In which we go to Krakow and shout "USA" in a crowd of silent Jews.

When I found out I was going to Europe this summer, I decided I had to at least see Poland. I’ve always sort of romanced my vague Polish Jew ancestry (mom’s dad’s mom’s family lived there until the war when they moved to England) and I especially liked the idea of visiting the country with my mom.

We took the night train over from Prague (Aside: don’t take a night train anywhere if you actually want to sleep. I don’t care how cute your little compartment room is, or how many complimentary foil-topped water cups they give you—you will spend the entire night wondering what kind of livestock animal you just hit, what piece of the train was just ripped off by an alien onslaught, or how many seconds you have left to live before the murderous German men outside find you.)

Glamorous accommodations.

We arrived early in the morning, and after working out a snafu with our AMAZING hotel (Hotel Stary in Krakow, check it out; it has a DUNGEON POOL), I used a prehistoric navigation mechanism to lead us in a roundabout route to the bus station. (I think the English translation for it is “map.”)

Dungeon Pool. Ooooh.... Ahhhh....

We spent the rest of the day walking around Auschwitz. I’m glad we did it, but the experience was heavy and numbing and strange. I don’t know if anyone can come close to grappling with the atrocities that occurred there, especially in one afternoon. Walking through the barracks, the starvation cubicles, a gas chamber, and past the shooting wall felt a little like touring the set of a horror movie. Most disturbing to me was the room full of human hair the Nazis had sheered from the head’s of Jewish women to make carpets. Two tons of hair, a sea of it, on the other side of a pane of glass.

Pile of shoes taken from Auschwitz prisoners.

Clearly the first half of our Krakow trip was a sobering experience. But from there we decided to embrace the more positive aspects of the cities history and culture. We found ourselves drawn to the overall vibe of Krakow, but it was hard to put our finger on exactly what it was. It felt smaller than Prague, maybe more village like. Warmer even.

We crashed a Polish wedding. That also added to our love of the city.

A mischievous walking tour guide said something that struck me: “In Krakow, we are not soldiers, we are artists.” Perhaps this is the vibe I was drawn to. Historically, the people of this place gravitated more heavily to the arts than to war. Sculptures poke fun at bloodlust, and poets are buried next to kings in the cathedral catacombs.

My goat friend in the Market Square. (I make them wherever I go, clearly)

A Jewish heritage festival happened to be going on while we were there, so the Jewish Quarter was alive with people and sephardic rock. (It’s OK if you don’t know what that is; I didn’t either).

 Here's a youtube video about Deleon, our new favorite band!

The buildings and markets in Old Town were beautiful and bustling, but the Jewish Quarter ended up being my favorite section of Krakow. I enjoyed browsing the tiny bookstores and jewelry shoppes with tired facades. We sat at an outdoor café and ate delicious fish soup while bearded men passed by in throngs. (If you read that as "thongs," good for you).

My new favorite necklace: a dragonfly made of watch parts from the Jewish Quarter.

The second night, we came back to the Quarter for the big concert. There, we picked up on some interesting culture differences. When you think of an outdoor concert in America, what comes to mind? Beer. Dancing. Jumping. The guy smoking a rainbow bong to your left.

Mysteriously well-behaved crowd.

Not in the Krakow Jewish Quarter. Liesa and I found ourselves hoisting our vodka sodas and spinning around in a massive crowd of stationary, empty-handed Jewish music “fans.” Should this have felt awkward? Of course. Did we embrace it and dance all the more enthusiastically? Did Liesa, when a lead singer asked if anyone was from Brooklyn, pump her fist in the air and yell “U-S-A!!!” from the middle of a silent crowd? Naturally.

We only had two days in Krakow, but we left with a special appreciation for the place (and it’s soup; seriously, we ate such good soup there). I would definitely go back, just maybe not on a night train.

In which I tame a herd of goats and pick mushrooms

I didn’t wake up Tuesday morning thinking I would chase baby goats up a hillside that day, but hey. Things happen.

On our drive out to the Czech countryside, we stopped to see some anonymous ruins. Big crumbly stone walls, grassy slopes with boulders, blah blah blah. But after we’d done a little climbing around and ducked into a hobbit home to order some Turkish coffees, we saw something magical—a little baby goat! He emerged from the top of the ruins and started making his way down, slipping on rock ledges and nibbling on violets. I was so charmed I threw my Turkish coffee sludge into a tree and started stumbling toward the thing, singing that obnoxious goat herd yodel from The Sound of Music. (Goats love that song.)

Love me, Horace!!!

I never managed to get close enough to actually touch Horace the baby goat, but I did get close enough to bask in his unbearable cuteness. And guess what? News of my presence traveled fast, and the animals just kept coming! A family of sheep and a big white billy goat also appeared over the crest of the hill and came bahh-ing towards us.

Then I got married to this guy!

Just kidding.

The Czech countryside was like nothing I’d ever seen. The Ledvinas (family friends) have a house near the German border, right next to a national forest. We hiked across terrain so loamy it felt like walking across mounds of play dough covered in moss. The silvery white of the birch trees with the electric green of the tall grass made for an enchanted trek at dusk. We capped off our first evening there by finding a WWII bunker in the woods. #481 to be exact—the red numbers were still legible on the wall. I climbed inside with Marik, one of the little Ledvina boys, and he pointed out the holes where soldiers could fire their rifles and the chimney where they could let out the smoke from cooking.

Thistles

Mushroomin'

The next morning we grabbed our baskets and went mushroom hunting. There weren’t a lot to be found, but we did gather a few hefty handfuls of tiny orange ones that we knew were edible. We took them back to the country house and scrambled them in a pan of eggs before all the girls piled in the car for Cesky Krumlov.

 

Leaping in Cesky Krumlov

Cesky Krumlov is an old world castle village where gingerbread makers tantalize you with animal cookies and women in gowns play harps by the fountain. We ate trout and potato cakes by the river, popped in and out of bookstores and bon bon shops, and enjoyed a stormy evening sipping red wine in our apartment. *Adventures also ensued that shall not be relayed here. What happens in the CK, stays in the CK.

I joined this minstrel band. Check out our website for latest tour deets.

I don’t know how all of you are celebrating the Fourth of July today, but Mumzy and I are hopping on a night train to Krakow, Poland. Prepare for us to return with an obnoxious appreciation of our Jewish roots.

In which I take really crappy pictures of Prague

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but here in Prague I find most of my photographs fall miserably short of capturing the moment in front of me. And so, in lieu of a normal blog post, I offer you a few word pictures of my first days.

1: The Flea Market.

A girl flips through a stack of old postcards and portraits. A rainbow of size D bras, hanging from a tent, swings in the wind behind her, and black dust swirls around the blue tarps. A box of dried fishes with flies buzzing in empty eye sockets glitters like silver in the sun. A seven foot man in army fatigues crosses his arms in front of a naked baby doll; a honey-brown teacup puppy shivers.

2: Vysehrad.

A gated cemetery of tombs with more individual personality, even, than the composers, writers, sculptors, and scientists now etched in gold leaf across their surfaces, blanketed with ivy, or red glass candles, or thin white women on their tiptoes. A boy looks up from his wheelchair to the sound of bells shimmering down from the top of a Gothic cathedral.

3: Casemates.

A musty stone tunnel with a mud floor hidden inside the battlements. A woman in long black wool leads a line of shadows, breath frozen like a spiderweb in front of each face, as they plod to the cavernous end.

4: The River.

A barge floating on brown water, surrounded by swans—one with a wing wrenched completely away, just four yellowed sticks of bone sticking out from its side. A foaming glass of blueberry beer casts amber light on a pale hand, and an owl-faced man laughs wildly.

5: Kampo.

Crates of dried melon and hazelnuts. A turning water wheel. White fatigues, white boots, white guns—hanging silent on the café’s four white walls.

6: Hike.

Steep uphill climb through an orchard of plum trees, green fruit dripping from the low limbs. An imitation Eiffel Tower, straddling a café, spikes into a blue, cloud-dappled sky at the top.

7: The Castle.

Hundreds of soot-stained gargoyles, like howler monkeys frozen in alarm, extend their necks from ornate ledges. Drip sandcastle spires reach out of sight into the royal blue of a dusk sky. The handful of humans at its base look up: dots at the bottom of a masterfully carved mantle figurine.

8: Charles Bridge.
A girl with long blonde hair rubs a section of the statue raw: eyes closed, praying she won’t die of drowning. City lights, in reds and yellows, scintillate on the river’s surface. A girl pushes a boy’s hair out of his eyes.

And OK, here are some real pictures for you too.

Iridescent cathedral door.

My first panorama! Don't even know what bridge this is.

Breakfast in Beth's adorable apartment with a view of the park.

Czech play money.