to the Cutting-Edge and the Classy: Scotland

Glasgow streets

Disregarding the bronchitis slowly trying to destroy me, my trip to Scotland can so far be summed up by this: nice people, new boots, and peppermint mochas.

Peppermint Mochas:

For whatever reason, peppermint doesn't seem to exist in France, in candy or drink form. So I didn't realize I was missing it so much until Krista's friend Arran gave us the best peppermint mochas/hot chocolates on our first day here. It was like Christmas/Heaven in a cup. This was before the sickness had really reared its great ugly head for me and so I thought, wow, Scotland is off to a great start! Krista, on the other hand, was just beginning to taste the bronchiotitus' wrath, though not so strongly that she couldn't taste the peppermint hot chocolate too.

New Boots:

On our first day here, I realized that it was time to say goodbye to the pair of gray suede boots I've been sporting since I picked them in a second hand store in Seattle last spring.  From those humble beginnings these boots have gone with me around America and Europe and kept me warm and dry in my travels. I even considered naming the blog after them: The Adventure of Grey Boots.

 But about a month ago they began to show wear of that travel. So, after Paris where I walked around with slush in between my toes and my first day in Glasgow when my feet were still damp and freezing, and in the presence of all those marvelous Christmas sales going on, I realized it was time my gray boots meet their retirement. Yes, I am the sort of person to have a personal relationship with my footwear. I mourned them.

Arran's friend Jo very kindly took Krista and me around until I found the perfect replacements: leather, no holes, and 50% off! Still, if I had room in my bags, or if Ryanair allowed me an extra carry on, I would probably be bringing those bedraggled gray things back home to Nantes with me where I most likely would be tempted to wear them again. So, here they stay in Scotland. Happy resting place boots! In the tragic trash chute. I'll miss you.

Nice People: 

So, onto the nice people. Arran's family kindly adopted us for our consecutive birthdays and Christmas.  On our birthdays we were included with her family at her father's bday curry dinner (which was the best curry I've had in ages) and had a chill little kick back at the apartment for drinks with Arran's friends. As the Christmas strays, we were let inside, fed, and made to feel welcome. Arran and her family were great, introducing us to traditional Scottish fare such as pudding, (veggie) haggis, and Irn-Bru. Since tasting this overly sweet orange soft drink, I'm honestly amazed at how quickly people in Scotland chug down this stuff. It tastes like a cross between bubblegum and sugar and at the local grocery store it has claimed an entire aisle of space as its stronghold.

The Irn-Bru stronghold

I have witnessed old and young drinking bottles of this stuff in the early morning hours and the late evening. However, I learned to appreciate it on Christmas day as it served in a pinch to dilute our whiskey enough into a sipping beverage and keep Krista, Arran, and me in dreamy states all the day long.

Christmas cheer in an Irn-Bru dream

Although Arran tried really very hard to give Krista and me good birthdays, as you could probably glean from my previous post on the Bronchotitus monster, this sickness we're battling proved to be too much competition to give us any true birthday adventures to share. However, Arran did get us out of the apartment towards the end of our trip so that our Scotland vacation would consist of more than just the local Morrisons grocery store and corresponding train stations.

She took us to Edinburgh on Wednesday, which was really quite nice.

I read an article that categorizes Scotland's two largest cities into these thought-provoking and land mark distinctions: classy Edinburgh and cutting-edge Glasgow. I think the latter is quite funny for Glasgow, considering all of the stabbing jokes I've heard about Glaswegians. Before I flew into Scotland, I was only slightly aware that Glasgow is lovingly referred to as the stabbing capital of Europe.  Now that I've been here, I've only heard it reiterated by the locals, Though, luckily, I haven't witnessed anything first hand to prove the name.

In any case, the article deemed that Glasgow is something like the cool rebellious cousin of classy, prim and proper Edinburgh. And I did see that.

Rough and tumble Glasgow

 

Prim and proper Edinburgh

The city center is more touristy with its fairytale old buildings and bright carnival Christmas market.

Christmas time in Edinburgh

It's windy brick streets took around pretty architecture, a statue of the loyal Bobby dog, and past the coffee shop where J.K. Rowling penned the first Harry Potter book on napkins. But then Arran took us a little ways off the main stretch and to some slightly off-kilter places that we probably wouldn't have known to look for otherwise. We went to a comfortable little bar called the Brass Monkey, where not only can you do mini bloody mary shots for a quid each, but you also can sprawl out on large, bed/couch things that run the length of the back room and watch dvds shown on their screen. We watched the classic, Breakfast Club. It had been a few years since I'd seen it and, yes, the heartfelt story about misunderstandings and self-growth still transcends all of the melodramatic 80's inspired sound effects beleaguering it. And have I got news for you Snooki, you are not the originator of the fist pump. Oh no, not at all. It was first mastered by my main man, John Bender, the best overly dramatic bad boy John Hughes could ever offer up.

After the Brass Monkey we went to a comfy, alternative cafe for veggie burritos and mulled wine. The cafe is run completely as a grass-roots operation where the staff are all volunteers, just happy to keep the place afloat. Awesome, weird grafitti and strings of forgotten gloves and mittens decorated the place, there was a scrap book of lovingly written pleas for roommates instead of a tack board on the wall, and two competing live bands starting up just as we were leaving. We wished we could have stayed longer.

We ended our day trip to Edinburgh by marching up to the top of the rock where the huge sprawling fortress sits, Edinburgh Castle. It was night time and foggy at that point, so with the castle illumniated as it was, it made for a fun, spooky viewing.

Away (again!) Step 2: Illness in Scotland

So far my vacation in Scotland hasn't exactly been what I expected. Those colds that Krista and I were nursing in Paris turned into something far worse. We should have stayed confined to the flat for the whole trip, but we were brave (or stupid) and attempted a few jail breaks. Finally, the bronchiotitus trapped within us flared its ugly head, causing us to go into hiding. Take this blog post as a plea for help should the illness not abate in time for our plane ride back to Paris.

I'm calling this virus bronchiotitus because the first time I tried to type "bronchitis" in an IM it resembled something like bronchiosaurus. The receiver of the IM may or may not have thought I was being plagued by a prehistoric vertebrate instead of an illness. Let's blame that misspelling on the foggy state of my sickness and not my otherwise poor spelling skills. Plus we haven't had the virus confirmed by a medical professional so I'll name whatever is currently plaguing my lungs and brain and sinus passages and making my eyeballs hurt after the great big dinosaur that is most likely rumbling around in my chest and sneezing into my brain and causing all this misery.

(Whew, almost but not quite a run-on sentence.)

The monster inside.

Anyway, now you know what I'm dealing with and if you receive any peculiarly worded IMs or run-on sentences in your emails, blame it on the medecine and that cute little guy in the picture.

Away (again!) Step 1: the Euros

Tour d'Eiffel, Paris, France

Step 1: Reunion with the Euros

I haven’t seen my dear Euros in months, not since they very unfairly got on their airplanes and left the States in August. So what a lovely opportunity that some of them would be visiting Paris the same weekend as me. However, the snow falling in and around Paris seemed to have other goals in mind. (Cue: DUN DUN DUN! music)

French, Spanish, and ex-peer mentor were reunited on a busy street in front of the fountain at St. Michel. I first exchanged American hugs with Ouaffa and Maria and then we had French bisous all around for introducing Krista. We were to see Marie that night and Angel on Monday (the other French and Spanish).

The five of us spent the afternoon touring (the increasingly familiar) city of Paris. We drank coffee and hot chocolate and explored some little known shops. I found a low-level reader book in en français about Davy Crocket for 3 euros. Happy birthday to me!

We were supposed to meet up with Marie later that night but the snow prevented her trains from running into Paris. Luckily, our favorite American girl in Paris, Anna Marie, very generously opened her home to us again. Krista and I trudged through the slushy, wet streets and traversed the smelly metro and arrived to her and her friend Reagan’s beautiful smiling faces. Plans changed, but they were good changes. Spokane invasion in Anna Marie’s apartment!

Next day we woke to another blizzard falling in the Parisian streets. Pretty, but still not very practical. Instead of taking the train to Versailles that morning, Krista and I nursed our growing colds and decided Sunday was as good as any day to check out le Louvre.

After several failed attempts in the past two months, I actually made it inside this time. Krista, lovely girl that she is, is also an art/history geek and has been to the Louvre enough times to know what to expect from me during my first visit. So, playing the role of wise guide, she started us out in the right direction, lent me her camera, and let me go nuts, giving me gentle nudges to keep me headed on a semi plausible path. 

Oh my word, was the Louvre wonderful. Most of my pictures are blurry because I couldn't stand still long enough for the focus to set. We were surrounded by so much art! so much history! It was wonderful. A total mind numbing binge on culture. Every far off fantasy I'd had during hours of art and history and French classes came to fruition as I got to stare each piece of artwork in the eye. We cracked jokes about Napoleon’s superiority complex, marveled at the humor hidden in tapestries, and discussed how much making any of those valuable trinkets must have cost the monarchy. What cruel irony to have gigantic stone fruit sticking off the ramparts of the palace when you can't or won't even feed your starving peasant population. 

After the Louvre, I traversed the metro system all by myself (and had tourists asking me in worse French than mine for directions, what fun!), navigated the Parisian streets by foot when my trains were canceled, and made it only an hour late to visit Marie, Maria, and Ouaffa. We checked out a very interesting bar called the Latin Quarter. A colorful assortment of bras decorated the light fixtures and very enthusiastic male servers danced in place as they took our orders. I accidentally bought a 7 euro bottle of Guinness. I should know better than to order a beer when I see all of the mixed drinks are served with lit sparklers. So disappointing to see a bottle brought to my table instead of a pint. Maria became the focus of the affectionate attention of one of the more aggressive servers, who spoke to her in Spanish and French and then, kneeling, offered her a paper napkin rose. Very smooth, Eduardo. 

Afterward, we rejoined Krista and Anna Marie and Reagan at Anna Marie’s flat for the cutest little multicultural birthday party for Krista, Maria, and moi. Our birthdays are all curiously staggered on the days leading up to Christmas which makes for convenient celebrating. Anna Marie made the best chocolate cake I’ve had so far abroad and Krista and I got to blow out an embarrassingly bright assortment of candles. With the number of languages spoken and not spoken between the 8 or so guests present, we had some semblance of a good party vibe going.

The next day Marie, Maria, and I were supposed to get up at 8:30 am to meet Angel, the other Spanish Euro. But, at 8:30 in the morning, no one really wanted to get up. So I sent Angel a half serious text from Maria’s phone along the lines of “We’re still sleeping. Meet you at the Eiffel Tower. It’s in the center of Paris.” 

For those of you who have never been to Paris, I think it may be the most confusing city I’ve ever stepped foot in. And it is huge. It's been quite the experience getting to know the city over the last few months, and it’s especially fun the last couple times being able to text my Parisian friends to meet me at the Louvre or such and such metro stop as if I know the place. It makes me sound like I know what I'm doing, which is laughable, because I get lost anywhere and everywhere.

So, because Paris is so huge and confusing, especially to a first time visitor who doesn't speak French (ahem, Angel), I would have assumed such a vague text message would have been taken as a joke by our Spanish friend.

Because I was still sick, Marie and Maria left me at the apartment and they went off to get Angel. But they couldn’t find him and couldn't reach him by phone. Then they saw that I had sent that text to Angel... and were surprised? Well of course I had sent that text to Angel. Now they were worried that he took it seriously. I got a worried text from them that they couldn't find Angel and then that they were coming back to the apartment.

When they came back, they knocked on the door, I let them in, closed the door, and asked, “Where’s Angel?”

“That’s a good question!” Maria responded in exasperation.

Uh-oh, I thought, guilt beginning to tinge my worry.

“But Jennifer, can you open the door?” she asked.

When I did there was Angel on the other side, little backpack and winter coat on, looking like the tired traveler that he was. I had shut the door in his face the first time. Whoops. However, it felt like a Christmas miracle to see him standing there after my sarcastic text.

We spent the day catching up and exploring the city. Eiffel tower, Christmas market, Sacre Coeur, le Louvre (which Angel, in his improving French, called "mignon"). All the while my poor bedraggled suede boots became more and more soaked from the slushy streets. I felt like I was walking in freezing swimming pools the whole day.

Meals were quite the experience between all of our languages. Between my English, Marie and Ouaffa's French, and Angel and Maria's Spanish, we had some interesting three way language exchanges at dinner. It was the first time I'd seen Ouaffa since the summer so I got to show off my improved French speaking skills. Obviously my comprehension of rapidly spoken French is still in need of work (as I will get into in a later post) but I can at least form decent sentences without having to pause and think about them for three minutes first. Another plus side? My French has improved enough to give me back my sneaky edge. If I want to keep secrets from the Spanish (Maria and Angel) I just have to say it as quickly as possible in French. Success! Now I just need to learn Spanish and then German and I'll be all set. 

Krista and I said a hurried and sad good bye to our Euro and American friends on Tuesday afternoon. Then we descended into the metro again and found our way to the Beauvais airport to get the heck out of France.

Next up: Step 2: Reconvene in Scotland.

Away (again!), Prequel: DUN DUN DUN!

A shiny yellow sticker in my passport, a two pound can of pumpkin in my bag, a pair of boots in dreadful condition, and a ticket out of Nantes in my hands.

The plot thickens….

Last Saturday morning, our bellies filled with delectable Christmas sweets from the night before, Krista and I woke to a frosty, snow covered morning in Nantes. Our shoulders buckling under the weight of our heavy backpacks, we embarked on the next step of our mission: get the heck out of Nantes.

Prequel: Getting our carte de sejours.

Weeks earlier, along with every other assistant plucked off of a different continent than Europe, we had to go to the immigration office and get checked out for the final step of our temporary citizenship in France. This consisted of being led back and forth between a series of little rooms, responding to a cross fire of questions about the state of our health and history of immunizations, and then poked and prodded by doctors and machines. The entire visit can be summarized by the gigantic x-ray they left us with at the end:  unnecessary and bewildering.

Apparently whether or not you stay in France hinges on the state of your lungs. The last doctor clipped the gigantic x-ray of my lungs up on a light board and glared at it through her quizzical little glasses.

“Do you smoke?” she queried.

“No,” I responded automatically.

She turned to face me, giving me the full effect of her raised eyebrow. I looked this fierce little old French woman in the eyes and began to doubt my answer.

“Are you sure?”

I began to panic.  “It’s France,” I wanted to say, “I’m breathing in second hand smoke all the time.” But all I did was ask, “Is there anything wrong with my lungs?”

“No,” she replied, ripping my x-ray off the light board and handing it to me, “completely normal.”

Phew. Maybe she's just surprised to meet someone in France who doesn't smoke.

I was handed over to another nice French woman whose office is overflowing with caricatures of Sarko and “Vive la Retraite!” posters. She was thrilled that I had a conveniently open page in my passport for the shiny yellow seal of approval and then proceeded to cheerfully lecture me on the benefits of having a parapluie (umbrella).

The conclusion of this story is this: I had obtained my carte de sejour. This means I can legally leave and re-enter the country. Yay!

Next up: Step 1: Reunion with the Euros

to Poland: Day IV

Day IV went down like this:

Took the correct train to Wieliczka, the place we had mistakenly gone the day before. We went there to visit the Salt Mines.

We got a private tour just by happenstance. At 9:30 in the morning we were the only English speakers visiting the Salt Mine. Score! Our guide told us that if we came during the summer the line to the ticket counter is about a 40 minute wait, and groups are at least 30 to 40 people. This doubles the tour time itself, from the hour and a half we spent with her, to 3 hours. So glad we came in the autumn!

The mines are like this sprawling subterranean world.The immensity of the place became more fascinating after our guide told us that the tour is composed of only 1% of the entire mine. If we wanted to see it in its entirety, it would take over 4 months. 

We started the tour by walking down a dizzying wooden stair passage, down and down and down, around and around and around. Inside the climate is cool and dark. It's odd to think that there is so much earth above your head when you get to the first level of the mine. There is basically a forest of lumber in the system of tunnels and chambers, holding the ceilings up and protecting the walls.

Do you know why the wood is painted white?
Photo courtesy of Krista Schilling

As the guide explained how the mine began and subsequent years of operation, I was especially impressed by the dangers of mining. Through trial and error and advances in technology, people from the 14th century and onward have had to improve the mining conditions. Risking explosions and suffocation and collapse, it's amazing what our forefathers went through to provide their communities with such a simple thing as salt. I wonder who the first people were who thought, hmmm, let's risk our lives by tunneling beneath the earth to chip at rocks all day long so that we can preserve our food? Survival in the modern world is so much easier now because of them. I'll especially appreciate the simplest and mundane thing on my kitchen table from now on, table salt, after seeing all the work that goes into producing it. 

Salt tiles, salt walls, salt ceilings.
Photo courtesy of Krista Schilling

We learned about horses that were used underground, even into this turn of the century. Big, burly work horses, they basically never saw the light of day, and the miners even believed they were probably blind from living in the mines all their lives. The last horse to work in the mine left sometime after 2002 (maybe later). Our guide told us that this horse didn't adjust well to surface life. I can't imagine what its reaction to seeing daylight for the first time was. Poor horse. I guess it didn't have quite the same reaction to life on the surface as Plato predicted.

Chandelier made completely of salt rock. Salt rock ceilings too.

We got to see some amazing sculptures under the surface, all carved from salt. Gnomes too. Though, no sightings of the real ones that I know are lurking around there somewhere, just effigies of them carved from salt rock. There is even a beautiful, cavernous cathedral carved out of the rock salt walls. All of the carving underground has been done by miners over the centuries, not professional artists. They've been quite creative. 

The underground, cavernous cathedral.
Photo courtesy of Krista Schilling.

They hold mass here every Sunday and even weddings too.

The salt mine itself is like its own city. They have restaurants and gift shops, chapels, reception halls, pools of salt water, and even chambers for healing. People come to the Salt Mines for several weeks at a time to take advantage of the salt mine's curative properties, such as somehow helping asthma-sufferers. Don't ask me how that works.

And this whole little city is constantly threatened by the simplest of foes, the water running through it. They have a piping system, using a lot of wood, to pump the water out without dissolving any of the salt rock supporting the place. So much to worry about!

After the Salt Mine, we returned to Krakow for souvenir buying. And then Jen took us to a little place Anna showed her that makes, I'm certain, the best hot chocolate I've ever tasted. It's like melted chocolate in a cup, thick and dark, topped off by homemade whipped cream. I'm so glad they don't have this in Nantes, because it would be a very difficult temptation to resist daily.

The best whipped cream and thickest hot chocolate in all of Krakow.

Oh, chocolatey goodness.

After shopping, we joined Anna and her friends that evening for her birthday party at a cool little bar in the Jewish quarter. We ended up dancing the night away with our new found Polish friends. Not a bad end to our trip to Krakow.

Autumn color in Krakow.

Polish monstrosity: some kid with skinny legs standing in a monster costume in front of St. Mary's Cathedral.

Dziękuję (thank you) for reading!

to Poland: Day III

This blog entry is quite long, ridiculously so, and therefore divided into four parts. I decided to quarter it specifically because the last part does not fit with the rest of the usual theme. It's not the happy, Jennifer goes adventuring post. It deserves its own section. So, on y va:

Part 1, Trains:

The nicer looking airport train.

20 years ago, I bet the trains in Poland were flippin' bomb-tastic, all fresh and new and shiny. But by today’s standards? If these trains were in France, they would probably be striking along with all the other retirees. 

Just boarding them can be a feat in itself. After they thunder up to the platform and shudder into a heavy silence, you must take a giant step down (or a giant leap up, depending on the platform) to reach the car’s first step.  These steps are composed of two narrow, grate-like shelves, set steeply apart.  

Traversing the gap between platform and train was quite scary at first. The first time I looked down it was like staring into a yawning, cavernous trench, a place where second chances do not exist.  I seriously wondered (and am still perplexed by) how the arthritic older people were making it on and off the train so safely. Perhaps, when no one is looking, they toss their canes aside and become limber acrobats, tumbling effortlessly across the abyss?

After you’re onboard, you choose your own seat on a retro red-cushioned bench against the backdrop of wallpapered "wood" paneling. The train then hurtles through the Polish countryside, rattling, shaking, and screaming in its rails.  Try writing postcards in a rickety thing like that. I’ll be lucky if the postal workers can read the addresses. 

You get two temperature choices in these benches: gusts of cold air assaulting your top half or concealed heaters below the seats trying to melt your calves off. 

Notice how we and everyone else are still bundled up.

The doors on the cars also appear to lack sensors. Let’s just say that if you need to disembark at a fairly secluded stop, you had better be ready to throw yourself off the second the doors open or risk getting a limb caught (oh don’t you worry, there’s a story to follow). 

And there is no intercom system on the train to tell you what stop you are approaching. Besides one conductor who comes around to check your ticket, you’ll find no other source of information. 

The platforms at the smaller stops don’t have a reader board listing arrivals and departures. There is only a speaker box. This box is operated by a controller in some far away city who doesn’t know if he’s speaking to an empty platform or all the village occupants, and he surely doesn’t care if anyone can understand him. The box spits out garbled, crackling Polish that even the natives have to crane their necks back to concentrate on. The great garble box only speaks when the trains are going to be late. So if it does crackle to life, you know you have 20 more minutes to stamp your feet in the cold. 

Overall, I find these Polish trains charming in a rusted, dingy sort of way. After riding in the sleek TGVs of France, which deliver you from Nantes to Paris in 2 hours, riding in the Polish versions is kind of like time traveling. And after you get past the scary noises, these trains are kind of cute, like grumbly old bears.

Part 2, Trains and other misadventures:

Somehow that little old man will get onto the train, but you never see him do it.

Now I shall tell you about our encounters with these grumbly old bears.

The morning of Day III found us on the right train at (supposedly) the right time, but in retrospect, headed in the wrong direction. We didn’t realize this until after 20 minutes or so, when the train shuddered to one last complete stop.  The town we were headed to, Oświęcim, should have taken well over an hour to get to.  Jen was going to meet us at her stop along the way and then we would all ride together to Auschwitz. 

So after everyone else had exited the car and we hadn’t even budged, the last man leaving offered helpfully in English, “It is over.”  

Confused, we leapt off the train and peeked around its front. The man was indeed correct; this train ride was over.  The rail line literally ended in a mound of earth.  

Then we noticed that the sign for the stop said Wieliczka, with a supplementary sign “Salt mines this way -->”. There shouldn't be any salt mines in Auschwitz. 

Our ticket said Oświęcim, and the conductor on the way there had punched it without hesitation. This left us looking at each other, searching for an appropriate word for the situation. Let’s just say, for this blog, that that word was “Hmmmm.”

In the ticket office in Wieliczka, after some mispronounced Polish town names and miming between the three of us, we learned that, yes we had bought the ticket for the right line, but actually we had gotten on the train an hour before we needed to. Fun times in Poland.

Now for the evening portion of our events, or as I like to call it, How the train tried to eat Kristi’s purse.

Train station in Oświęcim for our return trip.

It was a cold day.

As I mentioned before, the stops on the Polish rail can be secluded. The signs designating which stops are which are not obvious, or even visible, to tourists, and at night the platforms themselves are not well lit.  After the day’s events, we caught the same train back to Krakow, but were to get off at an earlier stop to meet with Anna and her friends for dinner.  Mind you, it was dark when we were riding back.

The four of us were just staring off into space, knowing that our stop was coming up, but not for several more minutes. Jen said she knew where it was.  There were two other guys in our car, presumably Polish. One was lounging, half regarding us in that way I’ve begun to recognize all too well: a mixture of amusement and pity at the complete cluelessness of foreigners who chatter too loudly in their own language and simply don’t belong wherever they are. The other guy was dozed off in one of the booths beside us. 

Jen was getting a little overexcited about which stop was which. Suddenly she was unsure of where we were. When the train paused she ran up to the door and recognized a word on the sign. 

“GUYS!” She leapt back into our car. “THIS IS IT!”  

We were on our feet all at once, bags in hand, jostling to get out of the train. Polish guy 1, the observer, was no longer regarding us in half-interest, but staring, aghast, at our sudden and inexplicable commotion. Polish guy 2, roused by Jen’s alarm, had sprung from his seat with a startled grunt, hands gripping bags, ready to dive off the train. He was still waking himself up as we shoved past him, probably wondering what the hell just happened.

Now we were in the doors of the car, trying to jump out, one by one. I didn’t even see Jen’s leap. Krista pushed her way out next, having to give an extra squeeze to escape the closing doors. Kristi, the third, by some miraculous instinct threw her purse out instead of her head. And then the doors slammed shut. The jaws of the sleepy old bear had come to life. 

We were separated. Four sets of eyes, two looking in and two looking out, widened in disbelief at the realization that the doors were not opening again. 

“OH NO!”

“WHAT DO WE DO?!”

“AHHHHH!” 

I honestly don’t know if these words were cried aloud or just my inner monologue. Jen and Krista shouted at the doors, Kristi hollered and yanked on her purse, and I was just standing there, pitiful. 

The engine of the train revved up to go. We thought, we're going to be separated in Poland, at night, in the dark.

And then, inexplicably, the doors slid back with a violent, mechanical thrust and Kristi and I dove out without looking back. 

All that we can guess is that we were close enough to the conductor’s car that they heard us screaming and decided to open the door. The whole ordeal, from Jen’s alarm to the bear opening its jaws, lasted about 60-90 seconds. The amount of panic condensed into this amount of time for all parties involved: immeasurable.

The train sped away and we were left standing in the small pool of lamp light of the empty platform, surrounded by tracks and dark forest. Not in the middle of Anna’s town. 

Great. Not our stop.

Jen called Anna. Fortunately, we had only gotten off one stop before our own, so we just had to wait 20 minutes for them to pick us up in their nice warm cars.  Thank goodness. 

Part 3, The evening and the food: 

Anna, Chris, and Michael took us, driving very very fast down and around wet roads, first to a fun little mountain themed restaurant. We were treated to an overload of traditional Polish décor and pummeled by the hearty laughter (Ah-a-HA-HA!) in the mountain music being played repeatedly through the meal. 

We also were introduced to what I’d say is the best cheese in the world. It’s some complicated Polish word that if I don’t take a picture of, I never can reproduce from memory again. It was some sort of baked, salty goat cheese and served with cranberry sauce. It. Is. Delish. It also has a patent, meaning that you can only get it in Poland. Why oh why must Poland give me reason after reason to return?! 

After the cheese appetizer, I had greasy potato pancakes and mushrooms for dinner, which was a-mazing. After the meal, Anna and the boys took us to another little establishment for some Polish white cheesecake and apple pie. Both were divine, and not exactly what you would expect. The cheesecake isn't as sweet or as dense as the New York style, but lighter and just as thick (does that even make sense?). The apple pie was incredible. Imagine a thick apple sauce consistency wrapped up in a thick, buttery pie crust, seasoned with the best, most delicious cinnamon and clove and nutmeg spice concoction you’ve ever tasted. In addition to this, we finally fulfilled one of our missions for Poland, which was to try hot Meade, a traditional honey wine. It tastes kind of like a hot toddy, and it made us feel warm and cozy after our cold day. 

And then the lights in the restaurant went out without reason or warning. After a pause for some light laughter and remarks, everyone in the place just resumed chatting and drinking and partying. It’s nice to witness perseverance.  

After dinner and dessert, Krista, Kristi, and I said goodbye to Jen, Anna, and the boys, figured out how to ask the conductor on the train for tickets (spelled phonetically, not correctly) “Billet-eh studenski doe Krakovie, proche-eh”.

Voila, the extent of our mad Polish speaking skills. 

Part 4, Auschwitz:

We took the train that day to visit Auschwitz, the largest Nazi operated concentration camp in Poland during WWII. 

Going into this, we knew it would not be a fun day. We went prepared for a day of learning, reflection, and ultimately, grief. It was one of the most mentally and emotionally draining days of my life. 

I’m unsure how to blog about this. It was an extremely personal experience, and one that requires a lot of personal reflection. But something like Auschwitz deserves to be mentioned, even if it is just in a few paragraphs in some insignificant blog.  

I will not speak about the atrocities that took place there or of the crimes against humanity committed. You probably know enough already from school and what you don't know you can experience by going to Auschwitz yourself. Repeating the facts here would just make it into some scary story being retold on the web, and I don't want to make light of any of it. I also will not share any pictures here, not just because I couldn't bring myself to take them, but why should I? You will find enough information in books and on the internet to fill your head with a thousand unwanted images.  

To be there, to be in that atmosphere of nature and preserved stone and memories of cruelty and debasement… you can feel it when you enter the grounds. Auschwitz I, the base camp, and Auschwitz II-Birkenau, the extermination camp, are preserved as museums and treated as cemeteries. It is an eerie mix of history and current time, past sadness and peril juxtaposed by present calm and safety. 

Everyone in our group of visitors, perhaps 30 to 40 people, seemed to be affected differently. There were a lot of pictures being taken. There was even a little bit jostling as if people were worried they would miss out on seeing evidence of some past atrocity.

While most everyone else in the tour group was still in that happy-go-lucky tourist mindset and snapping pictures of everything, I was crying. 

Within our group of four American girls, we already had a pretty good collective knowledge of the Holocaust and WWII.  And yet, I still do not know how to ready oneself for such an experience as going to Auschwitz. The four of us as individuals were affected heavily that day and we were quiet for most of the tour. I can't imagine going there alone.

I was not prepared for the overwhelming presence of sadness. There is a constant feeling of mourning on the grounds; 70 years is not enough time to make up for what was done here, and I was not prepared my reaction to this realization.

Before going to Auschwitz, I expected my eyes to get watery at some point but not that I’d be sobbing ten minutes into the tour guide’s speech.

I don't know what came over me. I couldn’t control it.  She simply started naming off statistics, statistics I’d known already, and I began sobbing. It would have been embarrassing in any other situation, in fact, it sort of was, but I felt like it was beyond my control. The place simply commanded it. I sobbed as if I were at my own family member’s funeral.

For the rest of the tour, of both Auschwitz I and II, I felt like I had to distance myself enough from the topic just to continue with the tour. I still cannot comprehend the magnitude of all the suffering. So maybe that’s kind of cheating, because I didn’t give the place everything it was trying to take from me. 

It makes your stomach sick at the thought of so much suffering, so much sadness, so much unjustified loss of life. Just from the small snippets of story that you see, alluding to who those individuals were, you feel an immediate human connection, like the only thing separating you from them is the blink of an eye, the mere span of 70 years. If only you could reach out through the divide, hug them, clothe them, feed them, and take them out of their despair.  

Auschwitz could leave you feeling helpless, and it did. Disgusted and angry at what not just one man was capable of, but of what a whole group of people were working to do. But I decided to leave with a more useful perspective than just disgust and helplessness. 

The Holocaust during WWII is neither the first, nor the last genocide. Suffering and unjustified death persists in this world. But so does hope. There is no group of people who deserves to be subjected to these sorts of horrors or maltreatment.  And we can try to clothe and feed those living. 

These are the words taken from the English inscription on a plaque at the monument built at Auschwitz II-Birkenau:

FOR EVER LET THIS PLACE BE A CRY OF DESPAIR AND A WARNING TO HUMANITY, WHERE THE NAZIS MURDERED ABOUT ONE AND A HALF MILLION MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN MAINLY JEWS FROM VARIOUS COUNTRIES OF EUROPE. AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU 1940-1945

to Poland: Day II

View from the Wawel Castle of Krakow.

Day II started out with Krista, Kristi, and I hurrying as quickly as possible to get to the morning version of the Free Walking Tour (again, highly recommended: http://freewalkingtour.com/). We had met our charming guide the night before when he joined us on the 'unofficial' part of the walking tour. He had made us all promise that he if stayed out that late, we had certainly better be up in time for his tour the next morning. Let's call him Peter, as once again, I'm not sure of the Polish pronunciation or spelling. (Sorry Peter. I know you're the most famous tour-guide in all of Poland.)

Tour guide Peter giving a riveting explanation of the Bravery statue.

The morning tour is called the Royal Krakow tour, and it takes you around the main part of old Krakow. We got the low down on all sorts of architecture and the crazy stories behind them. For instance, why the Bonerowski Palace hotel (a 4 or 5 star facility) changed it's name to Boner Palace Hotel and then back again to Bonerowski Palace (you don't have to use too much imagination for that). Another fun tidbit: why do the grimacing, goofy faces on top of the Cloth Hall look so realistic? Here's a hint, it was built during the Renaissance and has to do with the drunken Polish men leaving the bars at the time.

Cloth Hall in Krakow.

Or, why is it, that, to this day, one firefighter's job is to blow an abruptly cut-off song on his trumpet every hour from the tower of Saint Mary's Cathedral? Guess you'll just have to go to Krakow to find out.

Somewhere up in that tower, a tiny trumpet is peeking out of windows to play a tiny tune.

Our guide also pointed out that over the centuries, Polish artists' juvenile sense of humor with body parts (or historians' desire to find something juvenile and funny in art) hasn't seemed to wane. He illustrated this by walking us around a large monument in the middle of the square so that we could view a warrior statue and his sword from a new perspective. He also explained that the statue's title, 'Bravery' can be used in more than one sense, poetically of course.

Profile of the Bravery statue on left side of the main monument.

Peter also pointed out all of the references to Pope John Paul II, which pepper Krakow like the not so very well hidden eggs in a 3 year old's Easter egg hunt. We were told that in Poland, Pope John Paul II is still referred to as "THE Pope" and that if we valued our lives, we would not say anything against him to other Poles.

This is an effigy of Pope John Paul II but, according to Polish law, it can't be a statue.

Peter then took us to the chateau where we got to look at what is probably another beautiful cathedral, but the main structure is hidden under a hodgepodge of supplementary chapels built onto the main structure. I quite liked the extra, mismatching chapels, each beautiful in their own right and historic period, which seem to bubble off the cathedral walls as if competing to be 'oooed' and 'awed' at.

One of the chapels and the cathedral.

This dirty wall in the Wawel castle has nothing to do with the castle or Polish history, but everything to do with the Hindu Goddess Shiva and the seven chakra points on your body. So why is it in Poland? Well.. why not?

Peter then finished the tour by telling us about the fearsome Wawel Dragon, which lived in a cave underneath the castle and devoured virgins. The king, who "also had a taste for virgins," finally sought an end to the foul beast. You'll just have to go on the tour to see what happened next...

RAWR! I'm a scary dragon.

After the morning tour, Krista, Kristi, and I met up with Jen G. and Anna. Krista and I hadn't seen Jen since we arrived in France a month before, so it was a great reunion. She seemed to be absolutely in love with Poland as well, having just traveled over the more northern part of the country with Anna. Anna took us to eat some delicious pierogis and tea at a quaint lil' Polish restaurant.  Afterward, she helped us figure out how to use the train for the next day's adventures. Quite honestly, without Anna and the other fun Polish people we met in Krakow, this trip probably wouldn't have been nearly as marvelous as it was. A big shout out for all of their help!

Kristi, Jennifer, and Krista on the castle grounds.

After lunch, us four American girls explored the city a bit more, did some souvenir shopping, ate more pierogis, and finished the day portion of the events by making sure Jen got on the right train back to Anna's town.  After this, not quite ready to settle down to bed, Krista, Kristi, and I met up with some new found tourist friends from the day before, ate some more Polish food, found a bar with a great live band, and after an impromptu game of tag, finally settled back into our own hostel beds for a good sleep.

We knew we'd need our rest for what we were going to do the next day.

do Polska: Day I

After Krista, Kristi, and I roused ourselves the next morning and sucked down some apple sauce out of pouches that resemble capri-suns and aptly named 'Pom-Potes' (a curious invention but handy when traveling), it was already close to noon. We decided to do our own exploring of the city before the next walking tour at 3pm.

When we stepped out of the hostel's building, we realized we were stepping smack dab into a market place. The hostel is in a building one block down from a covered, communal market place, but the market seemed to have sort of spilled down the rest of the street as well, in the form of little old men and women hunched over piles of stuff on the sidewalk to sell. We actually had to step around a rack of clothes when we were walking out of the hostel doors itself. This was our first initial culture shock I think. It was a sad sight. Unlike other market places I've seen, these sellers and vendors were not spritely, vibrant solicitors of their wares. They just stood their, looking at you or the sidewalk, but less enthused than anything. When I looked at their wares, I could see why. Their products seemed to be anything they could get their hands on, the type of bras and undergarments you could find at Walmart, old bottles of lotion, trinkets that looked like left overs of western culture from the 90's.

We decided to check out the market place itself. Walking up a block brought us to this scene: all sorts of goods in cramped, tightly quartered stalls. We were constantly tripping over pigeons that flew down from the low rafters and onto the narrow walkways. Then they would shoot up in a startled explosion of feathers over all of the goods being sold. Vegetables, prepackaged foods, mushrooms, sweets, nylons, hats... it was all being sold in the chaotic atmosphere of crowded junk. But the sellers themselves were not chaotic. Again, most of them were older individuals, though not as elderly as those standing outside our hostel. They stood there stolidly, or with a grimace, and waited from someone to show interest. It's not like the stalls in France where if you make eye contact with the seller they start a conversation and aggressively suggest you buy their wares. The atmosphere was, again, sad to me.  Even though there appeared to be plenty of locals walking through and purchasing their daily needs with pleasant-faces, the cold, in addition to the dinginess of the market atmosphere, made me remember that we were not visiting a rich country. It wasn't a bad marketplace, just different than what I'm used to seeing. I'm sure us American girls stood out like an unwelcome hurricane in their midst, all bright faced and speaking English, startling pigeons into flight and not purchasing anything.

After this market, we decided to walk in the opposite direction, towards the Main Market Square. We were immediately greeted by pieces of old fortifications and beautiful old walls that screamed of the middle ages. After we ventured through the gate of the city walls and passed a few musicians, we were on the main street that led directly to the main market square. Modern shops and stores, restaurants, fast food stalls, and solitary vendors selling their wares in empty doorways, lined the street. The street itself was filled with pedestrians, and sometimes a slow driving car trying to get through. Because the buildings are so tall and level on this particular street, it appears to be bathed in perpetual shadow, and so it was extra chilly. Overall, we were extremely lucky with the weather in Krakow for October. It was freezing, 5-10 degrees Celsius most days, but the sun was usually out and the sky mostly blue.

Photo courtesy of Krista Schilling

(http://thesagaofone.blogspot.com)

We explored the surrounding streets, looked at old buildings that had no name or history for us yet. The square itself, with varied architecture, is beautiful and grand, apparently the largest and oldest open market square in Europe. There is a cavalry of horse drawn carriages waiting on the edges of the square to pluck up any willing riders. Little stalls crammed full of bright souvenirs fought for attention. But what I noticed most of all was the color of the buildings. Pale yellows, creme oranges, blues, and white trim, all gorgeously re-finished. Definitely the tourist section.

Market Square

We decided to venture into St. Mary's Basilica Cathedral, on the edge of the main square, and probably the most iconic building in Krakow. This was my first moment of 'awe' in Poland.

I've visited cathedrals in Paris and Nantes so far. They are awe-inspiring in size and glory, ornately carved and decorated with breath-taking stained glass. But they also seem relatively austere on the inside, endless stories of vast cold stone that disappear into high dark corners, like the recesses of a cave. It's as if their constructors spent too much time trying to command Heaven's attention to earth rather than opening the buildings up to receive anything back.

By comparison, this cathedral in Krakow is warm and beautiful and reverential, a cacophony of color and worship. The ceilings are high and the detail ornate, made even more overwhelming than their French counterparts by the use of so much color. The combination of design and color make for an atmosphere of celebration. The color combination isn't garish like a circus, but lovely in the way of jewel toned bible pages inked by monks hundreds of years ago. Blue, red, orange, white cover the walls and ceilings in intricate, detailed designs. An alter at the back of the church, Altar of Veit Stoss, fills up the entire back wall with beautifully painted statues and carved biblical scenes. You are surrounded by inspiration on every square inch of wall space.

Besides a few tourists mingling in the public section of the church, in the 'prayer' section, little old people filed in and out and kneeled in the pews. I think the silence and praying is what balances the vibrant color of the place and makes it feel sacred. The expressions on their faces were serious and devout, sad or dutiful. I almost felt like I was trespassing on their private time with God.

We had an hour before our walking tour at 3pm so we decided to visit "Coffee Heaven," a coffee chain started out of Warsaw. The atmosphere was familiar: artificial warmth and comfort coupled by the pragmatic, no-nonsense approach of customer service. Not so exciting, but it reminds me of similar coffee chains in America. Krista and Kristi settled into their comfy chairs with their hot chocolates, and I with my mocha.

Krista lounging in a comfy chair.

Kristi with her hot coco.

 



Ah, overpriced, so-so coffee in big cups. I'm home!











Our highlight of the day started at 3pm. We met the Free Walking Tour, afternoon edition, at St. Mary's Cathedral. If any of you readers ever visit Krakow, I'm not recommending that you go on one of these free walking tours, I'm insisting. The guides are English speaking, Polish natives with a deep appreciation of history and a sharp sense of humor. They work completely off of tips so, as they'll tell you themselves, they have to be good in order to get paid.  http://freewalkingtour.com/

Our tour guide, Martin, holding the sign.

I regret to say that I'm not sure of the Polish spelling or pronunciation of our guide's name, but the English equivalent is Martin, so that's what we'll call him here.  He was fantastic. Hilarious and thought-provoking, he took our group of 30 or 40 people on a hurried march through the city and to the Jewish quarter of Krakow, engaging us with the history of the Jewish occupants of Krakow from their arrival in the middle ages, to their horrendous mistreatment in WWII, and after the war.

Street where part of Schindler's List was filmed. 

I had no idea before the tour that Schindler's List was filmed in Krakow or in front of the same buildings where we lingered, or that all of the horrendous mistreatment displayed on the screen actually happened on these same exact streets where we trod. Martin shared all of this information with us, and dispelled Schindler myths, and also gave a very insightful look into the events that took place during WWII in this neighborhood.

At one point we were standing in a large square filled with a monument of oversized, empty chairs. He explained that this was the entrance to the Krakow ghetto and this is where all of the foot traffic in and out, for the German, Polish, and Jewish, transpired.

Much of this foot traffic resulted in death and an unimaginable, unjustified loss of life. It was eerie to think that here we stood in the place where so much blood was shed and torture inflicted, and now today, people cross it every day on their way to work or home. I have so much respect for this city and this country now that I've been given a more intimate look into their history and what they have been put through over the past hundreds of years, especially just in the last 70.

Photo courtesy of Krista Schilling (http://thesagaofone.blogspot.com)

The large metal chairs of this particular memorial all point the same direction. They represent what happened towards the end of the war, after most of the murders had taken place in the ghetto, and the Nazis were throwing all of the resident's furniture into the square to search for hidden jewelry and money. Martin also added that the empty chairs represent all of those people who perished here and will never be able to sit in these chairs again. It was a really somber feeling.

Then, directly after during 'picture time,' I noticed one small group of friends posing around the chairs for pictures, doing peace signs and grinning, even attempting to sit in the chairs themselves. I was aghast. I couldn't help but judge them, as I was still just reeling over the thousands of deaths our guide had just described and the amount of suffering contained within this square.

Had they not just heard of all the atrocities that had happened here? Did they not hear what the empty chairs represented? And now they wanted to sit in them and smile? The only thing I could think of is that maybe they weren't native English speakers and hadn't caught on to all that our guide had said. I also thought that, if I hadn't been on this tour, I might have thought this was just a funny sculpture filled with a bunch of empty chairs, like a modern art exhibition, and maybe I would have taken goofy pictures too.

After the tour of the Jewish Quarter, our guide invited us on the 'unofficial' part of the walking tour. It was quite cold out, freezing for me really! and so Martin invited us all back to the part of the old Jewish Quarter which now houses all the best clubs and bars in Krakow. He assured us that hot mulled wine was exactly what we needed after our freezing trek through the Jewish quarter and he was absolutely right.

This is where I wish I could brag and brag about how great the Polish hospitality is or how much fun the locals are (and the other fun tourists who were on our tour), but some things you'll just have to experience on your own. ;) We had mulled wine, food, and other Polish specialties that night that left me feeling truly excited to be spending my holiday there in Krakow.