Danes and Deutschland

No refund yet. But, I opened the camera anyhow, so I now have some pictures to throw up here! I just peeled the "Global Refund" seal back, hoping to fool the customs folk when I finally leave Europe.

But there's way more fun before it's time for that. After my little Oslo trip, I hopped down to Copenhagen/Kobenhavn, or rather, Oslo to Malmo (to try for refund), Malmo to Copenhagen airport (to try for refund), Copenhagen airport to Copenhagen train station (to try for refund), and so on. Soon after that was when I finally broke down and did the deed. No more harpin', I promise.

I had some beautiful weather for Copehnagen. The city was quite nice, though still too expensive for my blood. At $7.50, the Danish Big Mac's have taken the prize so far. I did manage to find some nice buffet's and Smorrebrod for meals, so there was no 7-11 stretch a la Oslo. I tooled around, hitting some of the more notable tourist sights of the Danish capital, and I stumbled upon a nice little Ballet festival in the old fortress. Cool stuff, though they lost me with the dancing rats. Just a simple boy, I am.

The following day was a bit more rainy, so it mostly museums, and finally a trip out to see the Little Mermaid. Why, didn't you know Hans Christian Anderson lived in Copenhagen? Well, Copenhagen certainly won't keep it's visitors in the dark to that fact. In fact, I don't know if anything notable has ever happened to that city before or after the Great walked those streets. So, it was a cool city, though not one of my fav's.

On the other hand, we have Berlin. This place is amazing! First, the city is huge, 80km East to West. Then we have the Berliners (yes, JFK was correct in using 'Berliner'), who really are a hoot. Then we've got history. If you can't think of a couple reasons why Berlin might be a fascinating stop, go eat some bleach.

As soon as I got into a hostel, I signed up for an all day walking tour, which, lasting from 10am to 8pm, I will attest was an All Day walking tour. The guide was a semi-geeky history buff working on his Masters in German History. Naturally, I was eating it up. I wish I could get a tour that great in every town I hit, but again, perhaps every stop isn't as historical as Berlin. We made a huge loop around just about everything one might care to see in the city, and, of course, the little side-notes and context were the best part.

The Berlin Wall, for example, was being chipped away for so many souveniers that the government had to put up fences around the remaining bits. Also, the Luftwaffe building, a gigantic structure where the precision bombing raids on Europe were planned, was untouched by allied bombs that levelled the rest of the block. And some of the ironies can get pretty dark. The new Monument to the Murdered Jews of Europe, a field of concrete blocks without any placard of what they commemorate, cause many Berliners to worry that it would be a target of vandalism. Luckily, the city found a coating resistant to spray-paint, supplied by a little chemical company that also made that doosie Zyklon B. Hmm.

Anyhow, tons of history here. Yesterday, I was content to run errands (wash disgusting clothes) and do a bit of shopping (buy replacement clothes), and the rest of the day I was absorbed by a text on German History I picked up at the Deutsche Dom (pictured to the right). Great little book, and to all of the kids who teased me from the back of the classroom, yes, I guess I do read the textbooks for fun.

Today was a museum day, and I got to see some gems in the Olde Museum, the Pergamon Museum, and the Topography of Terror Exhibition. Great stuff, notably the latter two. The Pergamon is a collection of a whole bunch of huge stuff which some German dudes went to the trouble of finding, painstaikingly excavating and cleaning, and then, after pondering "Hmm, Ich Wonderin vere zees might loook Gut?", shipping off to Berlin. Example, an entire friggin' Greek altar. Imagine somebody picking up the Parthenon and shipping it. But, very neat stuff, which also led me to think about the merits of archeology as a whole. Service to mankind?

I also noticed that many collections didn't mention how the pieces were obtained. Surely a cruel insinuation, but is it justified? I know not.

The Topograophy of Terror is another exhibition on the Gestapo and SS, located in the ruined basement of their former HQ. Very well done.

Anyhow, I would LOVE to go on and on about this fantastic city, the biergartens, bratwurst, and all things crazy about Berlin, but lo, I have a bus to catch in a few minutes. Can anyone tell this post seems a bit rushed? Apologies for that, but hopefully notes from Prague will make up for it. Stay tuned.

Scandinavia

Whew. It's been an interesting stretch between posts.

I started tooling around Stockholm on Tuesday, and was amazed by the gorgeous sights, such as the city architecture, the greenery, and the blondery. Upon pulling out the camera to snap a few shots, however, I found that the LCD was cracked, and my camera was pretty pissed about that. So, no camera. I spent most of that day researching a replacement on the web, finding camera stores, and making the decision. Finally settled on a nice little Konica Minolta that was pricier than in the States, but only due to the 30% tax that I would get back at the border. I would just have to go to Norway next instead of Kobenhavn (Copenhagen), and get my refund by leaving the EU. Settled.

So I bought a little disposable camera and started on Stockholm. In the evening I went out with a Frenchman and two Germans, fixing to go to the Ice Bar. Everything, including the drinking glasses, was promised to be made of ice. Parkas and gloves free at the door, since the whole place was kept at -5*C. Sounded cool enough, except the bar turned out to be smaller than a public bathroom. There were four patrons inside, and the bouncer turned people away because it was full. Ended up wandering around until we found a nice pub, and we had a nice night.

The city of Stockholm is, I'll say again, gorgeous. I wandered around for some time, watched the changing of the guard at the royal palace, toured the Nobel Museum, and chatted up some locals. Cool enough. The folks in the hostel were also very fun, and I've come to the conclusion that all Italian backpackers are slightly nuts (in a loving way).

Then I got to Oslo yesterday after a gorgeous bus-ride through the Swedish countryside. Great little tour, though a toddler in the back was screaming the whole time. Really screaming. I soon realized he was indeed saying "F*** it!" over and over, much to his parent's chagrin, and it took every ounce of patience not to go back there and give the kid an additional 'vocab lesson'. Then, got into Oslo to find that the Global Refund folks wouldn't give me a customs stamp or refund for my camera, but I had to wait for the customs house to open the following day. Went when they opened, and they wouldn't do it either. Now I'm being sent back to Sweden to get this damned refund. Blah.

I also hiked around Oslo looking for a hostel. The only non-full place turned out to be closed for the summer, but I was directed to another hostel nearby. Nearby was way the hell out in the suburbs, sitting atop a nice little fjord (which isn't a fjun climb with all of one's crap on his back). Finally got there, and it's closed for the fall. Blah.

Anyhow, got a nap on the bus to Oslo, so I took a nap in the train station and figured I'd be set for a Dave Attel evening. Couldn't really go clubbing or anything since prices here are nuts. $5 Big Macs, $13 Whopper meals, and those are relatively cheap. I toured the city at night, though I was surprised by the number of non-Nordic minorities. This took a rather sad turn quickly, though, as I was hassled by a group of sketchy characters, and soon the fat African women were calling from street corners. Wished I could instead report something about the "virbrant cultural community", but them's the cards, folks.

I guess I did have a fun time, though. I ended up chilling in "Dennis Kebabs", even though I couldn't afford an $8 kebab. Had a Coke and did some reading. I wasn't reading for long when I ended up watching the in-house entertainment. A black girl (who looked rather like a street-walker) had taken some fries from a crazy old Italian guy, who was screaming about his fries and smashing his cane on the table. Another black dude tried to calm him down and give him some of his own fries, but then the African girl, speaking a bit of French, a bit of something, and a bit of broken MTV, started telling Black Dude A how she was going to kill him for interfering. She presently brought her friends, rather large black men, into this, who were describing how they would shoot BDA. BDA dared them to, as his Hispanic friend had his back. Some Spanish speaking chick then started yelling at Hispanic Friend for something or other. Mediterranean Owner was trying to calm everyone down, and Young Kebab Guys and I were just trading smiles every now and then, enjoying the show. Couldn't help but wonder which was a better analogy; the outbreak of WWI or Sal's Famous Pizzeria. Somehow the situation was diffused, with only a few slaps traded, Old Crazy Italian wandering around shirtless, and no race riots. A Coke and a Smile.

So I did Oslo today, going to a bunch of Viking museums (the Viking ship museum is quite cool), some castles, parks and some more 7-11's, my only culinary option. The Vigeland statues in Frogner park were pretty funny. The statues display the "dynamic range of human emotion," according to pamphlets, or a bunch of nudes, according to observation. Mostly, nude males. There's also a large columnar "monolith" thrusting up into the sky, and the entire park, as seen on maps, takes on an odd shape. I guess Georgia O'Keefe has her male counterpart.

And to support Lewis Black, I must say, it is the end of the world. Proof: Walk into Oslo station, stand in the doorway of the 7-11, look right, and observe the competing 7-11. Or, walk outside into the square. Look at the McDonald's to your left. Now, turn your head 180* and note the McDonald's, less than 100 yards away from the first.

Maybe I really am just going nuts. Crap, I forgot to write about the escaped convict. Maybe later. I've gotta go get dinner at 7-11.

Stockholm

Well, another day, another adventure. I was scouting around for ferry prices and found a great ticket that was much cheaper than another night in Helsinki. So, I'm in Stockholm.

The trip was quite cool, since the "ferry" was actually one of those leviathan Cruise ships. The views from the top deck were gorgeous, and I (never having been on such a ship before) was struck by the size. There was a mall in the middle of it.

Of course, my ego was kept in check by my status on board. My cabin had no windows being so far under the water, deck two of twelve. There were two floors of automobiles above us. It would have been nice to be 4th or 5th class at least, but lo, I was ballast.

This wasn't a bother, though, since the ticket very cheap, and I had two young backpackers (French Canadian and Japanese) as cabin mates. With cheap wine from the duty free store, great views from the ob.deck, and a large onboard sauna, it was smooth-crusing.

Helsinki was okay, but nothing to wet myself over. Most museums were closed on Monday, but there wasn't really anything I cared to stay for. I've only been in Stockholm a few hours, but I'm already excited by what I see. Maybe I'll spend more than a day in this here country.



P.S. Maddox put up a neat little summation of everything wrong with "Blogging" recently. Seems to have forgotten he´s pretty much a blogger himself, though. If you don´t know who Maddox is, you'd better not try finding him.

Helsinki

This town is all right. Things are indeed quite expensive, but the Finns seem friendly and laid back, and I have yet to find one that speaks flawed or accented English. Also, I was rather embarrassed the first few times I heard "Hey!", and slipped into friendly colloquialisms that left Finns a little confused. I then looked up some Finnish phrases, and found 'Hello' is 'Hei'.

Since it was free, I hopped over to the island-fort of Suomenlinna yesterday, a really picturesque little set of islands just off Helsinki. This place is home to several museums, an old fort which was said to be a "second Gibraltar" in its day, a little community, and the Finnish Naval Academy. The middies are all on a cruise to Maryland, and I though it would be best not to wander through a military compound, so I only snapped pics of the exterior. Great late-evening sun off the southern tip, but I didn't want to wait around a few months for the sunset.

Anyhow, my day is just getting started, so I'll keep this short. If I can't get tickets to Stockholm for tonight, I'll likely spend another night in the hostel that occupies the Old Olympic Stadium. Sort of a sad sight, but since my sleeping bag was pilfered in Talinn, no more parks for a while. I still have to find a sauna and some herring. More soon.

Talinn

I meant to go out last night, I really did. Still, I just couldn't put off finishing East of Eden. It's fantastic, and I'm just giving it some time to sink in before I declare it my favorite book.

Still, I wish I had known last night that today is some Estonian holiday, meaning I now have plenty of time to read. If it were a festival, things would be bangin', but a holiday just means everything is closed. It's a shame, because I was really excited yesterday to see all the great museums. I only made it to the Mine (boat-go-boom mines) Museum, Maritime Museum, and a few of the churches yesterday. So far today, it's been a lot of hiking around the green parts.

I still can't decide whether it seems a more authentic Old Town than others, or more Disney-like. The architecture and churches seem to be older, but there are busloads of retired German dentists arriving every few minutes. Also, a great number of locals have decided to dress in medieval garb while selling postcards or trinkets, which certainly lends a Mickey-Mouse touch.

On that note, yesterday I lunched at 'Olde Hansa', a sort of local Estonian 'Medieval Times', only the servers didn't have New Jersey accents. It was, in all truth, great fun, and it was neat to much on Juniper-flavored beef, orange tongue jelly, French Royal pate, onion jam, quail eggs, herb and nut bread, Hansa house smoked herring, and oven baked herb & juniper cheese. Washed this down with a pint of dark honey beer, joked with the waitstaff for a while, and had a very pleasant time. A bit expensive, but that held me over until brunch today, so it worked out. Perhaps the most famous, most touristy, and most enjoyable fare in the Baltics.

Talinn is however, really, really crowded. I mentioned this earlier, but I didn't mention that all the hostels are booked for about a week. Last night, I managed to find an old farmhouse hostel that still smells like pigs (or some livestock, but something worse than the usual backpacker stench), though it's filled up for tonight. When I got in at 1am Friday, I searched for a place for a few hours before finally finding a cozy bench in the park, and I'm thinking this also may be tonight's accommodation. I can swallow my pride, and this isn't the first time I've been glad to have a sleeping bag. Ferry to Helsinki tomorrow morning at seven, which is a bit early, but it was also half the cost of the next cheapest boat.

I haven't shaved for three days now, so I'm pretty stubbly, but we'll see how things develop. I also bought two more Lonely Planets and a self-study language book yesterday, which I won't say more about. All you lovers of mystery novels, or anyone looking for a hint as to my itinerary, can put the clues together.

I think a little hike by the coast would be nice now. Maybe I'll bust out the Mark Twain.

Riga

Well, I'm off to Talinn tonight at 1900. Since I've essentially exhausted the museums and chapels here, I thought it might be a good time for an update.

Riga's pretty cool. The Old Town is quite small, but very lively. During the day there's nothing more fun than meandering through these tiny streets which seem to follow no plan, passing chapels and chic shops, museums and souvenir stands. It's pretty funny getting around, too, since if I walk for ten minutes in one direction, I'm off my maps. Quite a change from Beijing, where a map's journey of two inches means an hour's cab ride.

At night, the lights flicker on, and there's nightlife for any taste. Indeed, there's tons of bars, discos and clubs (which have been closed on MTW), and also a fair number of more racy establishments. If any of you are wondering, please remember that I barely have the cash for washing my grimy clothes. I've been sticking to the English and Irish pubs.

Food is also pretty good, though I've had a hard time finding out what "authentic" Latvian food is. I've had some pancakes with meat, and I tried herring for the first time, but for the most part, the joints around here serve pretty worldly fare. I've had some vegetarian Indian food and spiced tea, an English meat platter with beef, liver, onions, and chips, and of course, some great Pelmeni. I'm really starting to appreciate this up-to-date Lonely Planet book, since never before have I been able to try the recommended restaurants and bars (from my '95 version, the recommendations were always been long-gone).

The Museum of the Occupation of Latvia is excellent, and really powerful. These little bits about the USSR are starting to sink in, and they provide a much wider context for looking at current issues. Very worthwhile. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the Museum of the Latvian Army was about as
worthwhile as the Chinese Museum of Political Freedoms. I can't fault these folks too much, though, as their military history, and national history, only go back about eighty years. I mentioned earlier that I've done pretty much all the historical sights, so I've spent some time in the gardens reading "East of Eden" since then. And right next to this park stands the "Travel Agency", a monument to Latvian freedom that was erected before occupation. The Latvian joke refers to the fact that, during the Soviet era, placing flowers near the base meant a free trip to Siberia.

Last night was the performance at the National Opera House I was so looking forward to. I learned a lesson in reading the fine print, however, as it turns out "Karmena" wasn't Bizet's "Carmen", but instead Schedrin's "Carmen Suite". I groaned at first, but I sat through it with an open mind, never having been to the Ballet before. I actually quite enjoyed it. It also turned out that Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" followed. A fun evening, and the music was outstanding.

So, overall, Riga's been a fun stop with plenty of new experiences. As Capitol Hill's crazy bus driver Lawrence once said, "You're never going to get a bigger database if you don't have the keyboard for input!" Well put, Lawrence. Here's to travels, to input, and to the Database.

More soon.

Long live brevity

I got into Riga at three this morning. I found a great hostel I've been hearing about, right in the heart of the Old Town (have you noticed a trend with these countries?), though there were no beds until noon. Thus, I ended up chatting with some folks in the Hostel pub for a bit, and then went out by the National Opera house to do some reading. The sun came up around five, so I took the cue and explored the city while it slept. Even without anyone on the streets, there seems an energy unique to Riga. This energy is quite apparent during the daytime, and from all I hear, during the later hours. The full update will come.

I bought a ticket for Carmen on Wednesday, so I'll be here for a bit. Might as well get to know the locals in the meantime.

Also, the currency is really crazy. The Lat is more valuable than the British Pound, so everything is priced in really low numbers. On top of this, since everything up to five Lats (ten dollars) is in coins, I can buy a beer and lunch with small change. I feel like I'm living in the old West or something.

***

Last crazy thing before I leave you for tonight; Today, while wandering around Bastion Hill, I stumbled upon the US embassy. I don't know what it was, whether me having been away or what, but just the sight of the flag hanging high above the building filled me with an indescribable awe. Was it pride? I don't even know... it was as if all the BS we hear half-baked Congressmen spouting had been stripped away, and a true love of nation revealed itself. Like at the sight of a pretty girl, I only caught my breath.

I remember once talking with a US national living abroad, and in due course, something I said (likely regarding Naval service) caught his curiosity, and he asked in a slightly surprised tone, "You're a patriot?" It was the oddest question, a serious, slightly incredulous inquiry, just as if he were asking a man chowing on a Whopper, "you're a Vegan?" I didn't know how to properly express my answer. I was a man of faith trying to express himself to he seeking faith. But I did my best, and I'm proud as hell that I can speak of these feelings with the utmost honesty.

To travel the world only to fall deeper in love with my Home; this, this is nothing short of sublime.

Two countries, or three?

Well, I made it to Warsaw, with only a few glitches. The first problem; missing my train. Whereas most little situations leave me all the wiser, I still don't know what happened with this one. I was waiting at the right platform under a blinking sign for Warsaw, but the train didn't show. Who knows. Anyhow, I got this ticket switched for another on a slower train, which was supposed to get me to Warsaw at 0100 rather than the 2200 of the first. This wouldn't have been so bad, had I not misunderstood the conductor. I was pretty sure we agreed that she would wake me before my stop, but somewhere along the way we got a new conductor, one who only introduced himself after the train was a hundred kilometers beyond Warsaw. I tried to convince him to let me stay on the train until it terminated and came BACK to Warsaw (which would give me a few hours to sleep), but he kindly asked me to just buy a new ticket at the next station. Did this, got on another train at 0400, and hopped off in Warsaw at 0600. Then I discovered that I had stopped at a suburban Warsaw station, so I tried to catch a bus into the center. The bus system must have been jealous of all the fun, however. What I thought read "Stare Miasto" on the bus sign was actually "Stare Mieste" or something, so I ended up getting an hour-long tour of Suburban Warsaw. Finally, back at the station where I boarded the bus, I decided to boot into the Old City of Warsaw, which, as it turned out, was barely a 3km walk.

Why do I write this in detail? Well, friends; the whole time, I couldn't help but wonder: Who do the Poles tell jokes about?

I really liked Warsaw, however. The hike into Warsaw took me over the Vistula river on a bridge next to the old Royal Castle. I got some breakfast, then bought a ticket to Vilnius at a travel office. I trucked around some of the Old Town sights, and after lunch, received a great little Warsaw Walking Tours book from the friendly, septlingual waitress. Found a cozy hostel just north of Old Town.

So for Warsaw the city, most of it was rebuilt after WWII. After the "Ghetto Uprising" of the Jews (known to many thanks to the NBC mini-series starring the whinny guy from "Friends"), there was a much larger, citywide uprising that proved quite the headache for the Germans. The Germans eventually put down the rebels, and then set about deporting/eliminating remaining citizens and leveling the city. Demolition crews managed to destroy 87% of the buildings. Thus, many of the monuments stand in the memory of the Uprising, and it seems every building I went into had a plaque that read, "Rebuilt after it's destruction in WWII..."


Oddly, I think the statue of the Legendary Mermaid, reputed to have sworn to come to the rescue if Warsaw were to see trouble, is original.

The city had some beautiful gardens and parks, a whole bunch of museums to Chopin and Mme. Curie, and tons of churches. The National Museum was quite a nice mixture of gorgeous classics, and also some funky crap glued together by a Polish artist. Call me a boor. The Royal Castle impressive, though it's art, like that of all castles, was mostly portraits of fat white people.

I did think the city was pretty cool, with what seemed very few tourists, but dreary weather naturally dampened my enthusiasm just a bit. The sun was struggling to show it's rays, but usually it was everyone walking around in a light mist, umbrella in hand, waiting so as not to be the first wuss to open it.

Yesterday, I got into Vilnius, Lithuania, and headed for the first hostel I saw. This Old Town hostel turns out to be very cheap, clean, and social. The LPs, I later found, warn that not much sleep goes on here, so perhaps this will help explain my scatter-minded writings. Indeed, even with ear-plugs, I'm currently having quite the time putting down thoughts, as my fellow travelers are quite "jolly". For all I've heard of Italians talking with their hands, they certainly don't relegate their mouths to an auxiliary role. But these Italian are, in a truth, great guys. I don't think they leave the hostel, as they always seem to be here cooking, ensuring that if anyone is in the common room, he's well fed.

That being said, this has been a very social leg of the journey, with mates to tour the historical sights during the day, and the pubs in the evening. The LP knew something when it reviewed hostels.

But night-life aside, this town is old and quirky, just like the old dude who Boogies for Beer outside of the 24h liquor store. Much of the city is medieval, UNESCO Old Town, but the inhabitants seem to harbour a flamboyant streak. It seems that one of the main tourist draws is the Frank Zappa statue, the only statue of said rocker in the world. Though a few of us thought this was a bit of a let down, finding it's only a bust, we certainly enjoyed the Republic of Uzupio. Uzupio, a little hippy commune started by some of the more Bohemian residents of Vilnius, lies in a corner of the city with its own borders and Constitution. The constitution of this "independent republic" is displayed next to a pizza shop in three languages, and includes such gems as "Cats are not obliged to love their owners, but must help out in times of need." Just some neat, crazy stuff.



Anyhow, I hiked around today, and went to the top of a nearby hill to get some shots of the city. The battery of my camera died as soon as I reached the top, but the old lick-the-battery-and-cross-fingers trick managed to eek out a few shots. Everything else being closed on Sunday, I lunched and then relaxed in a park for a bit, finishing up Moby Dick. Let's see if I can't make another good trade for this one. I got a "LP Europe on a Shoestring" for an out of date "LP E.Europe" and "LP W.Europe" (and neither covered N.Europe). For those, I think I started with a copy of "Heart of Darkness". Man, if only I were back trading scout patches.

For now, it's off to dinner, and then up to Riga on a ten-euro bus ticket. I'll learn to sleep on buses yet. More soon.

Krakow

Yesterday it hit me. I went to a concerto at this gorgeous little church across from the Wawel castle, but looking around at my fellow fogart-ish audience goers, I realized that I really am boring. Have I ever been to the Warped Tour? No. Have I seen an O.A.R. gig? No. Not even a wimpy Coldplay concert. But Vivaldi & Friends? Let's go!

I really do enjoy this stuff, though. Walking through a park atop the bluffs of Kyiv and hearing Rachmaninoff drifting my way, I rescheduled my afternoon to listen to the Ukraine Philharmonic's afternoon practice. Marvelous.

All that aside, this is a neat town. Unscathed in World War II, Krakow sports a great little medieval center, and ten minutes south, the Wawel castle. It's all beautiful, though I have yet to see the Screen-door submarines, the piles of rejected "W's" outside M&M factories, or any of the other fabled examples of Polish intuition. And despite what The Sun might have you believe, there are no Normandy-worthy massings of plumbers and electricians preparing their landing in Western Europe.

Perhaps the one major downside I see, now that Poland is in the Big, Happy, EU family, is the huge number of us tourists in this city. Being such a small town in relative terms (Chicago is the second largest Polish "city"), their presence is easily felt. For example, I'm sitting in a small XIV century cellar, now an internet cafe with ten computers. Four of the screens display Hotmail compositions with "Greetings from Krakow" in the subject lines. No joke.

But it gets wierder. My hostel is smack in the middle of Kazimierz, the historical Jewish quarter. I say historical, because what was a thriving population of 70,000 Jews, before WWII, now hovers around 100. But it seems a huge percentage of my fellow guests, at least at my hostel, are German. I know, 'gather the lessons from history and eschew the prejudices', but it's still just a titch odd.

Perhaps I wouldn't have thought much of this if it weren't for the realities of Krakow travel. Most of the tourists that come through here, me included, use this city as a jumping-off point for excursions to a small town to the West, Oswiecim. I hadn't heard of the Polish name when I came, but I had certainly heard it's German transliteration: Auschwitz.

So that was my day yesterday, touring Auschwitz-Birkenau with a bunch of German backpackers. It didn't help, though, that I was the only blonde, blue-eyed person in the whole group of 30+ tourists. I was tipped off to this fact by the many sharp glances thrown my way during the tour-guide's simmering accounts of Nazi "Master Race" ideals.

The world today is, thankfully, pretty much free of the "but Pa says it ain't really happen" idiots, so I'll spare the era's background. The camp itself, though, is made up of two sites, Auschwitz and Birkenau, separated by about four kilometers. A third site, and forty smaller sub-camps, also originally existed. Auschwitz, sometimes referred to as Auschwitz I, was originally Polish army barracks before being adapted by the Nazis to their purposes. The camp is smallish, yet terrifying, with an execution wall, 1meter x 1meter chambers where four prisoners were kept at a time, "dark rooms" which had just enough ventilation to maximize the suffering of those who suffocated, and a gas chamber. The gas chambers were, after Birkenau's construction, converted into ammo storage, so they escaped destruction by the fleeing Nazis. The Ovens were also rebuilt from original materials.

Birkenau, 4km down the road, seems to take a very different approach as a museum. Rather than converting old buildings into exhibitions and display, it stands just as it did at liberation, save a memorial to those who died. Auschwitz II, as it is sometimes known, was built solely for elimination. Compared to Auschwitz I, Birkenau is enormous, with train tracks running right into the center of the camp. The ruins of the huge gas chambers and crematorium stand off at the far end, by the memorial.



I waited to make an update so I could process what I saw, but I still can't make up my mind. Obviously, it's an emotionally charged place. Still, I couldn't help but cringe at the large, movie-style posters advertising the museum. "Site of the worst Murders the world has ever seen. Open 10am-8pm." The exploitation was a bit shocking. I also couldn't help but think of the largely ignored Soviet genocides, which only carried a few sentences in the Russian and Ukrainian museums I've visited. Of course, liberal guilt then got to me for not immediately also thinking of the tragedies in Sudan, Timor, Rwanda, the Balkans, and elsewhere.

But the most disturbing thing about Auschwitz-Berkinau is the direct human involvement in the killing. When Stalin wanted to crush Ukrainian nationalism in the 1930's, he just engineered a famine that killed nearly eight million. He placed unrealistic quotas on grain production, and simply shut off food supplies until those quotas were met. Simply, Soviet beuracracy. Impersonal death. But Auschwitz? What was going through the mind of the bricklayer building the ovens? The man operating the electric lifts for corpses? I guess the thought of this shocking 'efficiency' was what got to me.

But I can't close with such morbid impressions. If you're willing to stick with me as I retreat back into trivial matters, the tourist-scene does have one other advantage; restaurants. Whereas I was so disappointed by their rarity in Ukraine and Russia, there seem to be a large number of cheerful, inexpensive restaurants serving Polish food to hungry 'packers. The pierogi are fan-TAS-tic, as we all knew they would be. But ahh, to find such treasures as 'nalesniki', little pancakes filled with fruits or cottage cheese, and covered in (no, not sour cream like it's fellow slavic dishes) sweet yogurt, or obwarzanki, ring-shaped donuts hawked by the old ladies with street carts! This is joy. It's great to just stumble upon a neat restaurant, and stumble upon a neat dish. I think my new favorite is Czulent (pr. Choulent), a Jewish dish traditionally served on the Sabbath. It looks rather scary, like pulled pork and baked beans put in a blender, but it is indeed the tastiest mixture of meat, beans, and veggies you'll ever want to try.

So I think that's it for now. Time to get out and explore some more of these museums (see? a Bore born and bred). I'll probably hop up to Warsaw tonight. More from there.

Loose ends

Well, I guess I broke my promise not to post again for a few days. Just thought I'd address a few things...

So I started this blog (okay, its a blog, and I too am an unemployed crank) thinking it would only be read by friends and family. After putting in a counter, which I expected to increase at the same rate as the population of Shunk, PA, I found that I've had many more visits than expected. So,

A) Cameron is our family dog. She isn't a comatose relative, or an Amish friend to whom I can't write email. I miss my dog.

B) As delightfully sad as it would be to write my own comments, I don't really have time for such a thing. Reading any comment with half a compliment under an anonymous name, I assume it's my dad reading from home. By all means, I love feedback (do help me make this blog better), but if you could leave a name in the body of the comment, I'd be very appreciative.

C) The phrase is "Trudni no pravda," which has a completely different meaning from "Trudni na pravda." I still can't get the transliteration thing down with the Russian o's and a's. Sorry if this has caused anyone material harm in the meantime.

D) Do let me know if the counter starts launching pop-ups or anything. I'm always a bit suspicious of free programs on the net.

E) I've put in some pictures, and will probably continue to post some shots. They may not be timely, though, as finding computers with USB ports can be tricky.

Lastly, I wanted to drop a link for Belarussian Adam's blog, Being Had. It has a lot of great writings, full of all that commentary on life in Belarus which I so enjoyed. Though his book has been taken down for a bit, I'm sure it will be revised and back online soon. Check it out.

Much love from Lviv.

The Old Country

You'll have to forgive that last post, both for the brevity and for the Mc'Ds rant. Perhaps I can add a little background to help explain my gastronomic exasperation:

See, since I stepped onto the TSR (in truth, the Trans-Mongolian rather than Trans-Siberian railway), I've been living on a steady diet of bread, cheese, and yogurt. But what of all those delightful Slavic dishes, you ask? But what of them? They're fantastic, when I can find them. It seems that, for the most part, eating out is still far too expensive for the general populace of these post-Soviet economies. Thus, when I find restaurants, they seem to cater to wealthy entrepreneurs and those who have grabbed their fortunes in the past fifteen years of kleptocracy. Who amongst them wear the Gucci-suits, and who the track-suits, I have still yet to discern.

In any case, these restaurants are priced far beyond the budget of a traveler like I, striving to break below the $20 per day mark. Common here, though, are 'produkty', shops stocking every type of bread, cheese, and sausage your heart may desire (and arteries, fear). Also, hundreds of kiosks lining streets sell similar items, so my diet has, for lack of healthy alternatives, been rather basic. A few bananas and a kilogram or so of "kefir," a delightful drinking yogurt, often prove a hearty meal. Also, as for this kefir, a liter a day keeps the immodium away.

If I'm in luck, however, I may find one of many "Shaverma" stands manned by a Tajik, Azerbaijani, Uzbek, or other Central Asian. In St. Pete, there was a very decent schwarma stand right across from the metro station near my hostel, so through my frequentings, I quickly developed "regular" status, and often chatted or received travel tips from the friendly, young kids.

The other occasional delights are "kookhny", little cafeteria style restaurants that do indeed have authentic, home-style dishes. Though cheap, these can be hit-or-miss when it comes to the quality of the food, and these "authentic" dishes are usually dripping with grease of some kind. Anyhow, all of this explain my delight when I find the Ukrainian and Russian fast food joints, and my newfound appreciation of the clean, quick, cheap traits of the American Fast-Food model.

But, oh, Lviv/Lvov/Lwow! Shall you go unmentioned this post around?

No, for I'm currently sitting in a 'net center in downtown Lviv. It's a nice city, though most of the novelty lies in its absolute Ukrainian-ness. The Ukrainian language, though to me it seems a kissing cousin of Russian, is still spoken rather widely here. The architecture seems charmingly Eastern European, and for every monument to a downplayed defeat that stood in Sevestapol, Lviv sports a museum or monument to Ukrainian heritage. And finally, verifying the adages that have been passed down through my paternal bloodline, the women are indeed less than spectacular.

I would be fine moving on tonight, but I have a ticket to Krakow for tomorrow evening instead. The weather here has been rather dreary, but hey, "Trudnuy na pravda." Also, I have finally managed to locate Kosiv, the little hamlet from whence Great-grandpa Malkawizcz came, but my approaching visa expiration seems to prohibit any sort of excursion to the Carpathian region near the Romanian border. Someday...

So all in all, it has been a terrific little journey exploring the Slavic lands. Russia was neat; Moscow had its Kremlin and New Russians, though I'm kicking myself over not chatting politics with Muscovites. My knowledge of Putin's hidden fist, and all of the Periwinkle, Fuschia, and Baby-blue revolutions that worked to escape it, are still limited to what I can get from Western media. St. Pete of course was fantastic, though I spent too much time there. This was my lesson in booking tickets far in advance, and of course, led to my lesson in making sure my train doesn't go through, lets say, BELARUS. But more on that later.

St. Pete was, for someone who enjoys museums, waterfronts, tourist-packed symphonies, and parks, a heaven. I also got to swap out most of the books I'd torn through since Beijing, thanks to my Hostel's book exchange program, so I should be set for some time. The museum fares would have added up quickly, but when buying tickets I would muster my best Volga accent, and with arms thrown wide, exclaim in Russian, "Hullo, comrade!" This worked for getting me the Russian rate about 70% of the time, if only because it succeeded in cracking up the ticket-babushkas. But for the difference between a ten dollar foreigner's ticket and the fifty cents for RF citizens, I was more than willing.


So then came the following little episode on the way to Kyiv, beginning with a customs officer waking me on the train at three in the morning.

"Where is visa?"
"Oh, right here."
"No, this is Ukraine visa."
"Where am I?"
"Belarus."

Yes, I'd screwed the pooch on this one, and trusting the travel agent who assured me the extra $10 dollars was because my train would travel via Moskva. For believing that, I was an idiot. Anyhow, I was gently removed from the train, where I learned that I had been pulled off about 30km from the Ukrainian border! No, you don't need a visa to get INTO Belarus, but you're just not going to get out of there. Anyhow, I sat there for a few hours, a couple of miles across the border from Chornobyl, right in the area where 80% of the fallout settled. What radiant smiles those folks had. Also, to my classmates from Mr. Rob's English class, and anyone who's read Don DeLillo's "White Noise," environmental disasters really do make for gorgeous sunsets.

Meeting with a Latvian woman, Valentina, who also thrown off, but because she had come into Belarus two days before her visa went into effect, we set about trying to find a solution. This at times proved quite comical, since neither of us understood eachother. She was, however, the one who came up with the idea of going to Minsk, and I was all for it, the tickets being five dollars, and there not being much reason to not explore the country, save being an illegal alien in a backward nation ruled by an avowed Anti-Western dictator.

We got to Minsk early the next morning, and while enjoying a cup of hmm-what-to-do-now coffee in the train station, I spotted an American passport under the papers of a guy near us. Judging from his notebook, and perhaps because he was an American jotting notes in the middle of a Belarussian train station cafe, I announced my presence by venturing a guess that he was a writer. Click. Indeed he was a US citizen, and indeed he was a writer. Adam, I learned, had actually first come to Belarus in '97, eager to find some trace of his missing roots, and he had since started a family and settled down in Pinsk. This, my friends, was heaven shining down upon me. Not only did he speak excellent Russian, and finally clear up what Valentina and I had been saying to eachother, but he was actually on the way to take care of business at the same place we needed to go for a transit visa. Score.

So the three of us set off, getting spun around a few times by the helpful clerks juggling us around different offices, in different areas of the city. In the meantime, however, I garnered quite the tour of Minsk (and how depressing it was), with a very knowledgeable tour-guide. Adam seemed quite well versed in the recent history of his adopted home, and I got a very extensive opinion on current happenings. Indeed, I received (in my view) a pretty even-handed lesson on the Lukashenko regime and the effect it's having on Belarus. Later, reading his blog, I learned the paperwork he had been taking care of was for permanent residence in Belarus. This prospect was injeopardyy, however, as the buck-stops-here administrator who he finally won a meeting with informed Adam that American interests were covertly offering a $32million war-chest to any candidate willing to stand to oust Lukashenko. The Belarussian government was therefore not inclined to look favorably upon American citizens, and indeed was even considering a bar on visas issued to Americans. Whether this had some kernel of not-in-your-NYTimes truth, or whether it was merely a bribe shakedown, I do not know. In either case, however, it offers an interesting glimpse into Belarussian society. Moreso, I'm glad to be out of Belarus.

So yes, I finally did get a transit visa, after we were sent to a 'special' copy shop, since the photos and passport Xeroxes we already had weren't produced by the official's cousin. Of course, Valentina and I also had to write letters of apology, promising we would never do such a thing again. Since it had to be in Russian, Valentina wrote everything but the "Love, John" I affixed at the bottom. But after a full day in Minsk, full of little lessons on how not to drag your country out of the Cold War, we had visas, and we were on our way to Kyiv.

Travel plans going awry also proved to have an upshot when, returning to Balaklava for one more night, I found I had a new-roomie. An Italian in his late twenties, Luciano had been working in the diplomatic section his embassy in Kyiv, so he had an extensive knowledge of the problems of Ukrainian politics and economics. It was fascinating to hear about the rampant corruption that existed despite this very pro-business atmosphere (which seems to be taking off), the problems facing the Ukrainian steel industry, and a few other topics (the finer points of Ukrainian women, etc.). Anyhow, I love the little surprises that come with solo travel.

Having thusfar lost most of my readers (or are both of you still with me?), and having earlier described the beautiful ladies of Kiev, the hiking and diving of Balaklava, and the horrid visions of frying lard on the beaches of Yalta, I think this is a good place to call it a night. Now, it's time for me to fill out some Navy paperwork, making my crazy plans sound not so crazy. I should be back to the journal in a few days, perhaps with some impressions of Poland, and perhaps with some of the myriad stories that have accumulated since March. Anyhow, thanks for sticking with; much love for that, holmes.

Maladyetz!

It's a Russian word roughly equivalent, from what I can tell, to "great!" or "awesome!," and I think this is one we need to steal. Maybe I'm just a bit jealous after a few weeks of hearing Russians using "Syooper!"

Anyhow, I just got in from Sevestapol, which was quite the long ride. My cabin mates, Vasiliy, Sergei, and Xenya were very fun, meaning a night full of beer & fish (Russian for Coffee & Cigarettes?), rough translations, and thrice declining offers of vodka every ten minutes. My Russian is terrible, but I managed to put together some basic jokes and one-liners, which had their desired effect. I was proud enough. Anyhow, all of this means that I'm now running on fourty minutes' sleep, so it's a short update.

I got into Kyiv this morning, I got to see the mighty Kievan Rush. From metro station to metro station, door to door, I had about eight cubic centimeters of personal space. It's nice to backtrack, however, to be back in Kyiv and to know where I'm going. Sad to say, but I think I know some of these slavic cities better than I do Manhattan. I still can't cross under the Kyiv streets, though, since the entire downtown area is sitting atop a giant underground shopping center. It's like mid-town Manhattan squatting over the Westchester mall. Point being, every time I try to use these 30-foot-long underpasses, I stumble into this mall and come back up halfway across the city.

Now, I think I'm going to go grab lunch at McDonald's. Yes yes... I, too, once shuddered at the thought of American's eating McD's abroad, but time has reshaped my opinions on this matter. I always know what time these restaurants open, and that they won't close at random intervals for "obed" (lunch), and I always know what I'm going to get, how it will taste, and roughly how much it will cost. These things are a relative luxury. McD's, with it's tight management and quality branding, really has earned it's place at the top. It rubs off too. I've been eating at a bunch of Chinese, Russian, and Ukrainian fast food places, all with a similar business model, only offering NuRouMian or Varenenky, Borscht or Pilmeny. This is culture finding outlets through globalization. This is the vehicle by which those who feel homoginized, who feel they've imported too much, can stand up and share a bit of their own flavour with everyone else. This is McWorld.

And this is preaching, so this is me going for fries. More later.

Crimea; check.

I miss Cameron. Firstly, there's a guilty feeling because I can't explain to her that I'm not dead (fingers crossed for ESP though). Then, everywhere I go, there seems to be two stray dogs to every human inhabitant. It's nice to share my scraps with these poor things, but I'm still a bit concerned what would become of my hand, were it to reach out and pet one.

There's also a ton of stray cats wandering around, but they can go become doglunch for all I care. Every time I toss a piece of bread or cheese their way, they give it a suspicious sniff, then shoot me this evil glare, and then smugly back away. It reminds me too much of human coldness, I suppose. Drop a favor for a stranger in a big American city, and watch the little sniff they give that morsel of kindness, and then the manner in which they back away back into anonymity. Not everyone, but just enough to be disheartening.

By contrast, it hasn't taken long for me to notice the "Slavic hospitality" that every Russian/Ukrainian I meet goes on and on about. Offer a piece of gum, and you have a drinking buddy for the night. Offer to share your beer, and man, tis a party! Moving past the jokes about the "Slavic smile" (that half-gruesome, half-pitiful look usually reserved for funerals of those one didn't know well), there really are big hearts just under the surface. And not to sound too jaded, but it can also come in quite handy at times. When, in Kyiv, I couldn't for the life of me find my hostel, I spent the night in an internet cafe polishing IR skills/learning vodka toasts with a group of young Ukrainians, including the employees. I think it was because I complemented someone's taste in music. No cats here, just those pups who gobble up the favor and stick around to show their appreciation.

Anyhow, on Monday I went diving off of some WWII sub wreck that I know nothing about, thanks to our entirely Russian briefing. Our second dive was great though, squeezing through little nooks made by the eighty ton boulders that have, over time, hopped off of the sharp cliffs of the Crimean coast. No more geological formation on dive day, I'm pleased to report. Spent the evening chatting up a Dutch divemaster who's making a year-long diving journey. Sounds good to me, but, we know that it would. After dinner we made a nice little trek up to the sea-cliffs, measuring their height with the aid of a stopwatch and a few abandoned wine bottles... 247 meters.

Tuesday was my long-awaited Yalta excursion. Yalta itself was pretty much what I expected; Myrtle on the Black Sea. After hiking along the blubber covered pebble beaches for two hours, however, I found the tiny staircase that led up to the Lividisky Palace, location of the Yalta/Crimean Conference. The Czar portion of the history was a yawn, but the first floor was just oozing with historical significance. Every room had a little plaque that read something like "This, the Waiting Room, was where FDR and Stalin met on the third day of the conference to discuss Japan," etc., and I loved it. Anyhow, with the trip back to the center of Yalta, this was pretty much a day. The Swallow's Nest, a picturesque "castle, jutting off the cliffs into the Black Sea," turns out to be a chi-chi little restaurant about the size of my foot. The prospect of hiking another two hours to see a Mickey Mouse castle didn't really appeal, so I bought a postcard.


Tonight, I've gotta see where I can get to by bus or train. I'll try not to end up in Moldova. I'll mention Belarus in the next post.