Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Germany

Judging by my two most recent trips, it would seem that the single most difficult travel post to write and publish is the final one. As high-resolution memories of my time in Germany slowly fade into the more standard, pixelated haze, I find myself subject to frequent pangs of guilt that I have only now come around to collecting the highlights from among my recollections and putting them down here.

Arriving in Germany by way of train was not entirely what I had expected. Deutchland has such a famous reputation for clockwork mechanics and rail systems which are the epitome of punctuality. And yet, our train was late to depart and even later to arrive. My illusions were dashed on the cold steel rails like some unfortunate character in a Tolstoy novel. Surviving this let-down, my parents and I eventually arrived in Munich (Munchen), found our way to an inaptly-named airport hotel, and passed out. Early the next morning, we found our way to the airport and happily waited, and waited, and waited, and greeted my two older sisters and a niece. Thus concluded our time in Munich.

From Munich on, we would be traveling by rental car. Perhaps this was a necessity, as several of our destinations would be difficult or even impossible to reach by public transportation. However, my affinity for traveling by train meant that climbing into the small, unimpressive Fords was not entirely top choice. In any case, we had a bit of fun on the open autobahn.

Next on the list: Fussen, which is situated at the foot of the Alps, just near the Austrian border. This town, while quaint and pleasant in itself, served as the staging ground for a rainy visit to Neischwanstein Palace -- more commonly known as the "sleeping beauty" castle, as it was the inspiration of the popular Disney model of a romantic palace. The story behind this particular palace is interesting and (at time) almost comical. As one tour guide pointed out, while the 19th-century constructor, Ludwig III, had wanted to build an "authentic Medieval castle", he chose a site which would require the destruction of one of the most significant examples of Medieval fortresses. While in the area, we also toured the nearby (and much more authentic) Hohenschangau Castle.

From Fussen, we traveled on to Rothenberg. This small, walled town features a well-preserved structures and cobblestone streets, thanks largely to a mutual dislike for needless destruction between two opposing figures near the end of World War II. As the story goes, the town had been selected as a final stronghold by one of Hitler's dwindling generals. Like all other Nazi generals near the end of the war, he had been ordered not to surrender, and planned to take the whole city of Rothenberg down with him before allowing the approaching Allied troops to pass. Speculation would suggest that his subordinates were not entirely in accord with this suicidal plan. On the other side of the line, American generals had given orders to begin bombing the town in anticipation of an attack. Back in Washington, an official in the State Department with some sway came across the orders, and immediately recognized the name of a town his mother had always said was the most beautiful town she had ever seen. Picking up the phone, he made some calls and had the American commander delay the bombers, and offer the besieged Nazi troops a chance to surrender, even though it would likely be turned down by the so-ordered general. To their surprise, they received a positive response. Apparently, the general had left town for a couple days, and officer left in charge possessed enough sentimentality, common sense, or both to see a good opportunity in front of him. Tada! Rothenberg thus survived relatively unscathed. The old city walls, gate houses, and ramparts are largely intact and completely open to the public.

The next day, we made our way down to Wiernsheim, a tiny village near Stuttgart, or no particular interest to most tourists. To my family, it holds certain significance, as it is the town from which our Zundel ancestor emigrated to the United States. Despite the fact that it was a weekday, most of the town was quiet and inactive. A few people could be seen around the grocery store and a small ice creamery, but the rest of the streets and sidewalks were left largely alone. We wandered around the few streets, took pictures of a few Zundel signs, and eventually tracked down a few houses that belonged to or were built by Zundels before my ancestors left for a new world. Speaking with people was fairly difficult, as none of us spoke German and there was little demand for them to know English. Luckily, we communicated our random purpose to an oldish man in his garden, and he immediately got on the phone to call Rainer Zundel, a local English teacher. Within no time, we were all chatting with this man of common ancestry about the village and Zundel history.

It was also in Wiernsheim that my good friend Sebastian (whom I met while he was engaged in research studies in Portland a while back) came to catch up on lost time. He returned to Germany at about the same time that I left the States for Moldova, and we were mutually appreciative of a familiar and knowing face from our beloved Portland days. Heh heh...

While there is a hotel in Wiernsheim, it was unbeknownst to us when we made these travel arrangements. In dumping rain and rapidly dimming light, we booked it north to Hiedelberg. Forgive me if the spelling is incorrect on this. We arrived late a night and left early the next morning, so my only real memories of this town are blurred views of bridges crossing a beautiful, night-lit river, u-turns, and glimpses of what I later learned is one of the great attractions of Germany. I'll have to check that rumor out during another trip, I guess.

Our final stops were in Cochem and Bacharach, which lie on the Mosel and Rhine rivers, respectively. Both of these small towns were relaxed and hospitable in their character, and we made use of this comfortable air to enjoy the final few days together. This last leg of the trip included most of my immediate family, absent only my younger sister and my older sister's husband and son. Still, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to connect once again with the people I love, as we gently and curiously explored the nooks and crannies of these old German towns and the rivers to which they bring life.

In conclusion, I very much enjoyed my journey from Moldova to Germany. It was fascinating to have such an unusual opportunity to witness, first-hand, so many amazing places in Central Europe. Describing this trip to friends and colleagues, I would later describe it as highly stressful, not very relaxing, but altogether interesting and much appreciated. If we had traveled to only one or two of those stops along the way, or a thousand more, it would still have been pleasant for me primarily because I had the opportunity to see and be with my family again.

Thus, the Whistlestop Wanderjahr comes to an end. What will come next?

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Český Krumlov

I've discovered that I have a strong preference for traveling in places where I know the local language. Hence, Romania has been top on my list of favorites for this trip. Still, Český Krumlov defies this trend, instead rivalling the best Romania has to offer.

Český Krumlov [pronounced Chesky Crumlow] is a small Czech (as the name suggests) town near the Austrian border. Its character is based on a swiftly snaking river, a charming town of red roofed houses, and an old castle resting upon the tops of sharply cut cliffs. The town lies on a narrow strip of land bounded on three sides by the Vltava river. This river very nearly takes a shortcut through town, at one point, but is instead carefully controlled and preserved on its winding course by a series of spillways and small dams.

Incidentally, the Vltava river is sometimes referred to by another name, the Moldau. In and around the area, a rare-ish gem takes its name from the river (or perhaps the river from the gem): Moldavite. The gem is not particularly valuable to mainstream jewelers, but it has a rich green color and is quite appealing regardless of whether it has been intricately faceted or left uncut. In most of the town's stores, especially in the town center, the amount of silver or gold used in the setting will determine 90% of the price. Information on this stone can be found, like most other information, in the Hitch-Hiker's Guide.

As far as sights go, there are few extraordinary guide book stops in town. Most guide books will point visitors to such riveting destinations as the wax museum or the castle grounds, the latter of which actually is rather beautiful. If visitors to Český Krumlov are expecting Prague- or Paris-style attractions, I recommend Prague. Or Paris. Český Krumlov is, instead, for those seeking a more relaxed and quiet place to rest their heads or to sip the local brews. The area surrounding this small town is remarkable in a very Wordsworthian sense, and could easily occupy days or weeks on an itinerary.

There is little more to say about this small town. It was difficult to leave, especially knowing that the remainder of the trip would be in a country altogether more familiar than prior whistle stops. To be fair, Germany would surprise us in many ways, but it always felt rather like home.

Coming soon: Germany (one BIG post for the whole week).

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Prague

Though I've tried to neglect mention of it so far, most stops on our Whistlestop Wanderjahr have greeted us with some form of precipitation -- at some times a mere drizzle, at others a sheer downpour. Prague didn't disappoint this trend, but it did ease up a bit. The Czech Republic's proud capital was cloudy but dry for most of our stay. The resultant broken blue sky provided the ideal climate and lighting for wandering the old nooks and crannies of a city untouched by the most recent and more destructive of our world wars.

We arrived early in the morning, following a comfortable night train from Krakow, Poland. Guidebooks will recommend avoiding such trains in Poland, for reasons of theft, but we slept soundly and safely in our room, waking only as the train pulled slowly up to Prague's platform.

After checking into the aptly-named Hotel Central, we set off for breakfast at one of Prague's many delightfully tasty culinary establishments. Details of what we ate in Prague are not important; suffice it to say that it was all excellent. After breakfast, excursions into the city would begin.

Tour guides to the city can be found aplenty both in Prague's central square and in any half-decent information bureau. However, the free walking tours are, hands down, the way to go. Led by enthusiastic, young-ish kids trying to fill time in the summers, these tours provide ample information on the antique areas of Prague, served with light-hearted and friendly humor from the guides. Salaries are tip-based, and can be paid at the end according to how well the guide performed. Or so I'm told. I didn't actually go on the free tour. My spirit for city tours taxed beyond the limit, I cringed at the thought of wasting two more hours behind another boring guide. My loss, in this case. I went for a spiffy haircut, instead, so not a complete loss, I guess. Later that evening, I would follow the same group of tour guides on a slightly more intoxicating tour of the city, via their not-so-free Bar Crawl. Unfortunately, the meat market on this latter tour would be the cause of me calling it a night before midnight, and WALKING (not staggering or crawling) back to the hotel for a too-short night's sleep.

The next day, after wandering the city with the parents a bit and ingesting more great food, we met up for a not-at-all-free guided tour -- this time of Prague's impressive castle. I'll refrain from any long, poetic descriptions of this castle, and instead just recommend that you get on a plane or train and visit the place yourself. While I haven't seen the palace at Versailles, yet my parents remarked that Prague's castle (at least the exterior structure) reminded them of the French wonder... minus the marble, excess, and insane power-grubbing. Our tour guide, a cute gal by the name of Sarah, led us through the fortifications and courtyards with expertly delivered story-telling. Her friend and moral support, Sofie, happened to be the lively, informative (and also cute, ) tour guide for my parents' free walking tour, the previous day.

After the castle tour, we made our way for the hotel, where we grabbed our bags and made a dash for the distant and confusing bus station, from which we would depart for our next destination: Český Krumlov.

Before we move on from this place, though, let me add: Prague is a great city, and a recommended stop for any- and everybody. However, keep in mind that people in Prague are starting to catch on to the attraction of their city, and prices clearly reflect this. By this I mean that the people of Prague have long ago lost any naivety regarding how much tourists are actually willing to pay for pretty much anything. According to more worldly people, the city feels a lot like a small, quaint Paris -- absent the French (love 'em or hate 'em) and the Eiffel Tour, of course. I don't usually enjoy large cities, but Prague doesn't feel like large, at all, and the people are usually quite friendly, when even a little modesty and humility are shown on the part of the traveler.

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.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Budapest

Budapest pulls off a much better attempt at this whole tourism bit. It's still a bit much for my tastes, but I can interest myself in several days of this richly historical crossroads of culture. It feels calm and quiet compared to the early-June crush of Istanbul. I can even spot authentic (read: genuine) Magyars, here and there.

The language barrier is unusually large, as Hungarian falls into a language group entirely separate from our loving Indo-European family of languages. This language barrier caused me no little grief, especially as regards my seventh favorite pastime: striking up conversations with interesting-looking random people.

(As and aside, this pastime sometimes bites me in the ass, metaphorically speaking. See penultimate paragraph.)

Arriving in Budapest after our flight from Sighişoara, my parents and I had a short wait at the still smallish airport for the hotel shuttle. We had reservations at what guidebooks bluntly referred to as the centrally located but uncharming Hotel Charles. Compared to the warmth and readily helpful staff of our series of hotels in Romania, the lack of charm at Hotel Charles felt more like icy disregard for standards in the business of hospitality. Or it would have felt chilly, if the air conditioning had extended beyond the reception and the halls.

As it turns out, Hotel Charles also lacks centrality. While its distance from the center is not large, it certainly is on the margin of Budapest's touristy area. As such, the decision was easily made to spend as little time as possible at the hotel. Our first evening in town, my parents and I spent gaining as sense of the city center. In this effort, we explored the area of Pest near the heavily swollen waters of the Danube. Our arrival in Budapest happily coincided with some festival, which had turned the beautiful Chain Bridge into a pedestrian-only path of street performers and trinket vendors, bounded on each end with stages for live music. With a wide selection of beer, wine, and snacks, we enjoyed the music and energetic crowd.

In the following days, my parents cleverly taxed my endurance for guided tours and sightseeing excursions, to the limit. They did this via a "Hop On, Hop Off" package, which involved sitting in an uncovered bus under searing heat, watching fascinating sights pass by as a recorded voice casually outlined all of the places we would not be going inside as long as we stayed on the bus. At the end of the bus tour, we ate lunch and caught an altogether uninspired sightseeing boat which carried us up and down the river, with suspiciously similar prerecorded explanations of passing points of interest.

Among these points of interest, the Parliament building and the Matthias Church complex were the most captivating. It would be a vast understatement to say that Pest's riverside palace which houses Hungary's parliament is ornate. Covered in spires, gargoyles, intricate carvings, and vast arrays of arched windows, the building would be hard to resist, no matter what angle one comes from. If that weren't enough, though, the building was constructed after winning an architectural bidding contest around 1880. However, the government was so impressed by the second- and third-place runners-up that it had them built adjacent to the magnificent first-place winner. Tour guides say (with some pride noticeable in their voices) that it is the only place in the world to have simultaneously built three parliament buildings, side by side.

The Matthias Church complex is also a grand imposition, though this time sitting not on Pest's shore of the Danube. The church overlooks the city from Buda's primary hilltop. While the church was (of course) covered in scaffolding and largely obstructed, pictures suggest a stunning structure. However, the church does not stand alone. Surrounding the church is a series of unscathed, white stone walls and towers. The area was entirely overrun by busloads of tourists while I was there, but the beauty of the place still pushed through. The church was the coronation site for many important rulers of Hungarian history. Such coronation ceremonies would begin at the church and then wind down the hill to cross the chain bridge, directly below. Now, Buda's pricey but classic-looking funicular provides a more kingly (and quick) descent. We kindly passed on the funicular, opting instead to explore the ancient streets in the quarter adjacent to the church. This was a great option, as the old streets were quaint and slightly more quiet. The only significant marring of this old castle-church complex is the ugly, tinted glass Marriott hotel, which alternately casts a shadow or reflects a brownish tint on the historical church. I hope the shameless guests at this hotel saw nothing but the church scaffolding from their 1970s-style windows. Heh heh...

Budapest was a bust, as far as I am concerned. The sights mentioned above were great, and the lively violinist at our dinner was brightening. But the crowds and huge sprawl of the city, compounded by scam artists and bold prostitutes, made my memories of Budapest less than gleeful. Maybe if I had been staying in hostels, wandering the city under the setting sun and moonlight, propelled along by coffee and great beer, I would have had a more pleasant experience. Then again, maybe Budapest's enormous size (by my standards) made it less than ideal for me, by default. Indeed, my favorite stops on this trip have been the tiny towns and villages. In any case, despite their wearing effect on the soles of my feet, my company was still great, and the journey continued. On that note...

We eventually concluded our days in Budapest with a relaxed stroll near Buda's newer citadel. After happily checking out of the drab Hotel Charles, we hailed a cab to the train station. Our next stop would turn out to be one of the best on the trip: Krakow, Poland.

Whistlestop Wanderjahr: Sibiu

Wow, do I need to write these posts more quickly! Sibiu seems a long distant memory, and recalling the events is going to take some serious contemplation.

It was a quick train ride from Braşov to Sibiu -- only a matter of a couple hours. Disembarking from the train, my parents and I glanced at our map and quickly concluded that walking from train station to hotel was entirely within the realm of possibility. In fact, it turned out to be possible, probable, and pleasant. Sibiu's cobblestoned roads and old, beautifully maintained houses made the short walk toward Piaţa Mica entirely worth it. As we approached the old tower that opens into the piaţa, our curiosity and impatience got the better of us, and we darted through a tiny passage into the square. The name belies Piaţa Mica's true nature; it is actually impressively sizable. It features myriad alleys and passages between the surrounding buildings, long lines of highly social cafes and restaurants, towers, churches, a sunken roadway, and (last but certainly not least) the affectionately named Liar's Bridge. We easily located our hotel, Casa Luxembourg, just across the bridge, checked in, and dropped the luggage.

The hotel room offered perfect views over the square, while being elevated enough to escape the prying eyes of passers-by. With live music pouring through large windows from the restaurant terraces below, I quickly succumbed to the urge to wander around Piaţa Mica and the adjacent squares with my camera, perhaps stopping here and there for a mouthful of drink and an earful of jazz. My mother was easily persuaded, and we left my father to doze comfortably on the large bed.

Outside, the night greeted us with eye-catching 16th-century edifices posing gracefully in cleverly placed floodlights. After a long, hot day, the evening air cooly persuaded us in a meandering path from corner to nook to cranny. As we finally made our way back toward the hotel, we passed some low windows of a cellar bar, from which a pianist's craft could be heard spilling out onto the street. Myself immediately swayed, I suggested that we stop in for a short while to enjoy the music. After teaching the bartender how to make a Tom Collins (for me) and a Lemon Drop (for my mother), we sat down at a piano-side table and listened to a wide variety of well executed songs. On the walls, a projector flipped through stills of old, classic movies -- Cassablanca, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Buch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and plenty with which I wasn't quite familiar. After finishing our drinks and paying the quite reasonably priced bill, we completed the previously postponed venture of retiring for the night.

The next day, we set off early (after a delicious in-hotel breakfast, of course) to wander around old city fortifications, churches, and museums. Sibiu has a great wealth of history, and proudly displays such through its low, multicolored houses and park-encompassed old town. But, with only an evening and a day to explore the city before again heading out, we really only just tasted the endearing city. Such is what leads to return trips, though.

The walk back to the train station seemed slightly longer, at least to me. But eventually we reached it, bought our tickets to Sighişoara, and set out to the next destination before the sun grew too low in the sky. Lucky, this, as the trip to Sighişoara would not be so seamless.

Vacation from Moldova

Bucareşti, the biggest city and capital of Romania, has been a blast. I have found the architecture and parks to be altogether satisfying, and the people to be hospitable and (of course) beautiful. With blue skies and mild temperatures, my friend and I have explored the city on foot, with little incident and much success. Having only a day and a half is about perfect, although we have found it to be a bit too short a trip for visiting museums and such. Still, it has been more than sufficient to wander the winding city streets, taste some local food, and tour the second largest building in the world -- which may be smaller than the Pentagon, but certainly blows it out of the water in terms of aesthetics.

Bucareşti (known to the English-speaking world as Bucharest) shares several cultural undertones with my current country of residence, Moldova, but stands on a whole different level of development and culture. Indeed, while the Romanian language may be pretty much the same, people in Bucareşti speak with different accent and pronunciation, in such a way that I feel almost as though I were in France or Italy -- even though I've never been to either of those countries. People here seem to have difficulty understanding me, and I am becoming increasingly more aware of the subtle and not-so-subtle discrepancies between the Romanian of Bucareşti and that of Moldova.

Having a vacation from Moldova and my Peace Corps service has come not a moment too soon, and I can't wait for the next stop on the trip. So, where to next? Wait and see...

The Final Stretch

School in Moldova officially ends on the final weekday of May. This means that students unofficially checked out around the beginning of May. More so, in my case, as certain students harbor almost no respect for me, the foreign teacher, which leads to completely unproductive classes. As a result, I have little choice but to check out, as well.

In the States, summer vacation persists as an archaic tradition wrought by the agrarian demand for child labor during the peak growing and harvesting season. Many would argue that because that demand no longer exists* in any real form, the three-month break from school serves only educationally detrimental purposes. Summer vacation sees unbelievable mental attrition in students. The first one to three months of any school year are consumed by "reviewing" or relearning what the students failed to retain during three months of TV, video games, and internet, to say nothing of their other, more nefarious pursuits.

However, this first year of teaching in Moldova have made clear to me the true purpose of summer vacation: teachers would go completely insane if continually and unceasingly exposed to the stresses of the classroom -- namely, the students. Teaching is a tough job, and like most tough jobs it is vastly under-rewarded. Low salaries and long work hours are common for teachers around the world. And while the "joys of teaching" are myriad, so are the stressors.

For the past several weeks, school has gradually been losing touch with that primary quality: education. The first real indicator is the kids, who grow louder and more restless as the days tick on. The teachers have to spend more and more energy just keeping the kids in their seats. After about a week of this, the teachers begin to show signs of resignation: yelling turns into disenthused pleading; lessons plans are replaced with "activities" (read: games); classes occasionally change venues, to greener pastures. In the end, we teachers are so shaken from our groove, our rhythm, that we are finally in a position to realize how tired teaching makes us. The days get warmer, and fruit starts appearing on the trees outside, and suddenly we begin to think of days without classes. Ah... Summer is almost here.

Indeed, by the time summer arrives, I can't say for sure who wants it more: the students, or the teachers?

*In Moldova, this demand most certainly does exist, at present. Thus, summer vacation has real and apparent purpose, and most of the next paragraph or two don't actually apply to it.