Wood Sorrel Can Bloom Pink

West Coast Canada Represent or Mountains Mountains Mountains

2011-12-29T11:46:00.005-08:00

2011 was a travel year. After a bike trip through Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia-Hercegovinia, Montenegro, and Albania, we hopped to England, then the United States and finally to Canada. Our trip across the United States was like a never ending movie reel--Vibrant Vermont colors, rain soaked Great Lakes towns, armpit strip malls in Illinois, beige frozen fields from Minnesota through South Dakota, the deep Bad lands and the endless bill boards for road side attractions. We were quieted by the yellow and brown emptiness that was Wyoming and tramped through Yellow Stone National Park (stopped for a glimpse of those coughing geysers). Then flew across the highway in Montana, catching a glimpse of Idaho as we quickly descended into the dry prairie of Eastern Washington state, and then were sucked quickly into the rain and gaping temperate rain forests of the coastal mountains. Whew. By the time we reached Whistler, BC, our destination, my brain was spinning with pictures.

East Coast Americans aren't too sure what Whistler is. Many have some dim memory of possible Olympic Games. You can be sure that they've never heard of Pemberton, BC, the town next door with a history of farming, horses and gold. Pemberton is where we settled--due to cheaper rental prices, and a good 25 minutes respite from the resort mania that Whistler generates--and on clear days, snow streaked Mount Currie towers over us from 2,591 meters or 8,501 feet. (On other days, it is entirely enveloped by fog). The area was first settled by the Salish tribe of First Nations people, and now the neighboring town of Mt. Currie serves as the administrative seat of the Lil'Wat Nation. It was settled later by pioneers who were not-the-faint-of-heart. For a long time, you had to take a ferry from Vancouver to Squamish, and then travel by rutted dirt road up over the mountains and into the Pemberton Valley. Now, after a revamped highway due to the 2010 Olympics, Vancouver is a 2.5 hour car trip away. Because of its proximity to the Whistler Blackcomb ski mountain, Pemberton is one of the fastest growing communities in BC, though it lies in a low valley susceptible to floods. Here there are a few interesting juxtapositions--old farms with white fences stretching along the river bed and new condos built in a "frontier style." There are hunters and fishers and potato farmers living next to Whistler marketing managers, writers, artists and moms who jog with SUV strollers. The scenery is stunning.

Mile One Lake

Top of Whistler Mountain

Postcard from Olomouc

2011-12-02T10:20:00.007-08:00

Jen and I took the train to Olomouc . Olomouc is a small city tucked into Northern Moravia in the Czech Republic, and it boasts two main squares, a Socialist themed Astronomical clock and a very large Holy Trinity Column which in part celebrates the end of the Plague. It also houses the densest number of university students in Central Europe, including a Theology Faculty at the Palacký University of Olomouc. We saw many young men in black robes roaming the streets before and after Sunday Mass. Church spires gleamed brilliantly in the cold, spring sun, and their bells pierced the air.
(March 2011)

Belgrade

2011-08-19T01:27:00.001-07:00

From Podgorice, we took a night bus to Belgrade. Arrived at 5am, and wandered like ghosts until the bakery opened. Saw this graffiti on a street in the center. "Smrt" means "death". Dunno about the cyrilics, anyone?

Leaving Albania and heading North

2011-08-19T01:16:00.003-07:00

What else would you rather do than cycle in mid-August at one pm in Albania on a highway that is being completely reconstructed? Nothing!

We said farewell to our friends in Tirana, young and old, and took a bus to Skodra, at the side of Lake Skodra. All attempts to find another bus to take us to the capital of Montenegro, Podgorice, failed. The road it turned out, was bad. Not bad, one taxi driver told us, very bad. We bought gyros at a fast food shop, and a guy eating pizza started chatting with us. Turned out he had lived in Michigan for six years. "You're going to cycle on that road?" He raised his eyebrows. "I just drove on it, it's terrible."

Lacking another choice, we went for it. The only positive part of the experience was that no one drove fast, as the gravel, dirt and rocks prohibited it. Giant trucks passed us constantly, and our mouths, nose and ears filled up with dust. The heat beat down. We passed an old bunker that had been refashioned into a tattoo studio. We finally reached the border with Montenegro, saw the lake again, and headed for the city.

The cold water spring Part II

2011-08-16T23:19:00.005-07:00

Even in the mountains, the heat was intense during the day. After doing some garden work, and eating the required hot milk with pieces of bread breakfast, and listening to the cranky old men, and washing some dishes, we holed up in our quarters (the family room that Hysni kept locked when he wasn't there. All rugs, blankets and a fireplace.) We listened to the BBC worldservice somewhat relentlessly. Clarence and Orgys were bored by this, so they disapeared to swim or fish, or ride the donkey down at the farm.

One morning, an old man from the farm below, also a down and out pensioner who Hysni had taken in, came into the garden where we were working. He said a lot of things in Albanian, and then took the garden hoe from me, to show me how to do it. There was only one hoe, so I began pulling weeds with my hands. "He says don't pull them with your hands, only with the tool," translated Orgys. The old man kept on with the hoe, and the rest of us stood around, watching him. Very efficient, very Albanian.
When the old man finally left, Orgys was mad. "He said Clarence and I stole his mobile," Orgys said. "He saw us at the farm, and he thinks we took his mobile." Orgys kicked the dirt. "He's a stupid man," he said, bitterly. I didn't disagree.

There was a spring from the earth ten minutes down the hill, and since the old men regulated their water pump with a Fascist spirit, we started collecting water there quite often. (Indeed, why didn't they tell us about it sooner? We were strong and capable, and very willing to please, we would have hauled water all day if they wanted). It was Monday, and it was reported that Hysni was coming to fetch us, and so both sides were happy. Michal and I went down to the spring to get water, and wash, and pick plums. The path there was steep and shady. Water poured from a fixed spigot, and the air was fresh and cool. Plum trees were everywhere, and yellow and purple fruit spilled onto the ground. We were filling our bottles when suddenly, out of no where, the tall, skinny frame of the mute man Boujar appeared, carrying an empty jug to fill.
"Hysni!" he gasped, though it sounded more like "Hoos!" He pointed at his wrist to indicate time, and then waved his arm wildly towards the house. "Hoos!"
"Hysni is coming? Now?" Michal and I looked at each other. Boujar repeated his message, stamping his feet impatiently.
"Ok, we get it." We nodded vigorously, and this satisfied Boujar for a minute. We stood surveying the cool scene. Then "Birra!" Boujar mouthed, making the motion of drinking from a can. He pointed to us, to him, to the can. "Birra!" He made a gesture that looked like money.
"Ah, he wants us to buy him beer," said Michal. Boujar nodded vigorously, and then said "Shhh!" and put a finger to his lips, his face utter seriousness. "Shhh!" and a slapping motion on his face.
"Don't tell anyone," we translated. He waved his finger in the air to say "no no no."
"Ok," we nodded. Boujar looked happy.
Michal took his jug to fill, and as he bent down to the water, Boujar put his arm around me. He made grunting sounds as he was wont to do, and then, as I didn't know what to do, he got closer. I felt his unshaved, concave cheek next to mine, and I smelled cigarettes. He gave me a passionate kiss on the cheek, which was enough for me. I moved away.

For a 50 year old man, Boujar was very weak. He couldn't carry the jug up the hill and neither could he walk 20 steps without a break. He slapped his legs and shrugged to show that they were weak. We waited for him under the fig trees as he caught his breath, and then he pointed at me, Michal, him and made the motion of an airplane. "Take me with you," he was saying. He looked defeated and repeated the motion. "Take me away with you."

When we returned, Michal bribed the men with money and beer. Boujar always waving his finger and saying "shhh!" The men looked happier for a while, but even this gift couldn't shift their position of being poor, family-less men in a rich family man's world. We learned after we left that they had all been transferred to the village from the city because they were capable of working, and because perhaps they didn't fit in in the house in Tirana. The crabbiest old man, it turned out, was an alcoholic who had mistakenly set his room on fire.

Hysni arrived with his brother, Clarence and Orgys's father. Their father was short and smiling, with a limp because of a bad hip. He spoke a bit of German, and was excited to show off his gun, talk about life, and his sons. We were sitting out in the yard as the sun was setting over the mountains, and Orgys's dad said to us " You did some good work here, the men are lazy, so you showed them how the house can look." We smiled uncertainly and then he turned to Boujar. He loudly mimicked his grunting sounds,and rolled his eyes. "You're lazy," he said to Boujar. "You're lazy and stupid." Boujar grunted and then nodded, and then sat down. This was all through Orgys's translation, so Michal and I sat politely, in disbelief. Orgys started talking about something else, and Clarence munched peanut snacks from a plastic bag that later he threw on the ground. Boujar looked blue.
"Hey," said Michal, putting a hand on Boujar's shoulder. "Ok?"
Boujar grunted, and nodded his head.
The twilight turned into dark.

The village behind Mt Dajt Part I

2011-08-15T09:56:00.008-07:00

We drove into the village on a streambed. The Mitsubishi Galloper was flying like in a comic book, Hysni at the wheel smoking Marlboros and an older fellow from the home next to him, quietly throwing up out the window. "The road is good at the beginning," Hysni had told us through the translation of his 14-year-old nephew, Orgys. "It's bad at the end." To us, it hadn't even been a road. But in Albania, we quickly learned, the possible and impossible have a very blurred relationship.
Orgys was our teenage-going-on-forty-year-old friend and translator. He and his younger brother Clarence and Michal and I were packed into the back seat with all our luggage. We were headed to a small village behind Mt. Dajt, 20 kilometers or so from Tirana, where the Kuka clan was originally from. Hysni had a few of his elderly poor men living out here, and we were going to help them. We weren't sure how exactly we would help, but help we would.
At our arrival there was much fuss, and neighbors, dogs and cows greeted us. The small house where two men lived was fairly basic, with cement floors and some cots and a basic kitchen. It turned out that most mountain people cooked on a wood fired outdoor stove, and they even baked bread inside of it.
"bukë" (say boook) means bread in Albanian, and is synonomous with the word food. "ujë" (say the oy of boy) means water. I will never in all my life forget these two words, as they were the constant conversation topics in that house. Either there wasn't enough, it wasn't satisfactory, or in the case of water, the men needed a whole lot of it to pour into their washing machine--the one modern appliance in their small homestead. But this all comes later.

When Hysni was there, we visited nearby cousins and neighbors, and at every stop we were plied with strong turkish coffee boiled over gas camping stoves, and strong Rakije (plum or grape alcohol--homemade of course!) We had meat, soup and bread. The men smoked and discussed. When Hysni left, with a calf and lamb strapped into a trailer, banging back down the streambed, we learned that the men of the house had opinions about us being there. Their opinion, it turned out, was not a favorable one. The cranky ring leader, whose name I never learned, bossed. The tall, gaunt mute man named Boujar, was bossed. The quiet man who had come with us (throwing up) became ornery and opinionated, though we didn't understand him. It quickly became clear that they didn't want to share their scarce water with us, nor their food.

Orgys, still looking like a young boy, called the men dajë (judgay) meaning uncle, and in turn they called him djalë (dyal), meaning boy. And the kids we met in Albania were super subservient to adults, in a way that American children would be amazed and then scared about. So the cranky old man bossed Orgys too, and he translated for us. So then, we were bossed as well.

Luckily we were given the garden as a task, so I was happy to pull weeds from the tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers. You could hear the tinkling of cow and sheep bells from every vantage point, and the mountains were a panarama. My other task, it became clear, was to cook. Duh! I was a woman, what was wrong with me? The men had ideas about what I should cook, how I should serve it, when I should wash the dishes. But they wouldn't do those things, only knew how I should do them. It took a couple of days to learn their wishes, but being a pleaser, I did. I washed a lot of dishes, heating water on the outdoor stove, and lugging fresh water from a underground spring, which was down a steep hill. The men usually sat outside in the yard, smoked and talked. They talked late into the night "blah blah blah bukë! blah blah blah ujë!" and then woke up early in the morning, and talked some more. We wondered that they never ran out of conversation topics, but talk they did. They smoked, sat around, and then did some washing in their washing machine.

(to be continued)

The scenery

The house

Boujar and Michal

Orgys in the creek

Orgys and Clarence with their dad and his gun. Which he shot off for us. "Only for protection," he said. Then strung a bullet belt around his waist.

The glasses series

2011-08-05T06:12:00.005-07:00

The Kuka's cement terrace has no shortage of stuff scattered around. Tidiness is not next to Godliness here in Albania, there are bigger things to think about. We found some broken glasses, and here is the photo series that followed:

A tent in Tirana

2011-08-05T06:02:00.005-07:00

We set up our tent on the breezy, cement terrace of the Kuka family's house, which both confused the parents and delighted the kids. Hysni Kuka pointed at our Coleman blow up mattresses and then held his back, indicating we would have a painful if not crippling experience sleeping there. In three minutes, kids were lugging up mattresses to the second floor terrace, and in five minutes our tent had transformed into a certain type of bed heaven. We just hoped the mattresses weren't from the beds of any old, ailing old folks.
It looked like the kids had never seen a tent before, and they were in and out of the thing like lightening, testing out the headlamps, sleeping bags and our bike helmets with gusto. "tent! tent!" they tried out the new English word.
Below the terrace is the small, but lively street. The cafe and betting shop and the corner store all in the same house, people are chatting, playing football, preteen boys are constantly testing their strength and machoism with short and passionate fights, and then there are the dogs and cats, slinking around, looking for delicious morsels of trash (to be found everywhere).
It's like a mini village in a corner of the capital city.

A little bit about volunteering in Tirana

2011-08-03T07:50:00.003-07:00

"Hello," says Jenny. Then, pointing at herself, she says, "Emri im është Jenny" (My name is Jenny). "Ju?"
"Sarah," I say.
"Ah, Sarah," she says. She grins and the tops of her false teeth press into her gums. "Here, Tirana," she points at the floor. Ju?"
"I'm from America," I say.
"Ahh, America." Then, "I love you." Kiss on both cheeks.
A man wanders by, smoking a cigarette. He never sits down, walks up the stairs, out into the yard, onto the street, back again. His teeth are missing, and I don't know his name.
Etem takes our laundry. Through a series of gestures, and through the Italian he speaks, he makes it understood that he will do our laundry for us. "Benissimo!" He says proudly, as in, that's what your laundry will look like.
"Hello, Emri im është Jenny," says Jenny. "Ju?"
"Sarah," I say, shaking her hand.
"Ahh, Sarah. Good," says Jenny. "Here, Tirana. Ju?"
"America," I say. It goes on like that.
Four hours later our laundry is still washing in Etem's machine. "Piano, Piano," he says, adding more water into the soap loader. "Benissimo." He points at his undershirt, which I must say is quite white.

Welcome to Residence Kuka, a house for elderly people who don't have a home. We ended up here through a series of cancellations, and it isn't really in desperate need of volunteers. At least so it seems. Hysni Kuka is the man in charge, and he chain smokes Marlboro cigarettes and comes and goes from his job at the ministry. He has six brothers, and they all live in the same neighborhood in Tirana, the capital of Albania. Hysni speaks absolutely no other language besides Albanian. Some words we have in common are "system", "no problem" and "d'accord." (Ok, in French). Luckily, one brother emigrated to Germany, and is visiting with his family, so the teenage sons translate from Albanian to German, which Michal understands. I'm mostly in the dark.
"Jenny," Hysni sighs. He makes a sign at his head to indicate that she's crazy. So far, she has managed to take my phone charger and a skirt from my bag and hide them in her cupboard.
"Jenny has Alzeheimers" says Argi, the older man who speaks English. He was a professor of law and lived for years with his daughter in Istanbul until she went to study in America. Now he mostly watches TV. "When there is something missing in the house, we go and look at Jenny's room."
Hysni has three young kids and his brothers all have kids. There is a cafe connected to the house, a store, a classroom for homeless Gypsies. People pile through at different intervals, some related some not.

This morning, after we were served our breakfast in the dark little cafe of warm milk and bread (you rip up the bread into little pieces and eat it like cereal in the milk.) we went upstairs to sit with the really old folks. There are men on the third floor who look like breathing is an exercise. One man has one closed eye and then one that is far too open. He sat with his back to us, spinning a hard boiled egg on the table. The other guys told us they were 85 and 65, even though I would have guessed 95 and 75, respectively. Gena, a young nurse and teacher takes care of them. She is blond and pretty, with Cleopatra eyeliner and wears a white lab coat. When we wake up, she is cleaning the bathroom, and when we eat breakfast she is cleaning the old folks. "Do you need help?" we ask her. "No, no," She smiles.

Today a boy from Hungary is supposed to arrive, and on Sunday a girl from Austria. Michal has regaled me with volunteering stories from Montenegro and Germany through similar organizations, but this one is different. "What can we do to help this afternoon?" We ask Hysni. "Oh," he says, mumbling and shrugging and then invites us to his house where there are visitors eating fruit. "You can stay here, relax and watch tv," he has his nephew translate.

Hard work happening here in Tirana.

Ancient Roman gladiators battle in amphitheatre, Durres, Albania

2011-08-01T01:50:00.002-07:00

Gladiator Michal chose this ferocious turkey as his opponent in a true to life reenactment of an ancient Roman fight.

Map of the Journey

2011-07-30T11:11:00.006-07:00

This is a post for Andre.

The red marker is our trip so far by bike * The blue marker is our trip by train, bus and in Montenegro, in the car of a couple of Dutch Nudists. (You can click to enlarge).

We're in Durres, Albania! The roads are something special, from lovely pavement to utter dirt, potholed nothingness, and then back again. Cement trucks have dropped cement on the road that has dried into ridges and mountains, manholes are missing, and there are sheep, cows, goats, people, mopeds, donkeys and carts, and lots of Mercedes from America. ie with license plates that say "New York." They sure drive like Albanians though.
One old man in one such car, all hunched, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he approached us on a dusty, deserted dirt road in southern Montenegro. His car slowed. "Hey guys," he rasped. "Hey, how you doing?" And then he drove on.

About the Cycling

2011-07-29T06:46:00.007-07:00

Our camping place...Look how big these thorns are!

After 1,000 kilometers of cycling, we have had 15 flat tires. The heat combined with the amazing amount of thorns in these regions, has had a disasterous effect on our inner tubes. More than once I was lured off the pavement by delicious blackberries, growing thick over the rocks and fallen fences along Skoeder lake in Montenegro. And more than once I was pulling thorns from my wheel, while Michal was once again applying another patch to the inner tube, both of us cranky.

In Serbia the hardest thing was the heat. We woke up early, sometimes as early as 4am, and then cycled until 10 or 11. The heat hit hard around noon, with the cicadas screaming from their shady trees, and it hung around until 6 or 7pm. So we would laze about during the hot part of the day. We visited Monastaries and public swimming pools, ate giant watermelons in the park and sat in air conditioned, smokey cafes. Then in the evening, as the sun set, we'd put in some more kilometers, often cycling into the dark, finding a spot to put up the tent and then fall asleep.

Well, fall asleep is rather a bad way to put it. Camping alongside corn fields, on old broken roads, and by the side of the Danube (worst night of our life. A story in itself. Barges, fishermen, and one very hopeful and protective doggy, who wanted us to adopt him), it's more like dozing and waking, dozing and waking....Since we've reached the sea coast we have had to pay for more and more camping, as there are more people and less corn fields. At least there aren't anymore late night tractors, blaring up the road.

The heat wave broke while we were camping on the Boca Kotorska bay in Montenegro. Clouds rolled in, and sat heavily, looking like rain but never following through. Suddenly, it wasn't 40 degrees celsius anymore! There was a breeze! It became a perfect cycling climate. We proceeded to cycle up a lot of mountains after that, so it was a wonderful thing, this new weather pattern.

Finally, sometimes it's a question of low moral. For example, we started one day in the town of Murici, which is rock bottom sea level, on the side of Skoeder lake. And low and behold, as we climbed, we realized we were biking up a mountain. (Not a greatly detailed map, we mused). We rose 916 meters in 20 kilometers. I was really lagging, kicking and screaming, like a child. It's not til we got to the top did I sort of calm down, and think, cool. I'm glad we did that. (I also saw a viper on the side of the road that was trying to digest a big lizard, but the lizard was only halfway in its mouth. It was hard to know who was more dead at that moment, the lizard, the snake, or me).

The view from Montenegro

2011-07-25T07:03:00.003-07:00

We have been in Montenegro for six days or so, and it has been the most exciting, interesting and difficult cycling yet. From campground on the Boca Kotorska, to the mountain city of Cetinje to Lake Skoeder, to the sea coast at Ulcinj, it has been mountains, water, rocks, goats and donkeys.

Konjic, Bosnia

2011-07-25T06:20:00.003-07:00

We took a local train through the mountains to Konjic, a small town in between Sarajevo and Mostar. I'd read an article about Tito and an underground bunker he'd built here, capable of housing 350 people for 1 year, in the event of a nuclear war. Recently, they had turned the bunker (already a tourist attraction) into a gallery of contemporary art. So the article said...

The town of Konjic is a hidden gem, just as pretty as Mostar with its own arching stone bridge above the utterly teeth clenching cold river. (8 degrees celsius). It isn't on the tourist radar however, so it has an absence of terrible souvenir shops and harassing women trying to persuade you to stay at their house for ten euros. The tourist office, when open, seems to be operated solely by 15-year-olds taking advantage of the free internet.
"Where does the bus leave to see Tito's bunker?" I asked the boy that seemed to be in charge behind the front desk. He looked at me. "I don't know," he said. "It leaves from the bus station," I said. "Where is the bus station?"
"There are two bus stations," he said. His friend giggled next to him, and the boy looked uncomfortable. He offered me the office phone, but it didn't work. "I can show you the bus stations," he finally offered, but I knew where they were. Only I needed to know what bus station. He shrugged.
In the end, we called from Michal's mobile phone. We should have just followed the giant hodge podge of a crowd, grouping up in one part of the road. Women in headscarves mixed with a German family, an Arabic speaking family and then finally a group of Belgian scouts. Where else would we all have in common besides Marshal Tito and his bunker?

The bus took us through the small town of Konjic and into a military area sectioned off by barbed wire. "Danger, landmines" was written everywhere. Bosnian soldiers ushered us into the front room of the entrance, and produced a map of the bunker. (See first photo above). A soldier then proceeded to explain everything in Bosnian, while an apologetic guy ("sorry for my English, I'm not speaking good") translated into English, and then the leader of the Belgian scouts proceeded to translate into French. It took a llllooonnnggg time. People got bored, and they were talking. "Quiet!" Shouted the soldier. We all followed him into the dark, cold underground, where the tour began.

A strange place indeed. You could feel the fifties and sixties everywhere, old orange carpet, gray linoleum, cheap desks, and old rotary phones. Once you got deep enough, past the air filtering systems, the water reservoir, and heating, you could see the art exhibits. The apologetic fellow was trying his best to introduce people to the art, though it sounded like this: "This unit is made by German artist, and he is trying to say uhh umm...he is meeting the time of Communism and uh he is saying he can't live in it." The Belgian scouts, all teenagers in soft canvas shoes (is this a scout thing?) looked bored. There was a soldier in the back, trying to get our giant group to walk more quickly. "Quel est son problème?" one scout asked another.

Offices, living quarters, endless hallways, unexplained abstract art displays, the tour was exhausting. When we got to the living rooms, most people sat down blankly on the tweed sofas and stared at the wallpaper, all vintage. When we finally emerged back into the sun, the apologetic fellow was thanking people for visiting. "It's not a museum yet," he was saying, apologetically.
"Oh, will it be a permanent exhibit?" I asked.
"We hope so. We must talk to the municipality and agree on it."
"So it's in transition?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, happy that I had given him the right word. "In transition." Then he added quickly, "Just like Bosnia-Hercegovinia." He laughed. Our big group got back on the hot bus, and drove back to the road side station. Then we all went on our separate ways.

Meeting the Sea

2011-07-21T06:02:00.005-07:00

The Adriatic coast is like the jewel on an Empress's finger. Big, bold and sharp blue, the sun flares off this aquamarine and the world looks better in its light.

First, we got to Slano, a small village turned tourist spot, its modest stone homes somewhat dwarfed by the new monstrous hotel, square like a prison and fenced in to boot. It was a horseshoe town built around a quiet bay, popular with yachts and small tour boats. We were hot and bothered, having cycled a whole hell of a lot up hills and down from the first Croatian border town of Metkovic. We managed to muster enough energy to cycle around the bay to a camp ground full of Polish people. "It must be a cheap one," said Michal, grinning. And, after our next campsite in the elite Dubrovnik, we found that it most certainly was! We were told to put our tent under a tree, which had lots of sticky stuff under it. We blew up our mattresses and promptly fell asleep in the shade. After a lazy afternoon of doing nothing in the shade, we were approached by a Polish woman. She asked where we were from, and then incredulous, she asked: "Don't you like the sea?" Indeed, we laughed afterwards--it must seem strange to these people who had traveled many hours away from their windy Baltic coast to this turquoise paradise, that we had rented a campsite next to the water and then stayed away from the sea. The truth was we had swam before 9am, and then cycled on for another four hours, the sun parching our skin and turning my nose a lovely scarlet color. There was no respite from this deep, strong heat, and I couldn't face sitting on the beach.
"We've been cycling," I said, lamely. "We're tired." The woman nodded, and walked away. Probably to the beach.

Some photos of Bosnia-Hercegovinia

2011-07-21T05:48:00.005-07:00

View from the Hostel in the center of Sarajevo
And our first view of Sarajevo, coming from the bus station out of town

Medjugoria, where in 1981 a few ten-year-olds saw the Virgin Mary. Wow, now a major shrine site, full of kitch. I bet those kids had no idea...

Neum, Bosnian coast

Boys near the bridge at Mostar. Water was sooooo cold! 8 degrees celsius!

Mural in Konjic. This little town was super deduper interesting. Houses Tito's bunker. More stories here, for another time.

The Mostar bridge and surrounding town. So many tourists! Every July there is a diving festival off this bridge, kind of wish I could have seen it.

Sarajevo, Bosnia-Hercegovinia

2011-07-18T23:22:00.003-07:00

Editor's note: don't travel in Eastern Europe without a computer if you expect to use the internet. This internet spot in Igalo, Montenegro, doesn't allow for usb uploading. So no pictures this time.

We took a break from cycling last week, hopped a bus in Sabac, Serbia, and within five hours (the bus overheated on one of the mountain passes. everyone got off and watched the driver pour water into the engine) we were in Sarajevo. The sun was setting against the mountains and the air was thick and hot. We cycled past tall soviet apartments splattered with bullet fire and big blast wounds, laundry on the balconies, people coming and going. We cycled past mosques, some beaming and freshly made from cement. The call to prayer sounded, and we finally found the center, some 12 km's from the suburban bus station.

The city was packed with young people. Everywhere you looked, they drank coffee, walked, biked, chatted on their stoop, drove their cars, and went to work, church, home. After living in Karlovy Vary, where the average age must be 83, this was a welcomed change.

The hostels in Sarajevo were booming, and the prices were a bit steep in comparison to our Serbian experiences. Tourists were thick like flies. We met a healthy looking girl from Canada-Canadians have a way of just looking so healthy- who had been traveling for a year. "I did Czech Republic," she said. "And then I did Hungary and Croatia." Been there, done that.

Michal didn't like Sarajevo, called it an Urbanist's LSD Dream, but I found it fascinating. I think if you come from living amid Communist Era cement bohemoths of buildings, like in CZ, you don't get a kick of their southern Slavic counterparts. To me this is still exotic.

Exit Festival

2011-07-18T05:30:00.005-07:00

The first person to tell us about Exit was one of the priest's helpers at a monestary in Bac, Serbia. "You aren't going to Exit?" he asked us incredulously. "To what?" we asked. "The rock festival in Novy Sad." We had come into the monestary for two reasons, the first was that we were hot, and we thought the monestary looked cold. The second was that we had time to kill before the heat resided (maybe around 5, but really around 7pm)and we could cycle again. The priest was happy to have visitors, and he was busy showing us the ancient alters, old paintings and historic architecture of his monestary: Medieval, Baroque, Ottoman and Renessaince styles, a real show of the history of Central Europe.
"Ahh," said the priest, in his clear Serbian, waving his hand, and if the outside world was slightly beyond him. "The festival is full of Narkomen and Alcoholics."
"Yes," said the helper, rather wistfully. "I don't need those big rock concerts, too many people." He paused. "They say 2,000 will be there."

While we were cycling late that night, with our head lamps on, we got a lot of stares. I said hello to a lady with her kids. "You going to Exit?" She asked immediately.

The next day, a farmer began gesticulating at us from across his field. If Michal hadn't been there, I would have swore he was saying something like: "You're sitting on my property, get away from here. Go go go!" But before I knew it, Michal was walking towards this man, and thanking him. What he actually had been saying is "Come here, I have some apples for you. Come over here!" Michal came back with his shirt full of summer apples, sweet and tart and good.
"Guess what he wanted to know," Michal said. "He asked if we were going to Exit."

It wasn't until we got to Sarajevo, and saw this poster advertising Jamiroquoi and Arcade Fire, that we saw how big the Exit festival actually was. We spent the weekend sweating and cycling and sleeping in corn fields instead. Maybe next year....

Hot, Flat, Dry.

2011-07-13T01:14:00.003-07:00

This clip pretty much sums up the wide valleys of the Danube in Northern Serbia. Corn, soybeans, sunflowers. The cobblestone street was a surprise though, we felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly the road was paved with stones so elegantly. Just paint it yellow, and it could be the movie set for Wizard of Oz....

Welcome to the Serbian Danube

2011-07-11T05:39:00.004-07:00

From Mohacs, Hungary we took a ferry to the other side of the Danube, and after a few, very flat kilometers, we crossed the border into Serbia. I have to say I was a little nervous when we wheeled our bikes up to the Serbian border crossing. It was around 11:30am, and hot. In his little office, the border patrol guard looked up from his crossword puzzle. His face was ruddy from heat, and he looked at us, expressionless. Then he took our passports, ran them through the computer, stamped them. That was it.
We stopped to exchange money in the dusty exchange bureau next door. A female border patrol guard was on her break there in the shade. Her hair was dyed platinum, and she read from a novel whose pages were written in fairytale script. A pack of Marlboro cigarettes was at her side. Cicadas screeched, the air was still. The bathroom had Turkish toilets, the bad ones-the ones that hadn't been cleaned ever.

What followed was some of the flattest terrain I have ever ridden on. After the rolling hills of Hungary, it was a surprise, as was the unforgiving heat. The villages we rolled through all had shutters pulled tight against the sun. The houses were smaller, more gray, more square than what we had seen in Hungary. And at noon, there was no one to be seen.

Following a trekking map from a German website, we cycled into a weekend village along the Danube. The houses were built up on cement stilts, or wooden slats, and you could see the flood marks from the river. They were built incredibly close together, some defying gravity, some reduced to a small pile of bricks. A group of men were sitting outside, and we asked them about the flooding. "You never know when. It could be May, it could be December," shrugged the man who spoke English. "It's the Danube, if you don't like it, stay in your village."

At the charda, or fish restaurant, I found that I could understand basic Serbian language, after studying Czech for two years. At the toilet, a few women were fussing. "It doesn't have a light," complained one woman. "Tell the waitress," said the other, and called up to the kitchen. "Hey, the bathroom doesn't have a light." The waitress only shrugged. "I don't know about it," she said. End of story. No bathroom light, pee in the dark.

Well, the fish was good, the beer was good, and staying out of the heat was even better. Welcome to the Serbian Danube.

Southern Hungary is a dream

2011-07-09T06:00:00.005-07:00

We arrived by train in Pecs, Hungary, without much of a map of southern Hungary. Well, we had a photo of a map, saved on my camera. So between the small city of Pecs, and the next small city of Mohacs, we saw a lot of bad roads, dirt roads, and grass tracks. The evening we emerged from the train, the light was soft. We set out to avoid the nasty main road, and asked a handful of people for directions. We were surprised that the older generation spoke German, fluently. This helped, because Hungarian is really foreign. Really foreign. We cycled by huge fields of sunflowers and wheat. We cycled up a hill - lots of small hills- and into a hilltop weekend village. I can't even describe my delight: a tiny dirt road lead us past little houses, with neatly tended front gardens. There were cherries on the trees, apricots, apples. A teenage boy rode by on a horse, a woman with a red headscarf watched us from her porch. The sun was setting and the air was cool. If this isn't summer perfection, I don't know what is.
The next day we took some wrong turns, and we even cycled once through a field of straw being harvested, to be turned back by a laughing farmer with little teeth. [No road this way he seemed to be saying. You crazy idiots|.
We met up with the Danube in Mohacs, were we took a ferry. No bridge to the other side. Heading towards the Serbian border, we saw another cross country biker. In one week, he's the only cyclist we have seen on the Danube trail. Hmm. Is it because the temperature is 37 degrees celsius? Could be.
Both Michal and I agreed we could do a whole different cycle trip, just within Hungary.

Biking the Balkans

2011-06-25T08:40:00.004-07:00

Our route, July/August 2011

I have to admit, it all started with"Prime Suspects, the Last Witness." In which Helen Mirren investigates the murder of a Bosnian Refugee who escaped the conflict in former Yugoslavia. Since then, I've been hooked on the Balkans.

July 3rd, we start in the southern Hungarian city of Pecs, to bike through Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Albania and Macedonia and then beyond. This blog should chronicle a journey of uncertain roadways, the avoidance of landmines, homemade wine and nature camping. It will also chronicle the less sexy aspects of avoiding endless tunnels, keeping hydrated in 30plus degrees celsius, Hangry bickering (hungry+angry=hangry), and pilfered saddle bags. Ratko Mladic, Bosnian Serb military leader has just been sent to the Hague for war crimes, and Josip Broz Tito's Bunker has been renovated into a contemporary art museum. No better time to explore!

Grandparents, family.

2011-06-25T07:56:00.005-07:00

1. We live with babička and dědeček (grandma and grandpa) at the moment, until the bike trip begins. Life has turned into a series of accepting and refusing food, at different intervals. "Pojďte dál, posaďte se" says grandma, "come in, sit down." grandpa is forgetful, but very affectionate. "Jsem rád, že jste tady na návštěvě," he says, wiping his eyes. "I'm glad you're here for a visit."
2. We live upstairs, so he must think we are visiting quite often.
Grandma is hyperactive. She sews a lot, and recently modeled a mustard yellow pant suit she made, which she then wore to the supermarket.

And the caramel. Grandma also makes caramel. It's the life breath of the house, and she is very proud of it. They put it in coffee, in tea, on fruit, on dinner. If you try to refuse, you might as well be insulting grandma's own mother. "Everyone loves my caramel," she is known to say. Or perhaps they just don't have the strength to refuse it....

3. Parents live in the street nearby. They have a lovely view of the woods and the fields. 4. Michal's dad feeds the three legged neighbor dog, so obviously he comes around during barbeques.

5. Eva and Martin are married. Martin is Michal's brother.

6. Marketa is Michal's sister.

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6.

Michal's first flat

2011-06-25T07:30:00.006-07:00

Robert and Michal shared an intimate sized room their first year after finishing university in the big, bad city of Prague. The flat is a ten minute bus ride from the metro stop Chodov, maybe a 30 minute commute to the center. Recently, we had the luck to stay there for a night, and as none of the current roommates were there, the boys could reminisce. "That's my poster," Michal said. It was still on the wall. "And that's my microwave," added Robert.

The next morning I made the mistake of asking: "How do I get to Prague from here?" (What a tourist, Michal rolled his eyes. This IS Prague).

Straight Up Hubby Love

2011-06-14T09:33:00.005-07:00

(Which one is your hubby?)

I just couldn't stop from mentioning this Facebook group I found recently on my friend's sister's page, "I love my husband." With only a few snarky remarks, this page seems to be as devotional as its title suggests, and after sifting through hundreds of love pictures, I have posted my favorites.

Straight up Hubby Love.

Aprílové Počasí

2011-05-06T03:01:00.007-07:00

The month of April is called Duben in the Czech Republic, but the well used expression "Aprílové Počasí" means April Weather, aka crazy temperature shifts, snow, rain, sleet, and hot sun. My Canadian cousin came to visit, and after her stop in Oslo, Norway, the spring in CZ was like a tropical fruit blast. Over the course of April, the dogwood trees began to bud, the sun got hot, there was some snow, I took a tour of the Moser glassworks, there was the Czech Easter tradition of smacking women with willow whips, and I participated in the Putney School Worldwide workday.

Popham beach and around

2011-03-23T09:24:00.004-07:00

This summer I wanted to show Michal my most favorite beach ever, which I remember being such a magical place as a kid. Huge, crashing waves, an island connected to a sandbar at low tide, crazy tide pools. "It's really foggy," said Michal, which pretty much summed up our Popham beach experience this time. Once we got away from it though, the rest of the coast was clear.

August 2010, Phippsburg Peninsula, Maine.

Mila, Rowan and Oona

2011-03-23T08:59:00.004-07:00

July 2010, Brownfield, Maine

Communist Tights Commercial

2011-02-13T11:47:00.001-08:00

"Many colors, many sizes, great quality. 19 Crowns."

Some recent Berlin (February 2011 Trip)

2011-02-09T00:41:00.004-08:00

Some Randoms from the Year-so-Far

2011-02-08T08:20:00.007-08:00

Learning the Czech Language, teaching rambunctious teenagers something like English, struggling through hours of "conversation" lessons (fishing, sports cars, road kill, Janet Jackson at the Superbowl...) visiting some of Europe and scowling at old ladies scowling at me, I haven't been taking photos or writing or blogging or...I hope it will change.

(First three photos: September in Berlin at Checkpoint Charlie. "Now the place is crap," our British tour guide told us recently, on a return trip to Berlin. "Just a place to buy hats." I like that the American sector is fitted, so characteristically, with a McDonalds. Next three: Madrid. At Retiro park at Sunset, in the underground, and at the palace garden. Next photo: At Medusa Cafe, Prague. Next: Orienteering map from September, and finally: Fashion show Karlovy Vary at Grand Hotel Imperial. We got a VIP table cuz a friend of a friend did the podium. But let's just say that KV isn't where the fashion is at....)

Nikola and Adela

2010-12-03T10:53:00.005-08:00

In Central Europe, the Devil, an Angel and Mikulaš, or St. Nicholas to us, come a-knocking on the night of December 6th. Children must sing a song to the trio, while the Devil watches, slinging a chain around menacingly. The angel hovers, and I guess is supposed to be reassuring. My father, who spent one year of his childhood in Austria, tells a story of being left in the car with his brothers on this night. The devil came by and howled at them, trying to open the car doors. All three characters started rocking the car back and forth. Luckily the doors were locked. Terrifying. Really.

In English lesson and or hour of pantomime and minorly English games, we make masks. "Sarah is scissors?" Adela asks. She doesn't seem to know any other verb in English besides the third person form of To Be. "Sarah, Nicole is scissors!" (Frown). Nicole meanwhile is pasting a child's foot into the sack that her Devil is carrying. "In his sack, small childrens," she cackles (Big smile). Let's just say Disney hasn't gotten a hold of the story of Mikulaš yet.

Madrid in November

2010-12-03T09:46:00.009-08:00

Madrid in November. Cold. The Spanish of Spain is like snakes, all this "thhh". My Slovakian friend Zita lives in a cupboard and learns Spanish at an anarchist squat, and the rest of her classmates are Russian. "Thita," the instructor would say to her. The Russians squawked and laughed. We went to a sandwich shop near the museum. Hair of the dog, you can order a cana (that is can-ya by the way), which is a small beer, and they give you a tiny plate of something. Mussels, chorizo, bread. "Order the escalope," said Zita, "It means scallops." A sandwich arrived, stuffed thick with deep fried pork. "Woops," said Zita. The barman wrapped it and we gave it to a thin old man, begging on the corner of Retiro Park. 'Grathias!" He said, a look of joy on his face. This surprised me, cuz once I tried to give a French Canadian begging some maple sugar candy he looked disgusted. Maybe he didn't like sweets. When I had a look at the Presidential Palace, there was a street violinist playing the theme song from Titanic. Mucho Dramatico.

Svatba means Wedding

2010-10-24T23:59:00.005-07:00

Petr and Teresa got married over the weekend at a Chateau near Plzen. There was a band from Prague, the lead singer looked like young Elvis Costello, and they played the Beatles, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Dusty Miller. But they also played a lot of Slovak and Czech songs from the 70's and 80's, and as I danced, I watched the room full of people, singing along passionately, like maybe we did to Madonna at Putney School assembly hall dance parties, only this time, I hadn't a clue what these songs were.
When you watch three people step up and down repeatedly on three chairs, to emphasize something in a song you don't understand, and the crowd is laughing hysterically, you feel a bit like an anthropologist from a far away land, so far removed from the culture at hand, that you just might jot down some factual notes, or document with a camera.

But then again, it's not something shots of Becherovka can't fix :)
Watch a clip from one of these aformentioned songs:Madrid

2010-09-29T00:52:00.008-07:00

My American friend moved from Prague to Berlin last weekend, and we drove her there. Her neighborhood, Neukölln --former West Berlin American sector--is like Little Turkey. It has one of the highest immigrant populations in the city. needless to say, there was kebab, tea houses, shawarma. Once, we saw some pretzels being sold on the street, to remind us where we were. And there was currywurst.

It rained all weekend, and the punks -- for which Eastern Germany has a reputation -- were partying under overhangs in the city center. Some even had a little fire going in a can.
We walked copiously, visited the Brandenberg Gate, got soaked, saw the wall at Checkpoint Charlieand the DDR Museum. Intersected the Berlin Marathon (those people were soaked) ate falafel, went home.

Going through the wall at Check Point Charlie

A Brazillian drum band played here as encouragement.

Prague and around

2010-09-20T02:37:00.006-07:00

1. Natasha was visiting from Saint Petersburg through the social phenomenon www.couchsurfing.org Naturally, we found a place to throw daggers.
2. The only place a resident peacock could escape small children--atop the electricty shed.
3. Prague TV tower at night
4. Dog surveys the city, Karlovy Vary.

Some recent pictures

2010-09-13T04:47:00.004-07:00

First three are Karlovy Vary, today, in the dull drizzle. Second two are on top of a nearby mountain. Sixth is the old military training ground which is now offices and the public library.

People's hobbies 1: Orienteering

2010-09-06T01:13:00.007-07:00

Orienteering, or racing from one spot to another with a map and compass, was developed in the early 20th century by the Swedish military. Orienteering has since transitioned into a sport, and you can find competing clubs in every country, though it still remains most popular in Scandinavia.

Czechs also seem to love this sport, and last Saturday we went to see what it was all about: we entered the childrens category, 3.5 kilometers on foot.
"Should take us 1/2 an hour" we sneered. The electronic start screeched, and we were off, pelting through a pine forest while people in funny wind-breaker type clothes were combing the underbrush everywhere around us, looking for their coordinates, labeled by an internationally recognized orange and white flag.

For someone who can't read maps (me) every giant hill came as a surprise. It often happens that you run up something, desperately looking for the next point behind a rock pile, which the "clue board" held onto your wrist by elastic shows with coded symbols, and you realize it's in a totally different place, up a totally different hill. 3.5 kilometers in hilly terrain? Turns out it's killer.

Five kids entered our category, and we managed to come in 3rd, after 56 minutes of ragged breathing, drenched sneakers, wild-eyed searching and sprinting over wet logs. Seeing as there were two of us, this wasn't exactly the quick finish we'd envisioned.

No matter. Old men finished the race sooner, and some awfully fit participants were racing as much as 12 kilometers with more than 20 coordinates to find. One woman finished with two giant mushrooms in hand, already designing her post-race dinner. Sport drink was handed out, and beer was for sale, and some older men changed their underpants in plain view, as I hear is the custom in Europe.

So, in sum, a race that uses your head. Or as a kid in a Youtube video puts it: "It's not like a cross country race where you're just blasting, it's a whole nother experience."

Things cooked and wrapped up by grandmothers

2010-09-03T02:55:00.006-07:00

There is something ingenious about grandmothers wrapping up food. My own g-ma was a fastidious tin foil salvager--judging by the foil's wrinkles and loss of sheen, my sandwich was the 17th that had been protected by that malleable metal.

But the two Marie's here (Michal's grandmothers have the same name) are on a higher level of salvage. This past spring, I received walnut berry cake, skillfully wrapped in layers of bread bag, carefully snuggled into an empty Kleenex container, held tight with a giant rubber band.

Likewise, when I opened the fridge yesterday, I found a plastic tub that once held grapes, full of a special meat and soy patty,(Karbonatky) covered and lined inside by plastic bread bag. The whole thing rubber banded in place like a little girl's pony tail.
A large cake box, greasily addressed to Michal, held a surprisingly benign looking hill of white rolls. Turns out they're Buchty, sweet bread rolls filled with a thick plum jelly. Heated up, they're pretty delicious.

Never judge a book by its cover, or could it be the other way around?

Back in the Blogosphere

2010-08-30T08:38:00.004-07:00

Holy crow, a summer away from Wood Sorrel. I feel unfaithful. September begins in 42 hours, and while somehow still jet lagged, I have managed to get drenched at least twice here in the Czech Republic's idea of late summer. Feels like this season is done, especially in Karlovy Vary where the temp has leveled off at 53 degrees during the day.

Well, as long as I'm not traveling, swimming, herding small children around, eating poutine, sun-burning, sushi camping, eating sweet corn, listening to crying babies and traveling for long distances in cars with them, I might as well BLOG!

Below you'll find a selection of choice photos from the Summer I just had. (New Hampshire, Maine, North Carolina, Quebec and Czech Republic.)

Farm Camp

2010-07-18T12:47:00.002-07:00

It's been hot in New Hampshire this summer! The little kids thought putting their face in the fan was great fun. Last week we used calendula flowers for soap making.

Collage

2010-06-28T01:29:00.004-07:00

These photos are some of my recent collages from the June show at Muddum Gallery.

Claymation Workshop: BLOBO

2010-06-25T09:18:00.004-07:00

This was mostly Roman's story-line, a ten-year-old kid who we did a claymation workshop with recently. Watch the exciting story of Blobo via YouTube!

Prague signage

2010-06-20T14:15:00.002-07:00

Two weekends in June

2010-06-20T13:41:00.009-07:00

My roommate Gert visited Karlovy Vary last weekend. We sampled the famous hot mineral waters with the special cup-with-built-in-straw. You can petrify objects in these springs--Michal's baby shoe for instance.
And a trip to Hauenštejn Castle. (Horní Hrad in Czech. Horní means "upper"--not what you think :)) June is rarely sunny here. But the burgeoning green in the forests around KV remind me that there must be some kind of chlorophyl revival going on.

2010 NH Hair Show

2010-06-14T13:59:00.003-07:00

I've been waiting to post this for months! My home state hosts an annual "vegas-like" hair show every spring, with money donated to the NH Food Bank. Check out photos of the winners on their very own International Fantasy Hair Competition Facebook profile!

Minaret, Brno, Grade School

2010-06-14T13:29:00.005-07:00

After viewing the Lichtenstein Minaret, we stopped in Brno for an hour to walk around. It's the next biggest city after Prague, but feels like a large suit with only a few, small bones knocking around inside. Although there was a large crowd in a gazebo by the castle church, boozing it up, looking a little worse for ware.

Last pic is the Grade School where Michal cast his vote. Only thing I retained from the recent Czech election results is that one of the winning party members wore a neck brace in the billboard photo.

Mikulov

2010-06-09T14:51:00.003-07:00

The garden of plenty, the southern hemisphere in a northern climate, the apple of your eye! Moravia (southern CZ) in the early summer is a rush of green, mold smelling wine cellars, real sun! We were there a few weeks ago, biking by endless vineyards, watching tiny boys dressed up in shorts and hats compete in traditional singing and dances and sleeping in the car (oooh. wished we hadn't). Life is slower, the accent different, and the town of Mikulov sits below a crop of rock made out of compacted seashells. Yes folks, central europe once was the Mediterranean sea!

Also was trying out 160 speed film. Sometimes it looks extra grainy.

Václav and Marie

2010-06-08T07:32:00.003-07:00

These are Michal's maternal grandparents. It was sometime after Easter, they came up the road after rambling in the fields looking for daffodils and marsh grass. Marie is especially active, and perhaps she brings her husband with her for the simple purpose of carrying things....

Wrap Me Up in your Blanket of Love

2010-05-25T06:53:00.003-07:00

Check out the flier for our art show, opening June 4th!
Muddum Gallery (click on "Gallery")

Chateau Lednice and tropical Moravia

2010-05-24T13:38:00.005-07:00

This is what the south of the Czech Republic looks like. The climate change between the two parts of the country is quite extreme.

Well, no, as you might have guessed, these pictures were taken in a mid-19th century glass greenhouse built by the Lichtenstein family next to their spacious chateau. (If you check the site, have a look at the decorative minaret built by a more whimsical family member.)

Kollage my Koolage

2010-05-16T12:52:00.001-07:00

Bike ride II

2010-05-01T02:13:00.003-07:00

A shorter, warmer trip.

Easter Záhořík

2010-04-28T11:50:00.002-07:00

Marketa spent hours perfecting the art of scraping candle wax onto hard boiled eggs with a pin stuck into a pencil tip. By the end, I'd say she was a professional.

Collage at Christmas

2010-04-26T11:26:00.002-07:00

My friend Nicole and I might hang some things at Muddum Gallery. This is the collage I made in December that I'll show the curator...we'll see how it goes

Park Vitkov

2010-04-14T14:15:00.002-07:00

The horse that carries the blinded Hussite, my favorite Prague landmark.

24 hours Vienna

2010-04-12T11:45:00.002-07:00

Wish I could remember what this cafe was called. We ordered yogurt, coffee and soft boiled eggs, and the old-men waiters wore suits. The furniture was shabby chic, the kitchen vintage, and the clientele puffed away on cigarettes and read newspapers in various languages.

Olšanske Cemetery in December

2010-04-10T02:09:00.006-07:00

My sister Katie came to visit after Christmas. Olšanske Hřbitov is Prague's largest cemetery, not far from where I live. (Someone else's pictures are here). Franz Kafka is buried in the Jewish section. Jan Palach (student martyr) is buried in the Christian section. It's a famous resting place, but it's fallen into disrepair, which only adds to the fun of a chilly, afternoon stroll with a camera in hand.

Biking in Touzimsko (photos)

2010-04-07T11:36:00.004-07:00

I've found my film camera again, after a dull winter in Casio-land. This was our trip last weekend.

Biking through Roma villages in Touzimsko

2010-04-03T00:43:00.005-07:00

We went on a bike ride yesterday through western Bohemia, from Tepla to Karlovy Vary (holy cow, like 40 miles!) stopped at a French Trappist Monestary for cookies and mustard and biked through little villages without even a pub to show for themselves. The region of Touzimsko is one of the poorest in CZ, we passed through several small towns with burned out houses, bricks crumbling, dogs barking, and little kids pushing even littler kids in strollers in the brisk spring air. Cars were propped on tree stumps, mid-fix, and toy lawnmowers and dirty diapers filled the drainage ditches. It was another world, and not an uncommon one in CZ or in Europe for that matter. The Roma are forever a controversy, a people who the EU wants to spend little money on helping, and a people who probably prefer their way of life anyway.

Fences, Roma and Europe via NY Times

All things Roma in CZ: Roma Radio

Mere and the Moss

2010-04-01T06:34:00.003-07:00

Kingdom Falls, Maine, April 2009

Grandma's Patio

2010-03-30T11:25:00.004-07:00

South Conway, NH, June 2009

Prague Spring

2010-03-28T13:36:00.002-07:00

It turns out that Central Europe has a delightful spring. And what a blessing after the darkest, grayest, most sunless winter I have ever seen. Now, while you fools in Montreal are still layering up, and you New England die-hards are pulling your scarves a little closer, I am inspecting the crocuses on the hillside, wearing a t-shirt.
Meanwhile, photo from the art supply store and from Seifertova street. The name of the shop translates to "Little dwarf."

Waves in Rabat

2010-03-25T08:34:00.006-07:00

I was chicken shit under the tower of the sand-colored lighthouse, watching waves hit up against a pock-marked ledge. Was the tide coming in or going out? Two fisherman sat at the edge of the rock, blandly eating sandwiches, their poles cast out to sea.

Rabat

2010-03-25T08:13:00.004-07:00

The Capital: my favorite city by far, tres modern--Green parks, big waves, cemeteries, lighthouses. We arrived in the middle of a Union Protest, checked into Hotel Central--overlooking the main road full of yellow and purple shirted union protesters. Man at the desk wasn't too impressed by the ruckus. Room had high ceilings, a hard as a rock mattress and a shower in the corner.

Morocco IV: Essaouria

2010-03-22T13:34:00.004-07:00

A relaxed, Atlantic coast town, before the tourist onslaught. Sun/torrential rain/flooding.

Morocco Part III--Drummers in the Main Square

2010-03-18T14:04:00.004-07:00

Haha! Hustled by the kings of hustlin', nothing in Marrakesh comes free. This video clip is about as realistic as the nighttime game gets. Drummers it seems (and snake charmers, monkey holders, henna women, singers, chanters and blind men for that matter) can spot a camera from miles away.

Morocco Part II--Marrakesh

2010-03-18T00:47:00.004-07:00

Our trip to Morocco was like a whirlwind of uncomfortable experiences, though there was plenty to revel in, laugh at, and smell. These photos are from Marrakesh--the main sqaure sported both BMW's and donkeys with carts (and HUNDREDS of people). Also pictured: stray cats takin'a break, and some old crumbling palaces, complete with orange trees.

Morocco Part I: tiles

2010-03-13T07:21:00.006-08:00

Went to Morocco in the beginning of March. Here is a sample of the tiles we saw:

The Ball, or Ples, as they say.

2010-02-09T10:38:00.004-08:00

Kids learn the waltz in special evening dancing classes in the Czech Republic. And the Foxtrot, Polka, Jive. Then they rent fancy outfits and pay to go to places like the Grand Hotel Pupp, to show their parents what they've learned. And sort of like cheerleaders in-between football game quarters, little preteens come out every so often and do saucy dance numbers to pop songs. Unfortunately, this information is all much more exciting than my photos, which mostly have to do with interior lighting and a blurred crowd.

The Angel Castle

2010-02-09T10:28:00.004-08:00

Story is: a virginal princess of this castle refused to marry the knight that wanted her. So the knight decided to conquer the castle, built on a steep crop of rock, and force her to be his bride. Unfortunately for him, the princess preferred to be a virgin forever, so she flung herself from the window and died.
Now, the castle ruins sometimes endanger low flying planes headed to the Karlovy Vary "international" airport.
Near Karlovy Vary, CZ

Šumava

2010-02-01T12:43:00.003-08:00

Two nights at the ecofarm in Vyšši Brod meant fresh eggs, a walk through the horse pasture both ways, antique tea cups and lace curtains. Cross country skied, skated for ten minutes on barren, icy lake Lipno, and visited a Cistercian monestary housing a bible translated by Martin Luther. It was sunny, blue, white and COLD.

Michal on the train

2010-02-01T12:34:00.001-08:00

Eating apple pastry.

Chimney Climbing part II

2010-01-27T01:46:00.003-08:00

The other night, in an impromptu light snow--Prague by far the coldest this week--I climbed up a chimney at a hospital overlooking the tram-line. I can't tell you how peaceful it is up there, surrounded by dark wind and dry bits of snow. There is a strange fog here in the winter, a soft ghost-blanket, and that night the lights in the city were like dull gold pearls, beaded all around.

M.I.X. and Klára took me up the Komín on Monday, both originally from Prague. "You have to have a respect of the heights, not a fear," says M.I.X. "It's fucking tall."

M.I.X. photography

photo by M.I.X. : Klára

Masarykovo Nádraží

2010-01-16T11:49:00.003-08:00

Train stations in the Czech Republic are relics of another era. It's beginning to change--Hlavní Nádraží, or Prague's Main Station, is being renovated by an Italian company, and it's first stage boasts a Burger King and plenty of coffee to go--but many other hubs, like Masarykovo, built 1845, where you can take a train east to one of the outlying villages, is like a collage of old and older. Little squalid Tabacconist windows advertise liquor and cigarettes, the men and woman inside watch tiny televisions, their hands yellow with smoke. A copper bust of Czechoslovakian founder Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk is pinned to a dark wall, where no one can see him, and the Vietnamese market bustles with bananas, pistachios and these overgrown grapefruits called Palmelos. You can buy a pastry for about 25 cents, and sit on a cold bench as the foggy winter light eases across dirty tiles, and watch as an old man drinks a beer at the station casino a few yards away. Wikipedia reports that the city would like to get rid of the place, and make a shopping mall instead, but right now it still services too many Prague commuters to close its doors.

New Year 2010

2010-01-03T06:43:00.005-08:00

Czech youngsters traditionally hole up in a cottage somewhere in the mountains for New Years, and not wanting to be left out of the tradition, Michal, Katie and I joined Robert and David at David's mom's place near Klatovy. We played Horse Races and Bets, a Czech version of Monopoly, and watched the hillside light up at midnight, when all the pyrotechnics come out to play.

Žižkov is my neighborhood

2009-12-30T14:11:00.002-08:00

Katie is visiting. We saw a blind hussite on his horse, and the TV tower, with David Černy's babies crawling up the sides.

2009-12-28T01:36:00.000-08:00

The Czech Union of Chimney Climbers

2009-12-27T06:58:00.005-08:00

Boxing day had us accompanying two official members of the Czech Union of Chimney Climbers (number of members:700) to Najdek, where a chimney of 70 meters awaited their ascent. Some of the rules for the club: only chimneys over 15 meters count, you can only climb one chimney per day (the purpose is for the beauty of the view not the quantity of chimneys), no alcohol while climbing, and you must log all your climbs on the official website, which lists all chimneys in the country, their height, gps location and a picture of each. Number of deaths in the chimney climbing club: 1.

Dobrá Čaj

2009-11-30T12:19:00.002-08:00

Hey Burlington Vermonters: This tea shop is in your town too!

Prague, Czech Republic

A hike to the top

2009-11-30T08:48:00.006-08:00

This hotel on top of Mount Klinovec was where Michal and his eighth grade spent a ski weekend, and where one of Michal's bunk-mates forgot about a whole roasted chicken that his mom had cooked for him. After four days, when the boys smelled something "like old socks", they discovered the chicken, all wrapped in tinfoil, and decided (naturally) to throw it out the window, where it was presently discovered by a pack of local dogs who howled and fought over the chicken all night.
Now, the hotel is a ghost, covered by early snow.

Film Photos from Greece.

2009-11-25T11:12:00.005-08:00

I finally got these developed from August on Aegina island. Makes November in Central Europe a rather dark place...

Shots of New Hampshire

2009-11-23T11:04:00.005-08:00

I spent quite a bit of time in between New Hampshire and Vermont this past May and June, crossing the Connecticut river. I parked in the middle of a Savings Bank BBQ to take the picture of the river on this day. Other shots include: Souvenir shop near the Kancamagus Highway, and Tibetan Prayer Flags from an intern's room at my father's farm.

Velvet Revolution 2009

2009-11-22T02:13:00.008-08:00

Tuesday, November 17th marked the 20th Anniversary of the fall of communism in the CR. We followed the original protest path from 1989, passing a few Austrian-German Banks, American fast-food chains, and British super stores. It has been 20 years, after all.
Radio Free Europe reports

Fish Haul Clip

2009-11-09T13:21:00.004-08:00

See the fish get pulled in by nets! Hear my annoying voice! Got to love video.

Sweet Soy Log

2009-11-05T09:47:00.008-08:00

Parsley is merely a serving suggestion

Mmm, who doesn't love a hunk of sweet soy? Next to the Milka chocolate, the wafer bars and the Orbitz gum, you can still find the old fashioned Sójové řezy bar in the Czech Out Aisle. The name roughly translates to "soya cuts," and the filling treasure costs 50 American cents. Apparantly, Sójové řezy has remained popular enough that Nestle bought up the name and recipe. The packaging however, remains the same as pre-Revolution era.
As for taste, Soya Cuts is sort of like a fatty, cookie dough with traces of coconut and almond extract. My roommate swears there is also a trace of permanent marker.

Here are the ingredients, thanks to Google Translate. All words are verbatim:
Sugar, soy flakes, glucose-fructose syrup, Plant fat, dried milk, wheat flour wafer, aromas, museums containing traces of peanuts and almonds.

Two Students of Mine.

2009-11-03T04:31:00.003-08:00

Martin loves Lenka, but does Lenka love Martin? These two play footsie beneath the table while I teach, but are also subject to lovers quarrels. Are they just friends? Dating? The subtleties are in Czech--I'll probably never know.

Saturday Fish Haul, Manetin

2009-11-02T06:47:00.005-08:00

First they drain the pond, then they catch all the fish-- mostly the bottom feeding carp-- in nets. All the while, people are drinking beer and grog and milling about the pond banks, watching. Also caught: two snapping turtles, and three giant catfish. Then people line up to buy. You can have it alive, or bonked on the head, gutted and put into a flowery plastic bag. Carp lunch ensues.

Canteens: learn your vocabularly first

2009-10-29T05:53:00.007-07:00

Foreigners must classically meet their demise at the Czech canteen. This home-cooked, fast-food eating facility offers cheap, filling meals, and a menu unintelligible to the layman's eye. Attendants don't speak English, (as if! imagine the withering look)and only some of the food can be seen steaming from beneath sterling silver buffet trays. The lunch-hour mood is busy and terse, with an impatient clientele not thrilled about indecisive anglos ahead of them in line.

I found myself in one such situation the other day, though I was doggedly ready to take the punches and succeed. Or so I thought.
First upset: they were out of chicken (kuřecí).
Second upset: I didn't understand anything else on the menu but rice and potatoes.
Third upset: I ordered rice and játra, thinking the brown gravy and meat chunks was a strange, but possibly palatable goulash.
Third upset continued: játra, it turns out, is liver. And this was pork liver, big healthy chunks of it. After one mouthful of the dense, rich-like-blood morsel, I felt ill.

Above is a picture of my friend Jen, eating her innocuous plate of risotto. You can see my plate too. Needless to say, I felt jealous of her at that moment.

The Czech Out Aisle number 5

2009-10-29T05:25:00.009-07:00

When I lived with my Slovak friend Zita this summer, she introduced me to many culinary delites (creamy pork and pasta for one). Sleďový závitky was another surprise: pickled carrots, cabbage and peas wrapped in an equally pickled herring, packed below a solid, you-gotta-work-for-the-calories gelatin top.

Though not as ghastly fishy tasting as I had anticipated, the rolled fish snack tasted most strongly of vinegar. Zita wanted me to go back for more: "Don't worry, there's so much of it. Have some!" she said. I feigned being full. And then my camera caught Zita looking none too sure about the situation either.

Tuesday at 5pm

2009-10-27T10:13:00.001-07:00

Central Europe switches to daylight savings time

Bogusha making Snitzel

2009-10-27T06:23:00.007-07:00

Photo Natalie Conn

My story about the Polish Deli is up again, along with a portrait of the chain smoking whirl-wind Bogusha herself. Natalie Conn and Peter Smith run a must see sound/story site out of Portland, Maine. Check it out at: The Sunday Best.

The Tall Lady of Poverty

2009-10-13T11:27:00.003-07:00

Near Old Town Square, Prague.

Michal's Grandparents

2009-10-05T11:36:00.004-07:00

Marie cooks constantly. Vaclav has Parkinsons disease, but he also speaks German and a little bit of English. "Welcome," he says gesturing with a wobbly hand to their home. "Oh, yes." Marie serves us pork steaks, vegetables and rice, followed by apples, kolac, chocolate. Their dog, Bara, is fat as a tick after too much blood sucking. Marie reports that Bara has eaten three whole chickens over the course of two weeks.
Vaclav tells us about traveling to China with Prague's orchestra in the 1950's. He played the bassoon. "It was terrible, being married to a musician," Marie says. "He was a good looking man, and there were too many women around." Vaclav chuckles happily. "Oh, yes."

This is Karlovy Vary in October

2009-10-05T11:33:00.001-07:00

Český Krumlov and Chateau Hluboká nad Vltavou

2009-10-05T10:56:00.006-07:00

Last weekend was a castle weekend, and in Český Krumlov, a tiny cobblestoned town in the elbow of the Vltava river in Southern Bohemia, real bears live in the castle moat. They look sort of overweight and bored, and everyone clamors to put their head through the bars to look at them, only everyone comes to the same conclusion. They're sad.
Other pictures include Michal, the Amphibian Man who is rumored to live at the bottom of ponds and who steals young girls' souls, and the Chateau Hluboká, a very polished and austere castle not too far from the bear castle.

Waiting for the Pope, Prague

2009-10-05T10:46:00.002-07:00

We saw him, we really did. My step-brother Jake was visiting with his friend Herbert last weekend, and we stumbled into Pope Benedict coming out of his private quarters in Prague. I'm pretty short, so I saw about three seconds of his face. Had to rely on Herbert's paparazzi photos for a proper view. The last shot here is of the snipers on the roof.

Hradčany

2009-09-25T13:00:00.005-07:00

This is the main delight, the tourist destination extraordinaire of Prague, Prague Castle. Well, it is a church inside a castle, which has a killer moat. Jake is visiting from Budapest. "It looks like a giant pine cone," he said, when he saw the church. He was right. Then we watched the workers clean the courtyard in the late afternoon.

Makový Koláč

2009-09-24T09:16:00.007-07:00

This was a breakfast item recently, and I have to admit, I have fallen in love with the koláč, (say "kolach") a traditional Czech pastry filled with sweet quark, jam and poppy seeds (mak). The word koláč simply means cake, and it can also be a savory snack, but usually the packaged rolls in the carb aisle come looking a little like a round, culinary flag, like the cukrářský koláč (fancy cakes) above.

Business Line newspaper claims that the Czech Republic produced 59,000 tons of poppy seeds in 2008, Turkey being their only real competitor in the poppy seed market. Below you can see a field of white poppy pods (next to miles of sugar beets) in the distance near Solany, Czech Republic, waiting to be harvested this past June.

Last Week

2009-09-20T13:17:00.005-07:00

1. One cherub beating up another cherub in the Vrtbovska Garden, Prague.
2. Another cherub, same garden.
3. Face, Dresden, Germany.
4. Above the gelato stand, Flora Mall, Prague.