Warm Evenings

As I have previously mentioned, my great-great grandfather was born in a small village in northern Bohemia.  Even before I left I was hoping to visit this village.  Unfortunately, the quest was proving a bit difficult for a variety of reasons.  First, the village is called Petrovice, which is a rather common name for a town in what is now the Czech Republic.  Secondly, the only familial connection we were in immediate touch with couldn’t quite remember where it was as their visit was well over ten years ago.  Further, the contact information for their guide was no longer viable.  In many ways I had sort of resigned myself to the sad fact that I might not get to visit this village.

As luck would have it, my grandmother was able to get in touch with a somewhat distant cousin on that side of the family who knew where it was and, it seemed, had some good contact info for a point person near the village.  These initial attempts at reaching this contact also proved unsuccessful, so I had resolved to visit on my own.  This cousin interceded once again just a few days before I was scheduled to leave Krakow for the Czech Republic with contact information for a good friend of my distant cousin/relative that still lived near this village.

Since I had heretofore been unable to reach someone that might facilitate my visit to this not often traveled portion of the Czech Republic, I had only planned to stay a night at most.  I figured this would give me a few hours to get a feel for the area and see the ancestral home without too much rushing around.

My contact spoke no English, but with the help of Google’s translator, he was able to roughly understand who I was and what I was hoping to do.  The fact that neither he nor my relative Josef spoke no English was not an issue.  So, with a bit of hopeful nervousness in my belly, I set out from Olomouc on my way to Bohemia.

The trip from Olomouc to my connecting train took about an hour and from there to Letohrad was another 20 minutes.  Upon disembarking, I immediately knew who was my relative.  Despite the improbable gap, something in Josef’s eye and cheek bones reminded me of my grandmother.  With a wide grin on his face he firmly shook my hand and I knew I was amongst family.

Josef’s neighbor Bretislav was also there as driver.  After a few exercises in miming and rapid talking in Czech, they ascertained that  I wasn’t hungry or thirsty so we set out for their nearby village, Vermerovice.  Here we stopped by a woman’s home so she could do some initial translation as Josef wished to know how long I would stay and what I’d like to do.  Further, she added, he also wanted to make sure that I knew that I was his guest while here and I must accept this.  I wasn’t quite sure what I was accepting, but agreed.

We went off to Josef’s modest home where he popped upon an unlabeled bottle of homemade sparkling wine made by a friend as best I could gather.  It was a fine, dry wine and while drinking a few glasses he showed me some pictures of his visit to America, tried as best he could without a translator to explain to me some different things about his home and his life.

As was previously mentioned by the friendly translator, Josef lives a simple, but happy life.  He is a farmer and loves animals.  He has no need for a phone or the internet.  His existence is based on his friends and his deep attachment to the land he farms.

After awhile, Bretislav took us over to Petrovice to see the Novak family home.  We were greeted by a smiling woman of some 80 odd years who lived in #7 Petrovice with her son and grandchildren.  They mostly talked amongst themselves, showed me pictures of other Novaks in America, tried to force feed me some sort of dessert item, and every once in awhile tried to ask me questions about my Novak lineage (I had created a small succession of births to somewhat handily illustrate this).

Following this conversation, her son took us over to Dolni Cermna, where Josef had arranged my accommodations for the evening.  We made our way up to the third floor of this seeming hostel.  I had a three bed room to myself that came equipped with a sink, but had shared bathroom facilities.  We dropped my bags and Josef, like a dotting mother, immediately commenced in putting the provided sheets on my bed.  After this, he started pulling beers, food, and flavored water out of a bag he’d been carrying around.  These were all for me in case I was hungry or thirsty.

From here we went across a short field towards a bar with a nice courtyard.  Josef ordered a beer for me, then took off somewhere on a friend’s bicycle.  Not sure where or why, but as I pondered this oddity, my beer was brought out to me by a girl of maybe 10 years, which was somewhat surprising.  After a few minutes, Josef reappeared, ordered himself a beer and sat down with me outside.  A second round was purchased and after its completion, we set off on foot to see the village.

Josef took me along to the church graveyard where his wife and some other Novak’s were buried.  Here he dutifully watered the flowers on these graves, marking crosses in the dirt after doing so.  Before leaving we met a friend, who seemed to be the church caretaker.  He let us inside to see the small, but well-appointed church that served the surrounding villages.  From the church we made our way down a hill and out towards a nice pond, working our way along it’s bank to a friend’s home.  This friend was a “big farmer,” while Josef himself was a “small farmer.”  He introduced me to his friends and their family, showing me their operation.

We then made our way back around towards the restaurant and bar in Dolni Cermna to have a some more beer.  Upon our arrival, Josef was beaming at the prospect of serving me some slivovice, a Moravian brandy.  I’m always willing to try something once so he went off to buy a shot of this hair-raiser.  Uncertain of the custom, I took a sip first and commented positively before shooting the rest.  It’s not really my thing, but it was pretty good.

People periodically trickled in and out of the establishment with Josef offering an “ahoj” –an informal hi that sounds like Ahoy–and introducing me to them.  At one point the child of one of his friends stopped in with her husband and he immediately got them over to the table because they spoke English and could translate for us.  They seemed close to my age and were in town visiting for the weekend (they live and work in Prague).  Eventually, the father/friend of Josef also appeared and we sat for an hour or so talking over drinks.  They departed later in the evening and were replaced by the earlier translator and her young son of 15, who also spoke some English and was also named Josef.  With them we had more drinks and dinner as well.  The hours ticked by pleasantly as the company, food, and drink were all quite lovely.

Sometime past 11PM, mother and son took off on bike back to Smermovice while Josef walked me back to my accommodation.  Wishing to make sure I was able to get in okay, he walked me to the third floor before saying goodbye and making his way back to Smermovice on foot.  Since it was several kilometers I felt quite bad about this, but everyone acted as if it was no big deal even that late at night.

The next morning around 8:30 Josef was knocking at my door, ready to take me to the train station with Bretislav.  He had more food and drink for me, as he was quite worried about me spending time in Prague.  According to my translator the previous night, “it is very expensive.  He also wants me to tell you not to take the taxis in Prague.  They charge too much money and are not nice people.”  He then reminded me of this in a broken mix of Czech and English the next morning at the station.  And, despite my protestations, he insisted on buying my ticket to Prague from Letohrad.

When the train arrived, he helped me board with my bags and shook my hand once more, that same smile on his face.

I’m still not quite sure what I think about this slice of Bohemia.  It was certainly enchanting and since I’m so prone to flights of fancy, I could envision myself there.  I saw myself in a cottage.  I saw myself with a bike, pedaling the few miles into nearby Letohrad for Czech language lessons.  I saw myself sitting peacefully with a mug of cheap beer, cheerfully uttering an “ahoj!” to those that passed by.  I saw work, I saw construction of a great novel.  These pastoral worlds of possibility flowed out from my hear in such easy succession, I believed in them.  I believed in their attainment.  I think I still might.  I left after this quick stopover promising a return soon–next summer perhaps.  Later I wondered if they believed me and whether I believed myself.  The connection I feel to the place is much greater than when I left America some weeks ago.  And this connection is in no small part due to the generous hospitality and warmth I felt as Josef’s guest.

As the train pulled out of the station, I could still see Josef standing there with that broad smile on his face.  I do hope to see it and the land of my fore bearers once more.

Despite the numerous questionable haircuts and the egregious amount of line cutting, I love Poland.

I love your rolling hills.  I love the thick forests.  I love your cities.  I love that you can order a liter of beer and the server doesn’t look at you as if you are that strange.  I love the confused look plastered on your infant’s faces.  I love that bike’s are the societal convertible in the summertime.  I love the women riding those bikes.  I love that you have a national park dedicated to sand dunes that once swallowed up an entire town.

I love the high-riding ankle frills on such an inordinate amount of female footwear.  I love the dichotomy between the Roman Centurion and the femininity of the legs wearing these Spartacus styled sandals.  I love the (seeming) simplicity of life.  I love the strawberries that I once denied could be better than those in America.  I love you sausage.  And I love that I can say that I love sausage without a qualifier.  I love the wide variety of people and nationalities I met.  I love your business park in Krakow. I love the Shell Service Center and her diverse array of employees.  I love that fried pork cutlet you gave me for lunch yesterday.  I love those random geriatrics on Rynek Kleparski in Krakow selling strange items to supplement their income.

I love the random sights you provided me, from trucks that weren’t trucks to bare chested Mermaids (Ariel will never seem the same).  I love your giant pier in Sopot.  I love your witty Dances With Wolves inspired name for that wonderful vodka cocktail, Zubrowka + apple juice.  I love your pierogi that is both plural and singular.  I love those fried onions you put on top of them.  I love your traditional costumes that I hadn’t seen worn so proudly in far too long.  I love your Zywiec beer so much I bought a t-shirt.  I love that no one here understands what I do for a living.   I love that I can’t really explain it to them.  I love your funny translations of phrases.  I love your castles and cathedrals.

I love that I treat you like an animate being, but I hate to see you in my rear view.

Sights in a city are quickly exhausted.  This makes the people of the city so important, as people watching is one of the chief pleasures of a trip.  One has time, so one spends it leisurely–with a snack in a park, a beer in a cafe–as the world unfolds.  And it often feels as if it’s unfolding especially for oneself, which is the almost regal power of leisure.

I venture to guess that one of the chief reasons I enjoy traveling in Europe is because of the people watching–but it runs slightly deeper.  It’s the association with the activity.  It is probably misguided, but I feel a connection to the mindset, as one might a friend or >>>?  -not intimately as one might understand an American frame of mind, but there is an association.  Perhaps a common ground, or a common…not origin, but perhaps a common frame of reference: similar historical sins, aspirations, and a general liberality.

It makes the act of travel a bit easier.  And perhaps it is a slight cop out as a result, but I am fascinated by the people I see on the streets and sidewalks, especially here in Poland.  Yet, things are different here.  Pointedly so. It’s the haircuts. Perhaps it’s a Slavic thing, but some of the hairdos are just bizarre.  As you can tell, my new favorite game is discreetly snapping pictures of them.  I mean, on some levels they are kinda cool…but on another level I’m left feeling as if I’m a hopelessly passe adult incredulously gawking at teenagers.  I’m all for free expression, but in many ways I just can’t help but wonder what they were thinking when they plopped down in the barber’s chair.

Unfortunately, I was unable to burnish my camera in time to capture two of my favorite Polish episodes thus far.  The first was witnessing a grandmother and grandson cruising down the Planty together in a motorized scooter.  It was kinda like your driving experiences as a kid, pops working the pedal and you working the wheel.  Except in this case, the “kid” was upwards of 16 years of age and much larger than the grandmother.  He was sorta propped up on the armrest and blazing a path down the sidewalk.  Good times, great oldies.

The second episode is a bit more nuanced in comparison to the Ricky Bobby of Rascals.  I was ambling down the sidewalk when I saw a young gentleman, perhaps in his mid-twenties, walking with a bag slung over his shoulder and determination on his face.  From the front, he seemed fairly proper, his haircut was a bit shaggy around the edges, seemed a bit in need of a trim.  As he neared me, I realized there was something bopping along his pack as he walked.  Within a few more steps I realized it was bundled hair.  Naturally, I had my “what the hell” reaction, so I stopped dead in my tracks to watch this little oddity pass me by.  He had a dreadlock mullet.  Hell, that might not even be the right description…it was sorta half-rat tail/half mullet.  I’m still not quite sure I understand how all this happened, but it appeared as if he regularly washed the majority of his head, but left this protrusion in the rear to stay natty dread.  As he drifted off into the afternoon sunlight, I couldn’t help but applaud his ballsy decision to do whatever the hell it was that he wore so proudly on his dome.

You are excused if you didn’t notice, but last week’s post was a bit lacking (it failed to even garner commentary from the usual suspects).  I would like to blame this on some sort of aspect of travel, but excuses are rather poor form.  So, I’ll just confirm that the post did indeed fall short.

No promises, but I’ll see if I can’t make up for the halfheartedness this week.  Still on the road, so the theme is once again revolving around the traveling life.

I’ve definitely begun to pine for home and nothing quite captures those feelings like “Far Away in Another Town,” the closing track from Justin Townes Earle’s 2008 release, The Good Life.

Faraway In Another Town – Justin Townes Earle

The Kinks have long been a cult’ish favorite among the hipster cognoscetti.  More recently, thanks to His Royal Hipness, Wes Anderson, they have enjoyed a sort of cultural renaissance with a bit broader appeal.  Travel was a common theme in several different songs by The Kinks, one of the more overt is “Life on the Road.”

Life on the Road – The Kinks

It gives voice to feelings that countless youths have felt, that is the need to just get out.  It speaks to those suffering within an inexplicable prison of location.  But the song goes further, it basely states the disappointment that often follows the escape.  We decorate escape with these hopes and expectations.  They aren’t often patently unreasonable, but they are naive because the affliction of sadness has never been about location.   Yet, we continue to stare at the horizon and see a remedy, we see only escape as an avenue for release and renewal.  And it certainly can be.  The stars often line up, but more times than not the resolution of our hopes run parallel to this song, softly fading into an aimless disillusionment.

Fortunately, I haven’t descended into all of that just yet.  Though I’m certainly beginning to itch for home, I’m still enjoying the hell out of myself out here, despite being far, far away.

Far, Far Away – Wilco

Ah…The Nice of the North!  Thanks to a certain someone, I’ve often heard stories about the glories of Sopot.  Though I would have easily spent many days there soaking up the rays and speed eating sunflower seeds, Witty and I were relegated to a mere day trip.  While not the best scenario, we tried to make the best out of it anyhow.

Our trip from Gdansk to Sopot was on Friday and, quite frankly, the weather was perfect: it was a cloudless day of debatable temperature, I was aiming on the high side and Witty the low.  Whatever the temperature reality, we both got plenty of sun exposure.

There’s not much to Sopot.  I don’t mean that in a bad way, just that it is a seaside town.  You are there for the beach, for the sunshine, for the pier, the ice cream, the cocktails in the afternoon warmth.  It is a site of relaxation.  So we did just that.  We hit the sites, such as they are: the trippy, Gaudi inspired “Crazy House,” strolled along the Molo (pier), saw the site of that aforementioned certain someone’s future wedding, and partook in the oldest tourist activity there is-shopping.

The majority of our day in Sopot was spent in the company of a few cold beers as we watched the procession of people cruising around the town.  Though our livers will often tell us otherwise, there is not much better than a cold beer on a warm afternoon.

It was a holiday weekend, so we were unable to stay the night in the Gdansk area as previously hoped.  As a result, our plans to visit Poznan were moved up a day.  After a few hours in Sopot, we made our way back down to Gdansk to retrieve our bags and hitch a ride to Poznan in what was arguably the most uncomfortable train in the world.  We were forced to sit on these molded, hard plastic benches.  Even the added comfort of my girthy haunches provided no extra relief on this ride.  Poznan couldn’t come fast enough.

I wasn’t expecting much from Poznan.  I knew it was home to a large university (perhaps multiple?) and the Lech Brewery.  I knew it had a funny sort of cuckoo clock with headbutting rams, but that was about it.  As a result, my expectations weren’t exactly high.

Naturally, I loved it.  The city was vibrant and young and less than touristed, at least in comparison to the Gdansk area and Krakow.  There was also a ton of pregnant women, which was sorta strange.  I saw more pregnant women in Poznan than I had previously on the entire trip.  It’s not even close.  I would estimate I saw close to fifty pregnant women.   And I suppose the fact that I kept a tally is a bit odd, but whatever…I’m weird.

Pregnant women or not, Poznan was cool.  I told Witty as we were leaving town that if I had to live in Poland, I’d probably pick Poznan.  Which, I suppose, is a bit strange, but as I told him, Poznan was young/vibrant, had plenty of cool watering holes, and lots of movie theaters.  In essence, it possessed many of the aspects that I love about Austin.

We didn’t do much.  The entire reason for our trip was based around a visit to the Lech Brewery, but with it being a holiday weekend the tours were booked solid. Whoops.

Despite our predilections for barley related beverages, Poznan is most known for the clock in the city center.  At noon each day crowds gather in front of the clock tower to see two rams come out and but heads with each other.  It’s a jolly little oddity.

After the goat performance, Kyle and I walked a block off the center to hear a free organ performance at an inconceivably ornate basilica.  Most commonly known as the Parish Church, the Church of St. Stanislaus the Bishop is more than enough reason to visit Poznan.  Hearing the powerful strains of Bach and the orchestral triumph of Handel’s Messiah in the face of such magnificence is awe-inspiring.

The main square is filled with a variety of vendors.  I haven’t spent a lot of time in European “flea market” settings, so my declaration that Poznan has the best may be slightly ill-informed.  That said, it was pretty cool to see people hawking such a variety of wares–from polished cutlery and cast iron decorations to giant grilled kielbasa and jewelry.  If had the capacity to travel with a bit more luggage, I easily could have left with a duffel bag full of stuff.

After the concert and stall cruising, we retired for our afternoon beverages at an outdoor cafe.  My camera battery had died, but Witty was able to get a Sony employee at a Poznan mall to charge it for us.  He left me at the cafe to retrieve the battery and snap some pictures of Poznan.  After he made it back, we broke for an evening meal at a restaurant called Avanti.  This wonderful suggestion came from Magda, one of Kyle’s co-workers who is familiar with Poznan.  For some reason associated with it being a holiday weekend, there was a half-price menu so we feasted: Polish sour soup (my new favorite dish), pierogi, and dessert.

From dinner we went back to the hotel to recharge a bit before the evening adventures.  We started out a make shift beer stand, where we were meshed between a rowdy bunch of (presumably) Turkish men and a mousy girl out celebrating (a master’s degree in tourism) with her older cousin and said cousin’s two kids.  Strange mix to say the least (and even stranger still once some of the Turks started peeing in a nearby alley as others in their party began feeding homeless men and giving them cups of beer).

With this oddly auspicious start to the evening, we set out toward another bar a few blocks removed from the square.  After an hour or two at this hip, low-key bar we moved on to a place called Cuba Libre, which billed itself as a “Latin Dance Club.”  Now, I imagine there are two thoughts right now.  First, “I can’t believe Peter agreed to go there” and second, “Latin dance clubs in Poland? How about that.”  As for the first, no I was not drunk.  I consciously agreed to go to this place.  Why? Because Witty wanted to go and I have my (rare) moments of accommodation when it comes to the desires of others.  This in spite of the fact that the place charged an entry fee (I make it a rule to avoid such establishments unless a band is playing ) and there was a silly line.  The line ended up moving fast and we were soon in the depths of a stuffy little basement…no Latinas in sight, unfortunately.  I didn’t last long.  Witty got us a few drinks and immediately descended into the madness of the dance floor without even a second look.  I hung around a few minutes in this hellish environment, wondering if Witty would survive the night if I left.  Since he had made it twenty some odd years with nary a problem, I figured I’d let him sort out his return to the hotel, so I made my way home post-haste.

I rarely regret going home “early.”  Despite not exactly agreeing with my father’s sentiment that “nothing good can happen after midnight,” I frequently find myself abiding its spirit.  So while I was reasonably well rested this morning, sleeping beauty  didn’t actually get to sleep until the sun was up.

And thus ended our Polish romp.  We made it back to Krakow on Sunday in the early evening hours.  Monday morning means work for Kyle while I expect to stroll around Krakow and make it out to the salt mines in the afternoon.