Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Krakow

Moving from Hungary's humid, busy Budapest to Poland's cool, relaxed Krakow was an easy one. Perhaps a traveler more enticed by shopping, guided tours, scams, and prostitution would have found the parting with Budapest more painful. I was ready for something else.

As I understand, Krakow was once the small capital of Poland, and holds certain historical significance. Part of this history must have been filled with wealth and enlightenment, as the Old Town is richly populated with beautiful houses, quite respectable municipal buildings, and (of course) several not entirely humble churches. With a short walk from the train station through a delightfully welcoming greenbelt, we easily found the old Royal Hotel, situated just outside the fortifications of the old city. As hotels go, the Royal Hotel is about as good (amenities, location, price) as I would ever expect, short of traveling on an absurdly large budget.

After dropping our bags, we again stepped out into the Polish morning, and began our exploration of the town. I'm sure food was first on the list, but it must not have left a lasting impression. Krakovians certainly can cook up a decent dish, but I was much more entranced by the city itself than by its culinary accomplishments. At Krakow's heart, the old town square offers an old town hall tower, the Cloth Hall, and the imposing St. Mary's Basilica, which impressed even me. The square is lined with well-preserved buildings, most of which house cafes, restaurants, hostels/hotels, or boutiques.

First: the tower. Although it is all that remains of an old town hall, it offers the imagination a spectacular, proud social center. While the doors of the tower are closed until about 10:00am, it's worth the wait. Once inside, tower attendants seem to expect some sort of fee to climb the steep stairs to admire their city. Luckily, I only found out about this expectation later, by word of mouth. Somehow, I slipped by their rules and met blue skies and red rooftops at the tower's top. If you visit Krakow, stop by this quick visual fix. The challenging step height and low arches left my thighs thicker and my back crooked, but I'll do it again on my next visit.

The Cloth Hall occupies the very center of the square, and claimed to house a museum. I gave the museum an easy miss and wandered into the highly-arched corridors, instead. The Cloth Hall gets its name from its original purpose. Today, however, the large central vault which comprises the majority of the building lends its floors to vendors of souvenirs. Many of the stalls feature one of Krakow's specialties: amber. While amber is nothing new to me, apparently Krakow has access to extraordinary amber, and gladly offers it polished and set in silver and gold for excited tourists to buy. Beyond the amber, souvenirs, vaulted corridor, and the museum, the Cloth Hall is an excellent landmark, and would effectively serve as "center of the city" for our entire stay.

About St. Mary's Basilica, I have little to offer except observations about the exterior. By this point, my interest in church interiors was low enough to merit a cup of coffee while my more interested mother explored beyond its doors. Allegedly, this was a mistake, as the interior was relatively unique. This is not just any old church, but rather a church of the Cult of Mary. My mother's prying eyes detected only a single crucifix in the entire place. Where Jesus normally features in most Catholic churches, Mary stood instead. Thankfully, the churches wonders also spilled out into the square: each hour, a bugler appears in one of the towers and plays a spiffy little tune for adoring tourists below. Most churches settle for bells, and clock towers usually feature slightly dynamic figurines, but this church employed a person to play his horn on the hour, every hour. Go Krakow!

Unlike many people who pass through Krakow, we opted not to visit the former concentration camp at Auschwitz. Instead, we made for the nearby (and altogether less depressing and less impressively historical) salt mines. Back in the day, salt was difficult to come by, and usually had to be mined from the earth in much the same manner as coal. But while coal mines usually leave workers with black lungs and a wide variety of other diseases, salt mines tended to cure ailments and leave workers in much better states of health. In all, our tour through the mines took us about 130 meters below ground, through countless chambers and caves, and past many impressive statues -- all excavated and intricately carved by the Medieval miners. Among the chambers were several chapels and churches, one of which might rival many cathedrals in Western Europe and easily outdoes most in terms of originality. Being carved from veins of salt, all of the walls and statues are translucent, and seem to glow with even the slightest amount illumination.

Anybody planning a trip to this part of the world would be wise to make Krakow a major destination. It has a small town feel without lacking entertainment and amenities, and feels only modestly touristy. On our departure from Krakow, my parents and I swore to return for a much longer stay, when next we are able. Luckily, our next destination would be a pleasant one as well.

Coming soon: Prague.

Paşte Fericit

Orthodox Easter is a many-fold event. It is preceded by over a month of fasting, and days of frantic, thorough cleaning and food preparation, all of which would be of absolutely absurd proportions out of context. The celebration of Easter, itself, is the sweet fruit of those labors. Then there is a week of feasts and celebrations, concluded with an Easter for the Dead. Of this latter, I still know relatively little, but I'll make sure to share interesting experiences and adventures in a later post.

But let's start from the beginning.

Orthodox Easter began at midnight, on the first moments of Sunday, and continues through sunrise. I would love to tell you everything about the ceremony: the singing and chanting, the prayers, and passing of fire. I would love to do so, but I'm afraid it's a secret. And by "secret" I mean that I slept through it. Bah! I suppose I was simply too exhausted to sufficiently respond to the myriad alarms I had set to go off at 11:45 Saturday night. So, instead of participating in a celebration for which I had long been waiting, I caught a few senseless hours of sleep. Luckily, all was not lost.

The Easter service is held at the church, and can be divided into at least two sub-ceremonies. The first, of which I may have dreamed but certainly did not see, involves about four hours of singing prayers and receiving blessings from the priests. This is the part that meant the most to me, and I will be beating myself up about missing it until next Easter. Still, I hear it's exhausting, difficult to bear, and absolutely wonderful. The conclusion of this part of the Easter service is marked by the sharing of a holy flame which is brought from Jerusalem. Last year, a person actually carried the fire by plane from Israel to Moldova, and then distributed it throughout the towns and villages. This year, I don't know.

What I do know is that the church rings bells to mark the beginning of the second sub-ceremony. I know this because it was these bells, ringing at about 4:45 am, that finally pulled me from my sleep. I heard the bells, saw that it was quite dark outside, and thought maybe it was almost midnight. A short, panicked paralysis following the discovery of the actual time, and I rushed to get dressed, hoping to catch whatever was left of the service.

I arrived in time for the the blessing of the Paşca (pashka, pronounced with 'a' like pasta), a special Easter cake. Not everybody goes to the midnight service, but as I hurried toward the church, small groups of shadows also worked their way up the road to the church, quickly filling the small church grounds and then forming two long rows on the street leading away from the church. It was a clear night out, but only a sickle moon, so most of the light came from the hundreds of candles people had lit and stuck into their Paşca. I arrived just as the priests were beginning to splash holy water over the cakes and their owners.

As with the school blessing ceremony, the priests were accompanied by a small entourage: the head priest carried the holy water, which he flung using a small bundle of basil; another priest (this one my friend) carried the little metal ball of incense familiar to Orthodox and Catholic, alike; yet another priest carried a box for monetary donations. All sang prayers as they made their way down the lines, occasionally stopping to fetch another pail of holy water. Apparently, it is proper to shower the holy water liberally, quite without reserve. Understanding the significance, I appreciate that the priests are not stingy with their blessings, even if I need a towel, afterward. (Some volunteers, and probably some Moldovans, detest getting showered with holy water, but I am not among them in this.)

That's pretty much it for the ceremony. But Orthodox Easter is far from over.

Taking the Paşca home, my girlfriend and I cut pieces of the sweet bread and enjoyed some non-drowsy (thanks to the holy shower) conversation with very strong coffee. Eventually, the rest of the house came alive, and the Easter celebrations could be seen quite clearly on the horizon. I had a couple invitations for Easter feasts, and ultimately decided to join a couple from one of my adult English classes. One semi-unforeseen catch on this decision was that they would be taking me to a primarily Russian-speaking household, and while everybody there was able to speak Romanian to me, it is neither their mother tongue nor their language of choice. Another (completely) unforeseen catch was that, despite living in the middle of one of the best wine-producing regions of Moldova, this Russian family generally prefers vodka. The Russian wasn't a problem, and the vodka was simply a matter of preference, for me. So, in all, it was a great feast.

Orthodox Easter follows more than a month of fasting. For strict adherents of the faith, this means a completely vegan diet, no alcohol or other intoxicants, and a bunch of other sacrifices that generally make protestants cringe. Following such dietary suffering, most Orthodox Christians celebrate with appreciable overcompensation: more food than you can shake a stick at, and (sometimes) insane amounts of alcohol consumption. I'm not a large guy, and despite my highly-active metabolism, there's really no possible justification for the absurd quantities of food and (alas) vodka that gradually filled my mouth, stomach, and even that hollow left leg. *wink*

I'm inexpressibly glad that I was able to participate in at least some part of the Easter ceremonies, and I had a great time at the Easter feast. But it's not over yet. As I said, this next week will consist of further feasting and celebration, concluded by Easter for the Dead. Thus, I'm sure many more adventures will find and corner me before it's over. Wish me luck!

Quarterly Report

I wonder how long the average traveler must live in a place before the subtle maladies of that place begin to consider him a resident, and thus begin to leave him alone? Some of my colleagues in Moldova have reported slightly discouraging stories to me of past volunteers: "You arrive in country, get your first cold or stomach bug about a week later, and from then on you just kind of stay in a state of sickness. Years later, you return to the States, and after a couple weeks at home you start to feel this unexplainable happiness accompanied by high levels of energy. Suddenly, it dawns on you that this new feeling of well-being is, quite simply, the feeling of being healthy." My newly-arrived peers and I chuckled at the silly story, and reassure ourselves that this will not be our case. We are far to healthy to be degraded to such a state.

A few months later, we recall the stories, laugh nervously, and wonder if it's true that this stomach bug or respiratory infection really isn't going away.

Several months after that, we find ourselves chuckling again, though this time in self-pitying humor at our initial disbelief of the stories.

I've been in-country for somewhere around seven months, now. I could do the math, but some ill-defined feeling inside me tells me that tracking exact spans of time here is either impossible, inadvisable, or both. Somewhere around seven months, though, to be sure. That's one quarter of the total time for which I am scheduled here in Moldova, and thus I felt a short Quarterly Report was in order. I feel that I have broken through to some important milestones. My Romanian language skill has improved, at least on some practical level. I may not score very high on technical grammar tests, but I can certainly understand the uncouth remarks from my students (which they are sure I can't understand), and I can order dinner like nobody's business. I've mastered my Rutiera Stare after countless practice sessions between my site and Chisinau. There was one foolish moment when I thought I might be able to gain a tolerance for the water, here, but the horrifying sickness that followed cured me of such naivety. And those dark moments, when a plane ticket home sound like the only good choice left, I've trudged through and managed to come out on the other side. Now, even though it may be overcast and bitter cold, I can look at the treacherous ice underfoot and focus instead on the sparkling ice crystals and wafting snowfall.

Of course, this quarter has seen it's fair share of set-backs. In my second quarter, I look forward to addressing deficiencies in community integration, local literary exposure, photographic documentation of significant events and locations, and attention to sunshine. I'll also be managing problems with high levels of caffeine and internet intake, and excessive sedentarianism.

To celebrate the completion of one quarter of my service in Moldova, and to properly observe the transition from 2008 to 2009, I will be traveling to the neighboring country of Romania, where I hope to collect an extra portion of fond memories and interesting photographs. Wish me luck, and have a safe and happy New Year celebrations.

On Coffee, and other addictions

Often, I have reflected on the nature of addictions, especially those to myriad substances and activities which are apparently devoid of inherent addictivity. Television, internet, sugar, bad 80s music. Chocolate might fit on this list, but for its loose (real or imagined) association with a certain, incriminating white powder. We all know the truth about cacao-milk (choco + lait = chocolate). But we also know the DEA would sooner ban tobacco or risk another alcohol prohibition than face the approximate wrath of cacao-addicted women everywhere. ('Approximate,' of course, because it would be subtle and almost undetectable, and because the men responsible would have few allies indeed who might venture the risk of recording the brutality to history.) It would simply never happen -- even if it did.

And coffee? What of the strange tea we brew from the tarry remains of this roasted tropical bean? It doesn't seem to have quite the same inescapable (let us say) 'attraction' as chocolate or Blondie songs. (Perhaps 'gravity' would be the better word, thereby emphasizing that you can't get bad 80s music out of your head any more than you can jump away from Earth's pull, despite the lack of strength of either.) Neither does it yield the same hours of fruitless distraction as TV or the internet. Like most narcotics, though, coffee can be found in almost any part of the world, and with striking consistency. As such, coffee fiends can transplant to almost any continent and still find the means to legally subject themselves to shaking limbs, disfocused sight, decreased perception of time, increased heart-rates, scalded throats, unbridlable trains of thought, and a general up-beat good time.

We admirably pitiable coffee drunks, we all start out the same. We ponder the scent while walking down grocery aisle 13 with mom, or as we pass the forbidden teacher's lounge in third grade. The sweet scent deceives us into dreaming of an innocuous drink that is inexplicably off-limits, thanks to the contorted, authoritarian rules of our parents. Those of us who know the taste today usually owe that first sip to a period of rebellion -- a variable span of time often also responsible for increased social aptitude and decreased lung-capacity. (It is worth noting that many people, not only coffee drinkers, will never leave this persistent 'period.') Due to the general poor quality of barristas and bean roasters worldwide, that first sip of drip or espresso is usually as bitter as a laid-off postal worker. Perhaps more so. However, the foul taste is often overlooked in favor of the tingling burst of energy that ensues. It is often because of the memory of these first few sips that most of us seem to continue the habit, as that burst of energy becomes almost extinct with regular consumption, replaced instead by a sort of partial-shivering and erratic imagination.

After the initial breaking-in period, coffee drinking habits become quite varied from person to person. Some people merely dabble, while others dive head-first into the deep end of their oversized, bottomless coffee mugs. I try to maintain anti-addiction patterns in my intake by drinking my coffee in small, controlled bursts: five or six cups in a single evening, and then nothing for a week or more. Actually, I just don't have very good access to coffee in my town, so I generally only drink coffee when I travel to larger cities. I'm far too lazy/distractable to make my own coffee, at home.

For those of you who are considering starting a coffee habit (a nice word for addiction), keep in mind that too much coffee can lead to death, as caffeine has a short-term hardening affect of artery walls. If your intake levels are approaching 80 to 100 cups of drip in a single sitting, you may be at risk for extreme overdose. ^{[Read more here]}