The Importance of Stuff

   I like to think that I'm not materialistic.  I really try not to be. I hate pointless shopping and the status attached to being able to pointlessly shop.  But I do attach some importance to my stuff, quite a bit more than I realized before moving to Hungary.
  Come to think of it, stuff began haunting me shortly after moving from Bend to Portland. I had frequent   panicky dreams about having left a whole lotta stuff behind in the house we sold.  In the dream, I traveled back to Bend to salvage as much stuff as I could before the new owners returned to catch me.
I would wake up with the most delicious sense of having barely gotten away with something. Shortly after waking, I'd feel crestfallen that it had all been in my head. I wanted that stuff, especially the stuff I never really had.
  Moving from Bend to Portland was a good thing and not just because we minimized our stuff volume. And we really did not get rid of all of the stuff we could have and so, before we moved to Budapest, we had yet another huge yard sale, this time to dump even more of our stuff. This time we got rid of all but ten or so small boxes of stuff, books, mostly, and a few cherished keepsakes.
  My prized Calphalon cookware collection was gone as was the dishware Boone and I were given when we got married. The excellent knife collection.  Our furniture. My plants.  It was really hard to part with those plants.
  This stuff does not haunt my dreams.  This stuff haunts my reality.  I have very brief panic attacks about not having anything, ANYTHING to sleep on, to cook with, upon our immediate return to the States. The idea of replenishing these necessities is only half appealing. The memory of my stuff is heavy on my mind.
  The good thing about all of this is realizing just how little stuff we need to get by just fine, if not ecstatically. Our current cookware collection consists of one large, enameled, Russian made stock pot, a smaller enameled sauce pan, a stainless steel sauce pan and a decent, textured skillet.  The last two items we lifted from our last place in Csillaghegy.  The stock pot and the skillet share a single, wobbly glass lid with a broken handle. I splurged on a glass, rectangular baking pan and a bread pan at IKEA along with a whisk and a ladle.  We have two cooking knives...one crappy Romanian tool with a decent handle but shitty blade, and another with an unstable handle but more quality blade.  Our plates and utensils belong to our landlord. Cooking in our kitchen, with its elderly gas stove that has no heat control numbers whatsoever, has been described as being "like camping".
  Our flat is sparsely furnished. We have a few collectibles to take back and that's it.  You get the idea.  Not so much stuff.
  I do hope this spartan sensibility carries over, to some extent, upon out return.  A real bed will feel like a naughty luxury.  A desk will feel like a decadent indulgence.  Counterspace will get me high. I will shop intelligently and discriminatingly for new cookware and treasure each piece like it was made of gold. A blender will feel outrageous.
  I am making a promise to myself to appreciate less stuff. Less is more.

Here is George Carlin's classic bit about people and their stuff:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvgN5gCuLac

For The Love of Public Art

         Cosmo, running down a trail between an abandoned tennis court and an adorned wall in Csillaghegy




Used to be that art was for the wealthy, those rich enough to commission talent.  Art was a singular kind of beautiful, defined by a small clutch of tastemakers, and cloistered within vast halls, on display for the price of admission.
 Don't get me wrong.  I love a great museum and generally think they are worth every bit of cash spent on the hour I can commit to, before I begin to get distracted and bored.
  Give me a museum over an art gallery any day.
Nowadays, seems anyone can call themselves an artist and I really think the creative world is better for it, even while some "artists" hardly deserve that particular moniker.
 Public art, for me, is just the thing.  It may be ephemeral,it may be downright tacky, it may possess an ugly/beauty, it may piss some people off, but it adds a certain something to any city or town, be it a gigantic, confusing, ill placed metal sculpture in the middle of a parkway (Bend, Oregon, you know what I mean) or a blast of vivid graffiti stretching across a low, crumbling wall.
  Public art makes me feel as if I'm walking through one of my own absurd fantasies.  It reminds me that life does not have to be dull and tedious.  It celebrates the ridiculous, praises the absurd, by turns glorifies or admonishes a community.
   Follow the link to see some gorgeous and thought-provoking photos of public art put up in abandoned spaces...one amazing piece is the abandoned space itself.  Budapest is the ideal canvas for this kind of art. http://weburbanist.com/2011/12/02/art-in-abandoned-places-14-inspiring-projects/
  

Prohasar Man opre pirende (Bury Me Standing)

Y'know, I don't think a person like me can write a blog about Hungary without mentioning, as I may have before, how comfortable too many Hungarians are with their racism.  The discrimination runs the spectrum from crass and blatant to civilized and reserved.
  The Roma occupy a despised,  oft spat upon ring of hell in the hearts of many non-Roma Hungarians.
  The extreme right wing, melodramatically nationalist political party, Jobbik, whose main platform rests on the vilification of the Hungarian Roma, posts ridiculously stereotypical and menacing photos of the Roma on their, um, enlightening web site when it's not posting pics of obese Roma children and toothless old women.
  The middle right, Fidesz, seems to basically feel the same way Jobbik does about the Roma, the difference being that Fidesz is more polite about their racism.  Brother's keeper and all of that.
  Sadly, apparently liberal Hungarians are no less disappointing. Still more polite than the center right wing folks, they nonetheless "did not want their kids hanging out with Roma friends".

  Leave it to the editors  Pesticide to calls it like they sees it.
http://www.pestiside.hu/20111206/hungarians-put-aside-differences-to-aid-romanian-children-hate-roma/

   Sadly, it gets even more cringeworthy.  I have played devil's advocate more than once and asked some of my tutoring students how they feel about the Roma.  The statement I have heard the most, verbatim, as if it was being read from a script, is "They live like animals."  When I ask what they mean by that they  answer with generalities like, "they don't like to work" or "they kill each other and live in terrible conditions". Since it is not my job to preach, I leave these answers alone and move on.  But I wonder if these kids consider the fact that the continued marginalization of the Roma may cause and exacerbate these conditions.
  The adults are not much better.  If they are not subtlely stoking the racism by avoiding real, honest discussions about the Roma they pay lip service to the idea of improving the lives of these Hungarians only to treat the Roma like naughty children, viewed as unintelligent and incapable of self sufficency. I've found it's best not to ask anyone about the Roma if you dont want to be profoundly, sickeningly disappointed.
  I've not had many experiences with the Roma...the one time I did was on the tradional "leave your trash out" day in my district.  A Roma family asked me, very politely, if I needed help getting rid of any unwanted stuff in my garage.  I tried to explain to them that I had nothing, that I moved here from the U.S. and that any stuff that I have is there.  They must have misunderstood me because they came back the next day, with an English speaker, to ask if I found anything I did not want .  I simply answered no, smiled, they smiled back, and were on their way.  I never felt in danger or that they would try to break into my house...I think it's safe to say most Hungarians would have been on high alert after such an exchange.
The following is the bulk of my direct knowledge about the Roma:

Yes, they keep to themselves.  Who wouldn't amid the palpable hatred?

They do seem, like many marginalized, impoverished groups, to resort to petty and/or organized crime.  I've never been impacted by it, except by the blatant prostitution that takes place below Nyugati trian station. But who makes up the market for this crime? The non-Roma, by far.

Speaking of the Nyugati basement, plenty of honest businesses are run down there, many by Roma proprietors.

A friend of mine was once hassled on a bus by a group of Romani men...they were teasing her, demanding her groceries.  She handled it with typical aplomb, planned an escape route and everything, only to watch these men leave the bus before she did.  The bus was full...certainly most of the other riders knew what was happening, but none of these saintly folks did anything to help her.

It is assumed that Romani children do not want to learn, although many educators beg to differ.  All children want to learn.

The Roma have been ruthlessly hassled by Jobbik and the Magyar Garda for no other reason that the assumption that "gypsy crime" is a humongous problem and needs to be monitored by a group of nasty, racist, "citizen" police.

The Roma suffered under Nazism more than any other group, second only to Jewish citizens.

The word "cigány" is the Hungarian word for "gypsy".  Both terms are deemed derogatory by the Roma themselves (although there may be a kind of "taking back" sentiment among the Roma as far as the term is concerned) and yet it is everywhere in Hungary...from "cigány limonadé" to "cigány wine".

I'm indulging in an on-going research project, about the Roma, of my own design.  My knowledge is below elementary so I'm on a quest to know more.  I will most likely be sharing my findings from time to time on this blog.
If you are interested, here are some links to check out, concerning the Roma, a people rejected by almost every nation on earth.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-13544903

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/sep/16/roma-europe-pariah-people

http://peshasgypsyblog.blogspot.com/

http://hungarianwatch.wordpress.com/2011/03/18/neo-nazis-terrorize-roma-in-hungarian-village/

The Beanstalk from Another Angle

  I remember happening upon this film in the early eighties, flipping through the channels one Sunday afternoon when nothing but golf or infomercials were on.  To this day I'm not sure why I watched the thing from beginning to end...the weirdness alone must have mesmerized me. It truly made my lonely, wintry Sunday and I've been on the look out for it ever since.  Lo and behold, the interweb and all its magic brought this hilarious nightmare back to me.  This ain't yo mama's Jack And The Beanstalk.
  I do remember noticing how much the animation reminded me of my beloved Speed Racer.  Anime, as a genre, was not on my radar at the time, but after watching this film, the groundwork was laid for my future fandom.
  Throughout the whole movie a thread of menace winds it way.  The goofy doggy sidekick, the cute enchanted mice, nor the effervescent music can obscure that uncomfortable feeling.  Maybe it's the monstrous musician, who swaps the beans for Jack's cow, and his demonic organ music, or the way Jack's mother beats the hell out of him for selling the cow for those beans. I don't know...but things only get more uncomfortable after the beanstalk rockets into the sky, into the realm of a suspiciously spaced out princess and her cannibalistic captors. As for Jack, he frolics in and out of danger like a young, animated Buster Keaton sporting a killer mullet. His dog, Crosby, and the battalion of magical mice provide the moral fiber in this version of the classic tale.
  Some of my adult friends who have watched this version have said things like, "I find most fairytales to get creepier the older I get" and "There's almost too much to process." The soundtrack alone is fascinating but not easly digested.
  The whole movie is available on Youtube.  Watch it...you may wish you could but you won't be able to look away.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tnd3MFBink4&feature=share

I Speak of The Trees

    


  The trees of Hungary are the most expressive I've ever seen.  Black locust, sycamore, chesnut, beech, birch, and a great number of fruit trees (with the help of enthusiastic pollarding) grow eagerly and generously, sometimes into startlingly humanoid forms.  So many of these Hungarian trees look to be possessed with dryads, the moment of a spirit's birth frozen within the deep ridges of bark.

  I go to Margitsziget with Cosmo quite frequently and I've become acquainted with the "tree people" of the island which make it a treasured destination for the denizens of Budapest. Tourists visit frequently as well but they never seem quite as concentrated here as they do in other tourist hot spots (i.e. the Castle District).
  I love all of the trees on the island.  They all seem so eager to communicate with the humans, beckoning with delicately budding branches, foliage singing in the breezes rising from the river. This is the kind of talk that inspires Boone and Aidan to call me "fern-sniffer".

  But really, please.  The trees.  They are totally ent-like.  But one tree in particular is the star  performance artist among them. It's an elderly hedgeapple tree (Maclura pomifera), or bebiztosít almafa in magyar.  It seems to writhe in an agonizing dance of supplication but is, of course, completely still. A woody tableau of tortured surreal naturalism.

  This tree could have starred in a cameo in "Pan's Labyrinth" or any number of Tim Burton flicks. From a small distance it looks sculptural, not necessarily so animated, kind of invites you to climb all over it once you move in a bit closer.  It is awkwardly twisted but sturdy with roughly textured bark that looks (and presumably feels) like dinosaur skin. You might find yourself thinking of an ancient Hungarian nagypapa whose lap is a safe haven for his grandchildren.
  In that case, you might be fooled.  Up close, the old tree doesn't really look like the sanctuary it seems from afar. When I first came upon the tree, I kinda felt as if I had walked in on something that did not wish to be interrupted.  Some sort of creation drama was going on here. One that might be dangerous to witness.

  Creatures seem to be issuing forth from this tree, taking a glacier's age to complete the cycle.  Or maybe, as sometimes happens between the pupal and larval stages of development, the metamorphosis merely halted for reasons only mother nature can tell.
  But look...here's some baby dinosaurs struggling to break free from the base of the trunk.

   And here's an owl with a cute, cocked little head, watching the world pass by.

  I'm not sure what's happening on this part of the trunk.  A diabolical pair of conjoined twins, lying upon
the placenta from which they just emerged?

Or perhaps a multi-taloned spirit animal/totem phantom whom the Hungarian gods of old carved with wind and water?

  And here's the cudgel which guards this arrested development.  Whomping Willow?  Meh...

  Looks like someone tried to prune the old tree a bit too severely.  What became of the person who inflicted this wound? Looks painful...

    This tree's intrigue is not just bark deep. Parts of the trunk seem to be almost petrified...the exposed areas reveal satiny, sensual, tiger's eye patterns on the naked wood.  These parts tempt you to stroke them.  I, of course, obliged.  I swear I could hear the tree purrrrrrrrrr......

  I'll be seeing this tree again soon.  I'll go back, after the slick from this old hedgeapple's rotten fruits has been washed away by these early winter rains, to look and to listen to any more stories or secrets it wants to reveal and to stroke its silky wood.  I like to think this tree and I at least have an understanding, if not the beginnings of some sort of friendship.

Here They Come

Krampusz and Mikulás....golden switches or chocolates for you? x

Against My Better Judgement...

....and against my personal style.  But I love this Cheshire Cat Snuggie.  It'd make an awesome blanket as well, no?   Thanks, Dangerous Minds!  http://www.dangerousminds.net/comments/cheshire_cat_snuggie

Mittel Duna

I walk back and forth across Margit Hid a couple of times a day almost every day.  Even if I'm on my way to a tutoring gig, I usually stop once or twice just to take in the beauty that is Budapest.  Margit Hid, arguably the city's most beloved (or at least well-trod) bridge apart from Lánchíd, offers the best view of Országház in Pest and Várhegy in Buda, with the Freedom Statue on Géllert Hill rising between them in the southern distance. Classic postcard shot, unachievable with my digital camera.
 The much less magnificent, distant view north along the Danube, could well be Spokane, Washington, that is, if you look well past Margitsziget, which lies just off the middle angle of Margit Hid.
  So, I'm usually looking at the horizon, north or south.
A couple of weeks ago, I was walking across the bridge one night and happened to look down.  Probably saw something shiny. Then I heard voices rising, apparently from the river's surface  I looked further down and saw a couple of young hippies on the now visible dirt and pebble abutment at the middle of the bridge.  Couldn't figure out how those two got down there.  Rope?  Boat?  'Twas a mystery until I noticed how low the water was, and that it was now possible to walk from Margitsziget to the tip of the abutment.
  Those snidelys at that smart assy online rag, Pestcide, reminded me today that I can and should venture down to the bare abutment while it is still accessible...http://www.pestiside.hu/20111129/to-do-while-you-can-walk-around-margit-bridges-central-abutment/
Think I'll take Cosmo there tomorrow.
I love cheap thrills. x

You're Just Supposed To Do It

    Whimsically profound British troubador, Robyn Hitchcock, once sang about Gene Hackman, "and when he smiles, there's trouble somewhere".
  I doubt Robyn was referring to Gene's character in "The Conversation" because in this film, Hackman's character, surveillance expert Harry Caul, rarely cracks a smile, if ever. There is, however, plenty of trouble and Harry Caul is in the middle of it.
  The movie's all about spying for hire, the questionable ethics of that field, and the paranoia which is inherent. It's also a compelling mystery which ends with a disturbing twist, filmed in a San Francisco that has lost its innocence, seeming as shell-shocked as Harry Caul himself.
  Director Francis Ford Coppolla was on a creative roll here.  "The Conversation" was shot and released the same year as  "The Godfather Part II" and both movies won awards in 1974.  The haunting piano instrumental soundtrack sounds like saloon music from the city's 49ers era whose composer spent a little time with the hippies on Haight-Ashbury.  Slightly boozy bordering on strung out but beautiful nonetheless.
  I have seen this movie several times, but  have been wanting to see it again recently.  It might be available somewhere in Budapest but I'm not sure where to look. Alas, it's not available at our neighborhood DVD joint, The Odeon.
  Might have to resort to iTunes.  Ah well.  It will be worth it.
  If your curiosity is piqued, watch this trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34BRG_K1X4o
here's the theme song:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUsEIdHxBPk
  

Black Friday, Etc.

Stay home, I say, and watch this movie.  It's free! http://www.revbilly.com/chatter/blog/2011/21/a-buy-nothing-day-gift-what-would-jesus-buy

When Black Friday Comes

   When Black Friday comes, my pretties......

May you find yourself getting up early, not to make a mad dash to the nearest big box retailer, but only to shuffle sleepily to the fridge to fetch a leftover piece of pumpkin pie to accompany that nice, hot cup of coffee you just brewed for yourself.

May you ignore that wicked little voice which tells you you'd better get out there and shop because there are once a year deals to be had.  It's not true. http://money.bundle.com/article/5-top-myths-about-saving-money-black-friday Relax and enjoy your day off, away from the madness. (More Black Friday truths can be found here: http://finance.yahoo.com/news/5-reasons-skip-black-friday-164603988.html
Pay particular attention the the part about "frenzied shopping".  I'm actually surprised this showed up on Yahoo's home page.



You know that word "savvy" you see in articles and advertisements, referring to you, the intrepid shopper?  It's flattery.  Ignore it. Stay home in your pajamas.

If you do venture out into the madness....remember that bright, shiny thingy looks much sexier and more useful in its store display than it will back at home, away from the fluorescent glare. Take cover in a coffee shop or better yet, go back home. Watch a movie.  You won't miss a thing.

May you lack the desire to be part of the embarrassing spectacle that is Black Friday shopping, an entirely commercially concocted American holiday of its own, a day which brings out the very worst primal behavior in people.  Seriously, we have to resort to these measures to go to the damn store?
http://blogs.laweekly.com/informer/2010/11/black_friday_shoppers_continue.php
Folks die during this unbridled consumer madness. Shame.

Having dismissed the idea of joining the Black Friday folly, if you find yourself in front of your computer may you visit the following link, for fun and edutainment: http://www.revbilly.com

I'll leave you with a quote I found on Rev. Billy's website, coined by a German blogger named Luisa Franca. Remember the Bob Dylan tune "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding"..."he not busy being born is busy dying"?
  Luisa's twist, heavy with relevance, "she not busy being born is busy buying."
Stop Shopping. x

Dervish of Buda, Father of Roses

  After work this evening, I took the short, precipitous stroll up to Gül Baba's mausoleum.  The Turkish poet's tomb is Islam's northernmost pilgrimage site. He died here after a battle in 1541. Legend has it that he introduced roses to the city, although roses had grown in Hungary long before the Ottoman invasion. The hill on which the tomb rests is called Rozsádomb, or Rose Hill. The old man has quite a view of the city from up there!

Someone Else's Shoes

  

  I saw these shoes the other day, tucked neatly away inside the nook of a large building on Bálint Balassi utca.  Decent pair of kicks, even without the laces.  Who and why, I wondered.... x

Me, On The Edge of Creativity

  Something strange happened last night.  Strange but very cool.  I'm not sure how to proceed or even if I can. It was all in my head anyway.
  Yesterday evening, I was in our kitchen washing up some dishes after preparing the marinade for our fajitas.  Fajitas are one of our comfort foods, whose ingredients are easily procured from the ABC downstairs.  It was a comfort food night, cold and smoggy.
   I was at the kitchen sink, staring down into the bubbly dish water, when I began to feel slightly faint.  I tried to ignore it, thinking it would pass.  I'd been sick  so feeling kind of woozy has been my status of late.
  It got worse.  Quickly.  Soon my vision was blurry and my body began to feel icy and numb.  I felt as if I might vomit if I stood there any longer so I shuffled out of the kitchen, turning briefly to tell Aidan and Boone, "I feel sick".  I travelled through what felt like a nauseating worm hole to my bedroom, dark and warm, and plopped face first onto the bed, clumsily wrapping myself in the tangled duvets.  I'm not one to make my bed on a daily basis.
  Boone followed shortly to check on me, asked if I was okay, and I said I was, as long as I could just lay  there for a few minutes.
  As I lay there, the spins slowly easing and the nausea retreating, I began to have visions....yes, visions, but only inside my head.  They came without any effort, seemingly on their own, like an internal reel of clips.  There were faces, scenes, animals, all presented in different styles from animation to abstract expressionism.  I realized they were ideas...ideas for drawings, collages, photographs.  Coming from me.  But I had no way to hold onto them.  Nothing stuck.
  This visual process was backed up by the most intense aural hallucinations I've ever had.  Sometimes between wake and sleep, my brain cooks up melodies and harmonies, sometimes with vocals, which lull me sweetly into dream land.  These compositions almost always disappear upon waking and I'm never sure whether or not they are mixed up regurgitations of the music I listen to on a daily basis.
  The music I heard inside my head last night was all me. Like the visions, they seemed to come on their own.  They sounded original and seemed unreferenced. To me, they sounded beautiful.  I wanted to hold them down, rmember them.  But like the visions they were slippery and would not stick.
  Now, I swear I had not taken anything to induce this little mind trip, which sounds a whole lot like an acid flashback.  No cold meds, nothing, just a few sips of hot wine passed my lips last night.
  Whatever it was, I loved it.  I felt joy.  I rarely feel joy, I feel her fleeting past from time to time but rarely able to catch her by the tail.
  I stayed in my cocoon of duvets for a half hour, perhaps, I couldn't tell because the dimension of time wasn't discernable to me then. I was lost in this wonderland of creative bliss.
  When I finally arose, heading back into the kitchen to complete my tasks and eat my fajita, (Boone had popped the marinating chicken into the oven) my body was shaking but my mind was as clear as crystal.  I was also ravenous.  I made short work of my fajita, declaring happily, "I will never get tired of these."
  I realize that this experience is probably nothing that unusual.  Who knows what we as individuals go through on a daily basis, unshared, unspoken.  But I really felt like this was a message from my higher self (who seems to have been on a decades long retreat) to my conscious self. Look what you can do.  See what you could have done. Enjoy a glimpse of could have been, what might still be. Do it.  That part of the experience is still not quite evident.  All I know is that I came out of this episode curious, content, and incredibly hungry.
  

Breakables, etc

  I've been pretty good with money since landing in Budapest.  I've been forced to be so....iffy pay schedules and "feast or famine" tutoring scenarios kind of made it so.
  I have managed to acquire a few precious items in the past year, things that will be beautiful functional  reminders of our time in Europe.  Wanna see?

  This little collection represents three countries.  The red plate is from the Czech Republic, and at eight euro, a screamin' deal.  The blue plate is from the Tihany Peninsula, Lake Balaton, Hungary.  That blue is so deep, so vibrant, so marine, a person might be tempted to dive right into it. I love the whimsical horse design on it as well. The small floral dish is a gift from Debra, who purchased it in Paris.  My own little piece of the City of Lights.

  This plate is from a gift shop which sits beneath the shadow of the mighty, Hunyadivár, that vast and brooding fortress in Hunedoara, Romania. The "tree of life" motif is widespread in the former "greater Hungary".  Pre-Christian Magyars believed this tree held up the sky, kept it from falling to earth.

  This goofy little group warms my heart. I had been lusting after this cat clock since moving over to Pest.  Each time I'd stroll down the körút this past summer, I'd eyeball this kitty, confident that I was the only one who wanted him.  Other clocks from his storefront display window appeared and disappeared, but the cartoon cat stayed.  It was meant to be....since I stated quite bluntly to the boyz that all I wanted for my birthday was that clock.  I think the fact that I miss Zissou so intensely kind of inflamed my desire for this clock.  Well, the dear boyz heard me, bless their hearts, they heard me, and now he sits safely on a shelf with his pals marzipan Krampusz and the darling little stone turtle that Dean sent to me, his head snapped from his body in transit.  Where's the damn superglue, anyway? x

Exquisite Truth Comes to The 4/6 Villamos

                                                            
                                                         4/6 tram, on its way around the ring road


  From a Facebook post from Dan Schwartz,  owner of the wonderful Treehugger Dan's Used Book Shops here in Budapest:

On the 4-6 tram last night 2 Hungarian school girls were trying to practice their French with each other and not getting very far - their vocabulary consisting mostly of snippets from pop songs. In steps a homeless man who starts chatting to them and correcting them in French, and then another young guy joins the conversation...


  This snippet from the day in a life says so much, not only about Budapest or Hungary, but also about the state of the world at large.  School girls, the possibility of a bright future ahead, learning French from pop songs. Educated homeless man, down on his luck, but up on his French. Young boy, also apparently fluent.


  I guess the truth is that you never can tell.  The old cliche of books and covers comes into play.  Humanity is much too comfortable with our lazy assumptions and this is so important to remember these days as jobs around the world are scarce. All of that fancy education may mean nothing, may get you nowhere, and you may find yourself on public transportation, listening to some whippersnapper reciting shallow pop songs in flippant French.


  The 4/6 tram is a constantly revolving stage of live theater.  I should listen more.  I'm usually hyper-focused when I'm on the tram (almost everyday), since that is how I handle being in among the crowd.

Oh Yeah, Krakow

                                        Boone, just outside Florian's Gate, where the barbicon once stood

    Despite my previous lag in travel writing, I can't allow our trip to Krakow to remain undocumented. It's just too swell a city not to talk about.  Four central European cities stand out as the jewels in the old Habsburg crown: Vienna, Prague, Budapest and Krakow.  I've seen them all now and love each of them for their distinct moods and personalities.  Krakow felt the most special, perhaps because its continued efforts to pick up the scattered, tattered pieces of its tragic, not so distant past, are solemnly evident  This is a gravely beautiful city still wrestling with the pallid, ever present ghost of the Holocaust, trying to keep that spectre at bay without denying its existence.

  Auschwitz is about a half hour drive from the city.  There are tour groups, buses galore that will take you to the camp complex, oftentimes as part of a package with a visit to the Wieliczka salt mine, where one can see an entire chapel carved out of rock salt.  

  We did neither of these tours...we wanted to devote an entire day to Auschwitz, knowing that the visit and all of its gravity required some time for thought and emotional recovery, and on this trip, we felt we just didn't have that time.

  Thing is, Aidan wasn't sure he could handle the intensity of these emotions, so we decided to visit later next year, when he feels ready.  I know I would be kind of a wreck for a day or so.  Boone has been to Auschwitz twice and can testify as to the chilling sadness that does and should set in.  Nonetheless, I think it is very important for us to go, to see, and to pay respect to the dead somehow by allowing ourselves feeling that intense emotional pain for awhile. We will do that before we leave Europe.

   Since we were staying a few blocks from Glowny Square, it was easy for us to focus on today's Krakow, enjoy its grey lady allure, cloaked in thick mist spiked with the sharp, coppery hues of autumn. I even had a mental soundtrack running through my head, songs by Marianne Faithfull and Thurston Moore, parts of a compilation cd we listened to driving up throught the mountains of Slovakia, thanks to the thoughtful and generous Dean Volker.   A few of my favorites from the cd ran on a loop through my brain the whole time we were away from Budapest. The Blind Faith tune "Can't Find My Way Home"  found a warm spot and wedged into my cerebral cortex as well...it was the first song I heard coming out of the speaker in the comfy common room of our hostel. It seemed to work with the mood of the city on that first, foggy day.

                                                   Wawel Castle, on the banks of the Wisla River

                                                      Smok Wawelski, the Dragon of Wawel Hill

                                                         view from our hostel balcony, looking toward the Wisla River

                                 Wawel Castle, looking like a colossal land ship navigating the seas of time

                                                                    Katyn's memorial, at the base of the castle wall

                                                                                                dusky serenade

      Food  is always a very important part of any trip to parts previously unknown.  The food we wanted to eat in Krakow just happened to be incredibly affordable.  We dined mainly on pierogis and brothy soups, which kept our bellies full and our bones warm during our stay.  

  Krakow, like most other central European cities, hosts a bustling cafe culture.  Stop at any coffee shop on or around Glowny Square and you are sure to find the richest espressos, the most fragrant teas.  I indulged in the delectably complex, almost pudding-like hot chocolate. This ain't no Swiss Miss, my dears.

                                                   "you must stir this chocolate before drinking..."

                                                                                      yes, I licked the cup clean

      

                      U Stasi, old commie "milk bar" where the food is cheap and delicious.  It is served up at super sonic speed....get 'em in, get 'em out, no time for lingering table talk!

    When and wherever I travel, I tend not toward the big tourist draws, the stuff in all of the guide books. And while I don't blame anyone for wanting to see the big sites, all of which are worth the time, I prefer to wander the streets for aspects of a city's true personality.  I've said it before, and I don't mean to sound smug, but I feel that once you've seen a couple of churches in central Europe (with a few exceptions) you've seen them all.  Their hallowed chilliness gets old, makes me tired. I'm also not a fan of the cliched  tourist composition that consists of a cluster of people grinning at the foot of an otherwise stunning monument.  I'm fine with tourist shots, but prefer the candid ones, and definitely ones without me in them.  I don't need to prove I've been there.  No, I like to people watch, focus on the locals, and snap

 shots of them when I can.  I enjoy capturing the small oddities of a place and while I am capable of enjoying a grand view, it's the small vignettes that really speak to me. 

                                                                      Glowny Square

                                                                                                Glowny Square

                             She was handing out fliers for an Auschwitz/Salt Mine tour, pushing a pram with a doll inside

                                    Bird Man of Glowny Square...central Europeans enjoy pigeons rather than curse them

                                     living statue...throw a zloty into his bowl, watch him dramatically change position

                         I'm always charmed by bike vignettes, especially ones like this, featuring a crocheted bike warmer

         Our last day was spent in and around the old Jewish Quarter of Krakow. It was once bustling and lively, pre WWII.  Today, the neighborhood is working hard to regain its old vibrancy and doing a damn fine job of it, but you can still feel a bit of the silent emptiness that will perhaps never be filled. 

  Now the neighborhood is once again full of friendly cafes and little hole in the wall restaurants, small but bursting outdoor markets, and a thriving community center.  This was my favorite part of town.

                                                                 restoring the old synagogue

                                                                                   Autumn hugs the synaogue wall

                                                                                        the living and the dead

                                                        memorial wall, made up of gravestones destroyed by the Nazis

                                                                 offerings for the murdered Jewish citizens of Krakow

                                                                                 scene of our last meal in Krakow

                                                              potato pancakes smothered in savory stew. scruptious!

   We all fell in love with Krakow....Aidan intoned, almost under his breath, "I really like it here".  If you find yourself in central Europe, make Krakow a priority.  I predict that you will fall in love as well. x