tracked them down, fatally shooting the cousin and strangling Francisca, leaving her for dead on the road to Nijar. The bride survived, living for decades with the enmity of her village who blamed her for provoking the tragedy.
In his drama, García Lorca transformed the key characters and heightened the bloodshed. He conceived of the set inside a spacious cave like the ancient enclaves in Purullena and Guadix, southern towns in the province of Granada known for mazes of whitewashed caves fashioned into homes and with inhabitants called trogloditas. He was struck by the rare accommodation of life and earth in the labyrinth of cave dwellings — some that date back to the 16th century.
Photo
Purullena village and the caves in Granada, Spain. CreditJavier Luengo for The New York Times
We had stayed a few years earlier in a rented cave in Purullena, which is also known for its cobalt blue ceramics made with a special polychrome technique that dates to the 16th century. The cave was a cool refuge on hot August nights and so profoundly silent that sleep transformed to nights of intensely vivid dreams. On this trip, we returned again to explore the caves in Guadix and Purullena, some thoroughly modern with wrought iron guard gates, chimneys, marble floors, Wi-Fi access and television antennas poking out of the oatmeal colored hills. Others were gothic ruins from past centuries, poetry in white against the blue splendor of skies.
On a back road in a cave neighborhood in Purullena, a silver haired woman in a black coat and cane noticed us photographing the homes. She beckoned us inside her cave with a red tiled awning and arched door.
Her kindness reminded me of another basic element of Andalusia that García Lorca cherished — its people. On the same day that she spoke to us, we stopped nearby in Graena, a small town that is home to spring-fed thermal baths and an outdoor barbecue restaurant, Bar La Pradera, which specializes in lamb chops and steak grilled on hot coals. We had not dined there in five years, and tourists rarely stop there, at the terrace across from an open-air municipal pool and garden. But the owners welcomed us back with kisses and then they invited us to their home.
No journey like this could be complete without witnessing the last act of “Blood Wedding.” We rumbled along a dirt road to reach the Cortijo del Fraile, the crumbling farmhouse where Francisca Cañadas lived with her father who owned the property then. Today, it is a surreal landmark of ruin and romance in Europe’s only semidesert, the Cabo de Gata Nature Preserve in Almería, Spain’s southeastern corner.
The fragile farmhouse is surrounded by a wire fence to prevent entry of tourists. Its facade has been minimally restored but there is much more work to be done. A plain marker took note of its literary pedigree — and also its star turn as a backdrop in various movies, among them, Sergio Leone’s spaghetti western “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.”
El Cortijo del Fraile en El Bueno, El Feo y El Malo (El Rubio y Tuco) Video by José Manuel Hita Segura
From the ruins, we headed toward the town of Nijar and stopped at one of its oldest municipal cemeteries. Its white walls were full with rose and blue silk flowers and tribute plaques to the village’s dead, including members of the star-crossed Cañadas family.
Every time I visit Andalusia, I try to find some trace of the grave of the runaway bride. She never married and was essentially buried in life by the scorn of her village. And every year nothing changes in the essential rural tragedy imagined by García Lorca.

A lone cemetery worker offered me a vague hint that Francisca Cañadas’s tomb is placed near a soaring cypress tree, a symbol of mourning and hope. But a stone plaque was nowhere to be found. According to the family’s wishes, the worker said, it is marked with a false name.

Rome, Through the Eyes of Flavius Josephus


The Portico d’Ottavia is now a soaring ruin at the edge of the Jewish ghetto in Rome. CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times

Rome, Through the Eyes
of Flavius Josephus

Where, but in the Eternal City, is it possible
to map a 2,000-year-old eyewitness account
of history onto an intact urban fabric?


By DAVID LASKIN MARCH 28, 2018


Even without a book or a guide, even after two millenniums of crumbling, the image of the seven-branched candelabrum — the Jewish menorah — is unmistakable on the inner wall of the Arch of Titus in the Roman Forum. Stand at the base of the single-passage arch and look up, and the scene in bas-relief ripples to life with almost cartoon clarity: Straining porters, trudging along what is plainly the route of a Roman triumph, bear aloft the golden menorah and other sacred loot plundered from the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 A.D. The opposite side of the arch depicts the victory lap of the chief plunderer, Emperor Titus — who, as an ambitious young general, crushed the Jews’ revolt, leveled their Temple and brought enough booty and slaves back to Rome to finance an epic construction program that included the Colosseum.

I’ve gazed on the Arch of Titus many times in previous trips, marveling at its muscular grace, recoiling from its brazen braggadocio. But it wasn’t until I returned to Rome in October with Flavius Josephus as my guide that I fully grasped the significance of this monument in Jewish and Roman history.Continue reading the main story



Footsteps
A collection of “Footsteps” columns published in The New York Times.


In Florence, Finding the Legacy of One of Literature’s Great CouplesMAR 14


In Search of Virginia Woolf’s Lost Eden in CornwallFEB 26


The Inescapable Poet of NicaraguaNOV 27


Charlie Chaplin, at Home in SwitzerlandNOV 10


Chasing the Spirit of a Fractured Spain Through García LorcaOCT 24


See More »
Photo

As an ambitious young general, Emperor Titus crushed the Jews’ revolt, leveled their Temple and brought enough booty and slaves back to Rome to finance an epic construction program that included the Colosseum, above.CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times


“The luckiest traitor ever,” in the words of the historian Mary Beard, Flavius Josephus was a first-century Jewish general who threw in his lot with the Roman legions that destroyed his homeland. When Titus and his father, Vespasian, returned to Rome after the Judean war to inaugurate the Flavian dynasty — successor to the Julio-Claudian dynasty that Augustus founded and Nero destroyed — Josephus went with them. “The Jew of Rome,” as the German writer Lion Feuchtwanger called him in an eponymous historical novel, spent the rest of his days living in luxury in Flavian Rome and writing the history of his times.

Turncoat? Asylum seeker? Pragmatic visionary? Historians have long debated Josephus’s motives and character. What’s indisputable is that most of what is known about the violent encounter between Rome and Judea during this period comes out of his work. What’s astonishing is that, with a sharp eye and a bit of research, you can still walk in Josephus’s footsteps in contemporary Rome. Where but in the Eternal City is it possible to map a 2,000-year-old eyewitness account onto an intact urban fabric?Continue reading the main story

Photo

From the Portico d’Ottavia (above) to the top of the Capitoline Hill, where Roman triumphal processions culminated, is — and was — a 10-minute stroll.CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times


The silvery morning light was soothing on my jet-lagged retinas, but traffic was already roaring along Via di San Gregorio as I waited by the gate of the Palatine Hill for Mirco Modolo, the archeologist-archivist who had agreed to take me on a walking tour of Flavian Rome. Today this artery is a rather featureless channel running between the Colosseum and the Circus Maximus — but Mirco, whose youth and reserve belie a tenacious erudition, reminded me that we were standing on the likely processional route chiseled into the marble of the Arch of Titus and inked even more indelibly on the pages of Josephus’s book “The Jewish War.”

“At the break of dawn,” Josephus writes, “Vespasian and Titus issued forth, crowned with laurel and clad in the traditional purple robes, and proceeded to the Octavian walks [the Portico d’Ottavia, now a soaring ruin at the edge of the Jewish ghetto].” From the Portico d’Ottavia to the top of the Capitoline Hill, where all proper Roman triumphal processions culminated, is — and was — a 10-minute stroll. But it is clear from Josephus’s account that the imperial entourage took the long way around, circling counterclockwise around the outer precipices of the Palatine before entering the Forum on the side now dominated by the Colosseum.Continue reading the main story

Photo

Above the Forum, with views of the Colosseum, the Arch of Titus and the Via Sacra, the central axis of the Forum.CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times


Mirco and I hiked halfway up the Palatine to a terraced ledge overlooking the Forum. “See those tourists following the lady with the flag?” he asked. “They’re walking on the Via Sacra — the main axis through the Forum that the Flavian procession traversed before ascending the Capitol.”Continue reading the main story



ADVERTISEMENTContinue reading the main story




I tried to mentally erase the T-shirts and selfie sticks and resurrect the fallen columns. Vespasian and Titus, riding chariots, would have been two dabs of purple surging up the ramparts of the Capitoline through a sea of white togas. In their train, thousands of Jewish slaves shuffled with bowed heads while the heaps of plundered gold and silver bobbed above them, winking in the sun. “Last of all the spoils,” writes Josephus, “was carried a copy of the Jewish Law” — the Torah.



VATICAN
CITY

Tiber River
VIA DEL

QUIRINALE
Rome
St. Peter’s

Basilica
Area of
detail

ITALY
Basilica di San
Giovanni in Laterano
1 MILE
1/4 MILE

CAPITOLINE
HILL
Portico
d’Ottavia
Templum Pacis
Roman Forum
Tempio Maggiore
VIA SACRA
Arch of Titus
Rome
Colosseum
PALATINE HILL
VIA DI SAN GREGORIO
Domus Flavia
VIA DEI CERCHI
Circus Maximus
Map data by OpenStreetMap

By The New York Times

Josephus reveals exactly where these spoils ended up. Vespasian had a new temple — the Templum Pacis (Temple of Peace) — built adjacent to the Forum where “he laid up the vessels of gold from the temple of the Jews, on which he prided himself; but their Law and the purple hangings of the sanctuary he ordered to be deposited and kept in the palace.” The palace, in ancient Rome, meant the Palatine (the word palace derives from the hill’s name) — and so, as the autumn sunlight brightened from silver to gold, I mounted the imperial summit.

After the buzzing, marble-strewn congestion of the Forum, the Palatine is like a country stroll. The huge squares of weedy grass and clumps of umbrella pines outlined in brick stubs could almost be farm fields — but, in fact, most of the stubs are remains of a colossal royal residence, the Domus Flavia, inaugurated by Vespasian and completed by his wicked, wildly ambitious second son, Domitian. Josephus, whose life spanned all three Flavian emperors, would have come to the Domus Flavia to pay homage to his patrons and perhaps murmur a prayer before the sacred scroll they had cached here.Photo

An elaborate mosaic in the 6th-century Basilica of Saints Cosmas and Damiano, which is now a Franciscan convent. CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times

I lingered on the Palatine for half an hour, trying to conjure the nerve center of an empire from its ruins. Somewhere buried under the dandelions and broken shards stood an inlaid niche or marble alcove where the stolen Torah was caged like a captive king.

Josephus’ footsteps lie closer to the surface in the Templum Pacis. I’d never heard of this monument, though I must have passed its ruins a score of times on the wide glaring Via dei Fori Imperiali (Street of the Imperial Fora) that Mussolini carved out as his own triumphal route between the Colosseum and Piazza Venezia. On my second morning in Rome, Josephus’s text in hand, I stood by the railing near the Forum ticket booth and peered down at the ongoing excavations of the temple’s sanctuary, arcades, fountains and gardens. Josephus notes that the Templum Pacis, built “very speedily in a style surpassing all human conception,” housed not only the spoils of Jerusalem, but “ancient masterpieces of painting and sculpture … objects for the sight of which men had once wandered over the whole world.”Photo

Flavius JosephusCreditCulture Club/Getty Images

These masterpieces have long since vanished, but a wall of the temple still stands at the entrance of the sixth-century Basilica of Saints Cosmas and Damiano, now a Franciscan convent. One of the resident brothers, who humbly insisted on anonymity, showed me around. “The Templum Pacis was not only a shrine but a kind of cultural center,” he said. “We’re standing on the site of the temple’s library where the Forma Urbis — an immense marble map of the city — was displayed.” He pointed out a rusty bent spike that once fixed marble veneer to the rough-hewed stone. “Go ahead and touch — it’s been here since the first century A.D.”

I was itching to get down to the crypt, which covers part of the footprint of the Templum Pacis, but first we ducked into the basilica and took a moment to savor its principal artistic treasure: a shimmering 6th-century apse mosaic of Christ surfing roseate clouds flanked by saints. Perhaps I’ve read too many thrillers, but as I gazed up at this solemnly joyous creation, I imagined a plumb line dropping from the tiles of Christ’s outstretched hand and coming to rest, magically, on the exact spot where the menorah had been stashed — fanciful, but not impossible.Photo

The Templum Pacis, or Temple of Peace, next to the Forum.CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times

The sacred loot has disappeared without a trace, but a shelf of thrillers could be spun from the theories, myths, sightings and urban legends about where it supposedly ended up: hidden in a cave, glittering on the altar of the Basilica of St. John Lateran, carted off to Constantinople, tossed in the Tiber, and, most recently, squirreled away in a sub-subbasement of the Vatican. Alessandro Viscogliosi, a professor of the history of architecture at the University of Rome whom I met toward the end of my stay, has a more plausible — though mundane — explanation: When the Templum Pacis burned in 191 A.D., the gold and silver vessels melted and were subsequently salvaged and recast, probably as coins.

“No one really knows what happened to the stuff,” said Steven Fine, a professor of Jewish history at Yeshiva University in New York and the director of the Arch of Titus Project. “There’s a common desire to establish continuity through things — and certainly the visual environment of Rome fosters this.”Continue reading the main story



Photo

The Via Sacra and the Arch of Titus, as viewed from the Colosseum. CreditSusan Wright for The New York Times


Copies of Josephus’s books likely burned in the fire as well, but the texts survived, thanks in large part to Christian scholars who embraced him for his early, impartial (but much disputed) mentions of the historical Jesus — the so-called Testimonium Flavianum — in “Jewish Antiquities.” His fellow Jews, on the other hand, have until recently written Josephus off as a traitor and a Roman sycophant.

Still, 1,917 years after his death around 100 A.D., Josephus remains one the most famous Jews of Rome — best-selling author, confidante of emperors, member of a religious community that was already well-established when he arrived in 71 A.D. — and is still going strong today with families tracing their lineage “da Cesare,” from the time of Caesar.

I reflected on Josephus’s life and legacy as I made a final trek to the Palatine at the end of my stay. The southwest edge of the hill commands an unforgettable view over the Circus Maximus to the skyline beyond, and in the luminous October haze I picked out the distinctive squared-off metallic dome of the Tempio Maggiore — the main Jewish synagogue — and beyond it, the majestic drum of St. Peter’s. Roman, Jewish, Christian: Josephus’s footsteps lead us through the time and place where these three spheres aligned most exuberantly, most surprisingly.
Correction: March 29, 2018



David Laskin, a frequent traveler to Rome, is the author of “The Family: A Journey Into the Heart of the 20th Century.”


An earlier version of this article misspelled the surname of an architectural history professor at the University of Rome. It is Alessandro Viscogliosi, not Sciogliosi.

A version of this article appears in print on April 1, 2018, on Page TR8 of the New York edition with the headline: An Ancient Guide to the Eternal City. Order Reprints| Today's Paper|Subscribe

2018年3月29日 星期四

The International African American Museum,


Charleston Needs That
African-American Museum. And Now.


The International African American Museum, a graceful project years overdue and set to be built on a wharf where slaves once arrived, needs to secure its final funding.

International African American Museum 
Museum in Charleston, South Carolina

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The International African American Museum (IAAM) is a museum of African-American history being planned in Charleston, South Carolina, on the site where Gasden's Wharf, the disembarkation point of up to 40% of all American slaves, once stood.

Plan[edit]

The idea of the museum was initiated by former Charleston Mayor Joseph P. Riley Jr..[1] The Museum President and CEO is Michael Boulware Moore.[1]
Fundraising is underway as of January, 2017, with less than $20 million still needed towards a target of $75 million to erect and open the 40,000-square-foot facility. The museum will be built on the Cooper River, with a view towards Ft. Sumter and out to the Atlantic Ocean.[1][2]



By MICHAEL KIMMELMAN

Duisburg德国杜伊斯堡港扩大参与“一带一路”


杜伊斯堡- 維基百科,自由的百科全書 - Wikipedia

https://zh.wikipedia.org/zh-tw/杜伊斯堡
事實上,德文「Duisburg」的發音應當是[ˈdyːsbʊrk],因此「杜伊斯堡」的譯法並不完全準確,字母組合「ui」在這裡的發音相當於字母「ü」。但「杜伊斯堡」之稱呼已成慣例。詳情可參見該條目德文版本和德文條目德語長音符號

德国杜伊斯堡港扩大参与“一带一路”
杜伊斯堡港与中国多个目的地之间每周有25个班次的集装箱列车。最新的年报中,杜伊斯堡港称,正在拓展一带一路沿线的活动,预计与中国之间的贸易将进一步增长。

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