Spain won the Eurocup, guys!
I don't know. I never thought I would get into sports. I enjoyed playing soccer in high school, up until sophmore year when it stopped being less fun and more work. but i never really needed to watch other people do it, or even think about other people playing. But it's pretty hard to not get worked up about soccer when you're in Spain. It's been over 40 years (or something) since Spain made it to the final game...i think. but even if it were less than that, it always feels good to be the champion of something you've worked hard for. so when i sat meekly clapping and smiling amidst of a bunch of hollering hombres y mujeres in the bar sunday night, i felt a part of something. they sang in unison, for god's sake! they hugged eachother, called eachother, sloshed beer on strangers and jumped up and down, and this crazy wannabe jack sparrow guy who i swear sleeps behind the bar banged on a drum for probably eight minutes. they were proud, and it was nice to see.
and when i was plastered with sweat to my bed at night, i could still hear them, all of them, honking their car horns and chanting: a por ellos, oé. it made the heat ok. there's an entire country of sweaty, but proud, spaniards going to bed with a smile.
maybe this is all just more appealing in europe. but when everyone turns our in their red and yellow for a big fiesta, sports are not so bad.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
ham land and other foodstuffs
and now it's time to express some disappointment in the spanish. they're all dark and wild and relaxed, and dude--we love their cities and their discos and their old pretty buildings. but there's one thing they haven't won any of us over on.
their FOOD.
not one of us. everyday i hear my fellows mouth off about meals and how they're starving and will simply have to go to that pizza place after dinner in order to stay alive. whiiiiiiiiiiine. but not even i, the self-proclaimed wastebin of foodstuffs, am impressed. i like to say that i like good food, like non-processed cheese and homemade bread and whatever. but basically, i'm a hungry person who understands that indulgence and enjoyment are big parts of gastronomy. that hotdogs and risottos can exist in the same world, if we'd just admit that we're all pretty easy to satisfy. we're all humans. and i'll eat that cold pizza-bagel off of your plate if i'm still hungry and if you're going to throw it away. eating is fun.
but spain is a different story. there's weird shit here (pâté, man. and pickled asparagus. and yesterday, when we took an excursion to madrid, we ate at museo del jamon: the museum of ham!). over the past few weeks, i think i've managed to pin down what the mysterious deal is, and why we're all complaining about our meals: nothing here is spectacular enough to make anything else seem indulgent.
does that make sense?
alright. what i mean is, spain is basically like any american city in that meat, potatoes, and other basic vegetables are the most common fare. we eat pale iceberg lettuce salads with tomatoes and olive oil. we have slices of ham (we could start calling spain "spam") and bean soups. we eat apples and oranges and sometimes even spaghetti. sadly (saaaaadly), dessert is almost never more exciting than an ice cream sandwich (but, ok...ice cream sandwiches are pretty marvelous).
and paella...is good, but not great. it's basically a huge skillet of yellow rice with bits of red and green pepper flecked throughout and a strong fishy flavor. it's fun to find pieces of shrimp and calamari in the dish, but in general, it's not very interesting. too bad.
so really, there's not much to jump around about. there aren't really any exciting national desserts or exotic fruits to take our minds off of the food we're served at school. it's hard to go out (in toledo, at least) and find any "authentic" spanish restaurant that is different from what we've been having in the cafeteria. restaurants all advertise the paella we eat every sunday, and all cafes have the same big chunks of meat and potatoes on their menus. maybe i'm dreaming, but it seems to me that our good city of minneapolis has more variety than many places in spain.
but you know, at least we're fed. and amply. i am always grateful for that. and the hundreds of ice cream spots around the city are stocked with rum raisin (yeeeeEEEES) and dulce de leche and "whipped cream" flavors. but after these two weeks, i must say that the best eating in spain can still be found at imported places that sell hummus and falafel and kebabs.
i think western europe may be losing the culinary battle to the mediterraneans...oh well. thank goodness for globalization.
their FOOD.
not one of us. everyday i hear my fellows mouth off about meals and how they're starving and will simply have to go to that pizza place after dinner in order to stay alive. whiiiiiiiiiiine. but not even i, the self-proclaimed wastebin of foodstuffs, am impressed. i like to say that i like good food, like non-processed cheese and homemade bread and whatever. but basically, i'm a hungry person who understands that indulgence and enjoyment are big parts of gastronomy. that hotdogs and risottos can exist in the same world, if we'd just admit that we're all pretty easy to satisfy. we're all humans. and i'll eat that cold pizza-bagel off of your plate if i'm still hungry and if you're going to throw it away. eating is fun.
but spain is a different story. there's weird shit here (pâté, man. and pickled asparagus. and yesterday, when we took an excursion to madrid, we ate at museo del jamon: the museum of ham!). over the past few weeks, i think i've managed to pin down what the mysterious deal is, and why we're all complaining about our meals: nothing here is spectacular enough to make anything else seem indulgent.
does that make sense?
alright. what i mean is, spain is basically like any american city in that meat, potatoes, and other basic vegetables are the most common fare. we eat pale iceberg lettuce salads with tomatoes and olive oil. we have slices of ham (we could start calling spain "spam") and bean soups. we eat apples and oranges and sometimes even spaghetti. sadly (saaaaadly), dessert is almost never more exciting than an ice cream sandwich (but, ok...ice cream sandwiches are pretty marvelous).
and paella...is good, but not great. it's basically a huge skillet of yellow rice with bits of red and green pepper flecked throughout and a strong fishy flavor. it's fun to find pieces of shrimp and calamari in the dish, but in general, it's not very interesting. too bad.
so really, there's not much to jump around about. there aren't really any exciting national desserts or exotic fruits to take our minds off of the food we're served at school. it's hard to go out (in toledo, at least) and find any "authentic" spanish restaurant that is different from what we've been having in the cafeteria. restaurants all advertise the paella we eat every sunday, and all cafes have the same big chunks of meat and potatoes on their menus. maybe i'm dreaming, but it seems to me that our good city of minneapolis has more variety than many places in spain.
but you know, at least we're fed. and amply. i am always grateful for that. and the hundreds of ice cream spots around the city are stocked with rum raisin (yeeeeEEEES) and dulce de leche and "whipped cream" flavors. but after these two weeks, i must say that the best eating in spain can still be found at imported places that sell hummus and falafel and kebabs.
i think western europe may be losing the culinary battle to the mediterraneans...oh well. thank goodness for globalization.
Monday, June 23, 2008
I can't sleep
because it's ROASTING HERE. 40 degrees celsius. do you know what that is in fahrenheit?
104.
i hope you're faring better.
104.
i hope you're faring better.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
En español, por favor
HEY!
I'm in Toledo, and things are going well. The first day of "school" was a headache, as first days usually are. But I am surprised at how well I am adjusting. It probably helps that I have been in travel mode for three weeks and feel capable of dealing with all sorts of different circumstances. (Budapest--perhaps you taught me well.)
This is cake.
Toledo has storybook quality. Sometimes it feels like we're on a movie set because the streets are so narrow and cobbled and the old building walls are so high. You never know what is around the next corner or beyond the city walls. Pretty and quaint.
The Spanish way of life is growing on me quickly...on everyone, I think. We like staying up late and being lazy in the afternoons, knowing we have nothing to do but be for a while. I've also managed to spot a few really friendly people, so that I have a decent group friends to eat with and walk around with. This might be my greatest accomplishment yet.
Also this: our second night in Toledo we had a big welcome dinner thang, with tapas and mingling and all that crap. Towards the end, a band of youngish guys came in full traditional Spanish garb to execute some lively Spanish music, with small guitars and tambourines and dancing. And they were cute and they made jokes and they made us volunteer to be serenaded and blah blah blah. And all the girls swooned and all the boys watched very carefully. As the band was leaving, they invited anyone who wanted to come to the bar down the road. Great beginning.
So we went; me and the few girls I knew. The Spanish guys were endlessly patient with our ums and silences and confused nods, slowing down if we didn't understand. And it turned out that they were pretty suave and gentlemanly, and a lot of other good stereotypes. Then a smaller group of us went out with them again the next night, to a terraza where they was played trashy american pop and there was a beautiful aerial view. It was comfortable and pleasant and we even felt like we were learning something. Late, they drove us home, with techno music filling up their little tin cars, and we all went up to bed. Happy.
I think we got lucky...and I think it will not always be this easy to meet people. I mean, crap--during the first five days we were in the flipping Lizzie McGuire Movie. What the hell happened?
I'm in Toledo, and things are going well. The first day of "school" was a headache, as first days usually are. But I am surprised at how well I am adjusting. It probably helps that I have been in travel mode for three weeks and feel capable of dealing with all sorts of different circumstances. (Budapest--perhaps you taught me well.)
This is cake.
Toledo has storybook quality. Sometimes it feels like we're on a movie set because the streets are so narrow and cobbled and the old building walls are so high. You never know what is around the next corner or beyond the city walls. Pretty and quaint.
The Spanish way of life is growing on me quickly...on everyone, I think. We like staying up late and being lazy in the afternoons, knowing we have nothing to do but be for a while. I've also managed to spot a few really friendly people, so that I have a decent group friends to eat with and walk around with. This might be my greatest accomplishment yet.
Also this: our second night in Toledo we had a big welcome dinner thang, with tapas and mingling and all that crap. Towards the end, a band of youngish guys came in full traditional Spanish garb to execute some lively Spanish music, with small guitars and tambourines and dancing. And they were cute and they made jokes and they made us volunteer to be serenaded and blah blah blah. And all the girls swooned and all the boys watched very carefully. As the band was leaving, they invited anyone who wanted to come to the bar down the road. Great beginning.
So we went; me and the few girls I knew. The Spanish guys were endlessly patient with our ums and silences and confused nods, slowing down if we didn't understand. And it turned out that they were pretty suave and gentlemanly, and a lot of other good stereotypes. Then a smaller group of us went out with them again the next night, to a terraza where they was played trashy american pop and there was a beautiful aerial view. It was comfortable and pleasant and we even felt like we were learning something. Late, they drove us home, with techno music filling up their little tin cars, and we all went up to bed. Happy.
I think we got lucky...and I think it will not always be this easy to meet people. I mean, crap--during the first five days we were in the flipping Lizzie McGuire Movie. What the hell happened?
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Endings and the decline of my pocket book
We whipped through Budapest and left our mark in Forint (the country's currency). Know why? Oh ho ho. Just wait. I shall tell you why. But first the good stuff, which most always outweighs the unexpected:
Budapest is hoppin'. It is large and metropolitan. If I had ever been to New York City, I might try to compare the two. Andrea and I had the pleasure of walking wide boulevards lined with countless cafes and really huge green trees that swept their shadows shyly down on us. People walk around with lots of tiny dogs that don't bark and cones of gelato dripping down the arms. It can really make a girl jealous.
We went to see a ballet version of The Taming of the Shrew. The costumes were flamboyant and of course, the dancing impressive. we also stepped into a small bar for a while to hear some students who were playing traditional hungarian music. we each got a glass of wine and sipped very slowly so that we could listen for as long as possible. it was a homey little place where both families and students and couples sat around chatting in a pleasant reddish light on a saturday night.
And! On our final day in the city, we visited the public baths. they are in this beautiful complex/plaza of a large yellow cathedraly building--somewhere you can picture the elite going to wash during the 19th century. they are warm and apparently come from a natural spring that the baths are built on. every so often, a current would erupt in a circular part of the bath, and oldies and children would be carried around the pool, laughing like idiots. but you really have to laugh like an idiot when you can't control your body 's movements in a circular pool, and you're flung against a flabby brown-hand-bag-looking old man as your whirl around. it's fun, really.
Also. As we've been doing in most cities, we attempted to decode the metro system in Budapest. Up until Budapest, we discovered that, while you're supposed to buy a ticket each time you get on a tram or metro, no one actually checks to see whether you have one, or whether it's been validated. We felt confident in this observation, and sometimes "forgot" to buy passes in our rush to see the cities. But oh, Budapest, how you slapped our hands for these mistakes. Your retaliation--it was smart and great...
The first chastisement came on the second day. Whenever you get off the metro in Budapest, you are greeted by about three or four burly men with name tags, who proceed to check your ticket. Your ticket must coincide with the sort of trip you're taking: do you plan on transferring metros? then you best be in possession of a "transfer ticket," OR ELSE. of course, as i said before, our past experiences led andrea and i to believe that these rules were not really enforced, and sort of a joke. so imagine our surprise when two 4-ft old ladies (yeah--obviously we managed to get caught be the two most non-threatening metro security guards in the city) stop us when we get off the metro and demand our tickets. they look at them for a while and then, with grimey little grins (i swear, they were excited) of power, they each pull out a piece of paper and begin writing us up for not having transfer tickets.
"6000 forint, please. six. thousand. fine. wrong ticket."
Six thoouwhaaa? That's a hefty 30 american dollars that we each had to hand over. and as we're grumbling and digging through our purses, cursing our luck, other normal Budapest folk are slipping off the metro un-checked. perhaps our enormous travelling backpacks gave us away. but either way, it sucks to hand over "6000 forint, please" when you're living off of bread and cheese as a way to save monies. lesson learned. Right?
WRONG. fast forward two days. we think we are clever for getting a head start on catching the metro back to the hostel (the metro closes kind of early). but we're having trouble buying tickets. none of the ticket machines work, and there are no ticket windows open. the place seems deserted, and we're not sure what to do. obviously, we're trying very hard to do things right. we wander around and take the escalator down to the metro stop where they check tickets, hoping to buy some there. however, we are greeted by two of the creepiest looking security guards who immediately begin grilling us.
"where are your tickets?"
"sir, we tried to buy some. none of the machines work. can we buy some here?"
"information desk is open. no ticket, you must pay the fine."
"but SIR. we tried to buy some, honest. we're not trying to sneak on."
"this is private area for ticket holders only. pay the fine."
"but SIR! we'll leave! we were only trying to BUY SOME TICKETS. you can't be serious. we don't have enough money for the fine. can't we just go back up the escalator?"
"passports please."
[at which point we both get really upset. my strategy is to begin crying, and andrea's is to begin arguing.]
"you can't call the police. we haven't done anything wrong."
"you must pay the fine."
"come, ON! we'll leave! this is absurd!"
"we're not paying your stupid fine."
[at which point, burly #1 turns to burly #2 and says ominously, "call the police". ]
after a few more angry attempts at getting out of the fine, they send burly #2 with us to a cash machine, so we can pay their stupid fine. andrea and i continue to freak-out, at a higher pitch. the f-word is thrown around far too often. andrea huffs and yells while i frantically try to calm her down by suggesting the very real possibility that we could get in big trouble over a stupid metro ticket.
finally, we pay the guy, who actually looks really scared and disturbed by our crying and our yelling. it's really weird--one of those situations where you can see on someone's face that under different circumstances, they might let us go. but they have to follow directions. his bottom lip trembles as he gruffly handles our passports.
we hand the money over with a slap, and andrea's parting shot [bless her] is: "look at you. you're not even wearing a uniform. you're wearing a flipping jean jacket."
so much for schooling this metro system. luckily, the long walk home was accompanied by more giggles than tears. it was kind of easy to laugh off, maybe because we had tried to stand up for ourselves. maybe because we hadn't really done anything wrong. maybe because, that's the sort of stuff that happens when you're a long way from home.
Budapest is hoppin'. It is large and metropolitan. If I had ever been to New York City, I might try to compare the two. Andrea and I had the pleasure of walking wide boulevards lined with countless cafes and really huge green trees that swept their shadows shyly down on us. People walk around with lots of tiny dogs that don't bark and cones of gelato dripping down the arms. It can really make a girl jealous.
We went to see a ballet version of The Taming of the Shrew. The costumes were flamboyant and of course, the dancing impressive. we also stepped into a small bar for a while to hear some students who were playing traditional hungarian music. we each got a glass of wine and sipped very slowly so that we could listen for as long as possible. it was a homey little place where both families and students and couples sat around chatting in a pleasant reddish light on a saturday night.
And! On our final day in the city, we visited the public baths. they are in this beautiful complex/plaza of a large yellow cathedraly building--somewhere you can picture the elite going to wash during the 19th century. they are warm and apparently come from a natural spring that the baths are built on. every so often, a current would erupt in a circular part of the bath, and oldies and children would be carried around the pool, laughing like idiots. but you really have to laugh like an idiot when you can't control your body 's movements in a circular pool, and you're flung against a flabby brown-hand-bag-looking old man as your whirl around. it's fun, really.
Also. As we've been doing in most cities, we attempted to decode the metro system in Budapest. Up until Budapest, we discovered that, while you're supposed to buy a ticket each time you get on a tram or metro, no one actually checks to see whether you have one, or whether it's been validated. We felt confident in this observation, and sometimes "forgot" to buy passes in our rush to see the cities. But oh, Budapest, how you slapped our hands for these mistakes. Your retaliation--it was smart and great...
The first chastisement came on the second day. Whenever you get off the metro in Budapest, you are greeted by about three or four burly men with name tags, who proceed to check your ticket. Your ticket must coincide with the sort of trip you're taking: do you plan on transferring metros? then you best be in possession of a "transfer ticket," OR ELSE. of course, as i said before, our past experiences led andrea and i to believe that these rules were not really enforced, and sort of a joke. so imagine our surprise when two 4-ft old ladies (yeah--obviously we managed to get caught be the two most non-threatening metro security guards in the city) stop us when we get off the metro and demand our tickets. they look at them for a while and then, with grimey little grins (i swear, they were excited) of power, they each pull out a piece of paper and begin writing us up for not having transfer tickets.
"6000 forint, please. six. thousand. fine. wrong ticket."
Six thoouwhaaa? That's a hefty 30 american dollars that we each had to hand over. and as we're grumbling and digging through our purses, cursing our luck, other normal Budapest folk are slipping off the metro un-checked. perhaps our enormous travelling backpacks gave us away. but either way, it sucks to hand over "6000 forint, please" when you're living off of bread and cheese as a way to save monies. lesson learned. Right?
WRONG. fast forward two days. we think we are clever for getting a head start on catching the metro back to the hostel (the metro closes kind of early). but we're having trouble buying tickets. none of the ticket machines work, and there are no ticket windows open. the place seems deserted, and we're not sure what to do. obviously, we're trying very hard to do things right. we wander around and take the escalator down to the metro stop where they check tickets, hoping to buy some there. however, we are greeted by two of the creepiest looking security guards who immediately begin grilling us.
"where are your tickets?"
"sir, we tried to buy some. none of the machines work. can we buy some here?"
"information desk is open. no ticket, you must pay the fine."
"but SIR. we tried to buy some, honest. we're not trying to sneak on."
"this is private area for ticket holders only. pay the fine."
"but SIR! we'll leave! we were only trying to BUY SOME TICKETS. you can't be serious. we don't have enough money for the fine. can't we just go back up the escalator?"
"passports please."
[at which point we both get really upset. my strategy is to begin crying, and andrea's is to begin arguing.]
"you can't call the police. we haven't done anything wrong."
"you must pay the fine."
"come, ON! we'll leave! this is absurd!"
"we're not paying your stupid fine."
[at which point, burly #1 turns to burly #2 and says ominously, "call the police". ]
after a few more angry attempts at getting out of the fine, they send burly #2 with us to a cash machine, so we can pay their stupid fine. andrea and i continue to freak-out, at a higher pitch. the f-word is thrown around far too often. andrea huffs and yells while i frantically try to calm her down by suggesting the very real possibility that we could get in big trouble over a stupid metro ticket.
finally, we pay the guy, who actually looks really scared and disturbed by our crying and our yelling. it's really weird--one of those situations where you can see on someone's face that under different circumstances, they might let us go. but they have to follow directions. his bottom lip trembles as he gruffly handles our passports.
we hand the money over with a slap, and andrea's parting shot [bless her] is: "look at you. you're not even wearing a uniform. you're wearing a flipping jean jacket."
so much for schooling this metro system. luckily, the long walk home was accompanied by more giggles than tears. it was kind of easy to laugh off, maybe because we had tried to stand up for ourselves. maybe because we hadn't really done anything wrong. maybe because, that's the sort of stuff that happens when you're a long way from home.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
the weary
travelling is hard work, man.
we're in budapest now, and it is large. while our feet have long since become accustomed to the strain of our shoes, we find our bodies tired at very strange times. at 3pm! but this usually spurs some sort of exciting change of plans.
like on our last day in prague, we were ready to shrug off the touristy throngs and sit for a while. since the streets are so cramped, and because the majority of the cafes cater to the more wealthy of red-faced americans, we thought to leave the city centre. we walked to another neighborhood to an art cinema. the excitement of a movie overwhelmed us and we decided to see "La Dolce Vita" (because it has to have english subtitles, it's a well-known film; isn't that what that word means right there, on the poster? yeah. yeah, of course. let's do it!)
we bought our tickets and headed to a bar to wait for the film to begin. we came back a little cloudy, but excited on our half-liters (far too much for young hungry girls on an afternoon) to see the movie. the theatre had a gate and courtyard, and then a pleasantly grungy bar in the lobby. it was cold and dark and happy. we leaned back and sighed. but NO. what's this? are those...czech subtitles? hey man, i can't read that. and do you hear that? the movie's in italian! Nooooo!
but being weary and woozy and ready for anything, we were both surprisingly giddy at the prospect of a 2 hour film in not a language we knew. our giggles floated up from the dark room and we settled in to figure out what the hell was going on on-screen. it was nice, and knowing we could only get ourselves into the predicament in prague felt good.
what will come from weary feet today? maybe budapest's famous bathhouses will take us in? mmm, cold. cold water.
we're in budapest now, and it is large. while our feet have long since become accustomed to the strain of our shoes, we find our bodies tired at very strange times. at 3pm! but this usually spurs some sort of exciting change of plans.
like on our last day in prague, we were ready to shrug off the touristy throngs and sit for a while. since the streets are so cramped, and because the majority of the cafes cater to the more wealthy of red-faced americans, we thought to leave the city centre. we walked to another neighborhood to an art cinema. the excitement of a movie overwhelmed us and we decided to see "La Dolce Vita" (because it has to have english subtitles, it's a well-known film; isn't that what that word means right there, on the poster? yeah. yeah, of course. let's do it!)
we bought our tickets and headed to a bar to wait for the film to begin. we came back a little cloudy, but excited on our half-liters (far too much for young hungry girls on an afternoon) to see the movie. the theatre had a gate and courtyard, and then a pleasantly grungy bar in the lobby. it was cold and dark and happy. we leaned back and sighed. but NO. what's this? are those...czech subtitles? hey man, i can't read that. and do you hear that? the movie's in italian! Nooooo!
but being weary and woozy and ready for anything, we were both surprisingly giddy at the prospect of a 2 hour film in not a language we knew. our giggles floated up from the dark room and we settled in to figure out what the hell was going on on-screen. it was nice, and knowing we could only get ourselves into the predicament in prague felt good.
what will come from weary feet today? maybe budapest's famous bathhouses will take us in? mmm, cold. cold water.
Hail Poland
I might say Krakow, Poland is my favorite city yet. But maybe that's because we've had such an excellent tourguide.
At school in New York, Andrea's been seeing this Polish boy, Eryk. When he heard we were travelling around, he enthusiastically took up the task of hosting us. After three days with him, I think I can safely say there's not a prouder pole around...the kid is obsessed ("Do you like Poland?" he asked almost on the hour. "Do you?"). But, that was great for us because we could follow him blindly around the city, knowing he would spout an anecdote or bit of history every few blocks and take us some great local spots.
He took us around on bicycles. It was probably the best way to the see the city--its curling ancient architecture mixed with a funny streak of cold, bold communist-style stuff as well. I really liked the contrast. On our walking trips around Krakow, Eryk would flit in and out of restaurants jabbering about how we needed to try this or that typical Polish dish or beer (huzzah! this one's for Steve: my favorite was zywiec). Soooo, thanks to Eryk the crazed, I will probably roll home as one GIANT doughy pierogi, with baguettes for arms and maybe kielbasas for legs. And I will reek of cabbage, of course. Eeeeeeesh. But it's hard to resist the lovely starch when you're on a budget, and the BREAD IS SO GOOD!
On our last day in the city, we ventured out to visit Auschwitz.
It's hard to describe that sort of thing, isn't it? I thought about taking pictures, but it made me feel guilty and I suppose you can find that sort of thing online.
And. It was just sort of unbelievable: other tourists calmly threading between the brick barracks and peeping into the cramped basement cells...it's hard to know what to feel, if you should be sad or angry or appalled. It turns out, rather than the gas chambers, I was most sensitive to the rooms that contained the evidence of crimes: PILES of human hair, a room of dusty shoes, mounds of toothbrushes and eyeglasses, and lonely suitcases that never made it anywhere. What can you do but stare and try to remember some of the things you saw so that you can think about them later. If you want to.
I'm glad I went.
At school in New York, Andrea's been seeing this Polish boy, Eryk. When he heard we were travelling around, he enthusiastically took up the task of hosting us. After three days with him, I think I can safely say there's not a prouder pole around...the kid is obsessed ("Do you like Poland?" he asked almost on the hour. "Do you?"). But, that was great for us because we could follow him blindly around the city, knowing he would spout an anecdote or bit of history every few blocks and take us some great local spots.
He took us around on bicycles. It was probably the best way to the see the city--its curling ancient architecture mixed with a funny streak of cold, bold communist-style stuff as well. I really liked the contrast. On our walking trips around Krakow, Eryk would flit in and out of restaurants jabbering about how we needed to try this or that typical Polish dish or beer (huzzah! this one's for Steve: my favorite was zywiec). Soooo, thanks to Eryk the crazed, I will probably roll home as one GIANT doughy pierogi, with baguettes for arms and maybe kielbasas for legs. And I will reek of cabbage, of course. Eeeeeeesh. But it's hard to resist the lovely starch when you're on a budget, and the BREAD IS SO GOOD!
On our last day in the city, we ventured out to visit Auschwitz.
It's hard to describe that sort of thing, isn't it? I thought about taking pictures, but it made me feel guilty and I suppose you can find that sort of thing online.
And. It was just sort of unbelievable: other tourists calmly threading between the brick barracks and peeping into the cramped basement cells...it's hard to know what to feel, if you should be sad or angry or appalled. It turns out, rather than the gas chambers, I was most sensitive to the rooms that contained the evidence of crimes: PILES of human hair, a room of dusty shoes, mounds of toothbrushes and eyeglasses, and lonely suitcases that never made it anywhere. What can you do but stare and try to remember some of the things you saw so that you can think about them later. If you want to.
I'm glad I went.
Friday, June 06, 2008
We're so Bio
We are back from the farm.
I know this blog seems to be the blog of woes, but I promise you, these things are actually quite exciting when you consider what I'm usually doing.
That's why, when Andrea and I finally tracked down the tiny organic (bio) farm we'd be working on for five days in the Czech Republic, we practically wet ourselves when we saw where we'd be living. A toolshed, basically--one that had been left open to the birds and beasts of the countryside. BUGS. Mice shat. And dirt and stinky toilet facilities. But it actually was pretty lovely living out your childhood play fantasy of being orphaned like the Boxcar children, scavenging for food and sleeping wherever you can find a clean space. We boiled our water before drinking. We drank fresh cow's milk in the morning. We kept dirty rather than clean. It was great!
The family who owned the farm was young and idealistic and ate macrobiotically, meaning no animal products. Except milk. Oh, and cheese. Also butter. Liars. But the Mrs. made pretty delicious vegetarian soups and we looked forward to going to their house for meals after helping with the hay or weeding the carrots.
And by the end of our stay, we'd gotten very good at impersonating the family's quirks and Czech accents, as well as laughing off the grime and sweat of the day. The scenery ruled and the grasses were long and it was always quiet--a nice change of pace from our rigorous walking tours of Prague and Berlin.
I know this blog seems to be the blog of woes, but I promise you, these things are actually quite exciting when you consider what I'm usually doing.
That's why, when Andrea and I finally tracked down the tiny organic (bio) farm we'd be working on for five days in the Czech Republic, we practically wet ourselves when we saw where we'd be living. A toolshed, basically--one that had been left open to the birds and beasts of the countryside. BUGS. Mice shat. And dirt and stinky toilet facilities. But it actually was pretty lovely living out your childhood play fantasy of being orphaned like the Boxcar children, scavenging for food and sleeping wherever you can find a clean space. We boiled our water before drinking. We drank fresh cow's milk in the morning. We kept dirty rather than clean. It was great!
The family who owned the farm was young and idealistic and ate macrobiotically, meaning no animal products. Except milk. Oh, and cheese. Also butter. Liars. But the Mrs. made pretty delicious vegetarian soups and we looked forward to going to their house for meals after helping with the hay or weeding the carrots.
And by the end of our stay, we'd gotten very good at impersonating the family's quirks and Czech accents, as well as laughing off the grime and sweat of the day. The scenery ruled and the grasses were long and it was always quiet--a nice change of pace from our rigorous walking tours of Prague and Berlin.
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