P is for Pilsner in Prague

Dusting a Fairytale Land Walt Disney may have patterned his fairytale castle after the famous Newschwanstein Castle in Fussen, Germany, but it is beyond any doubt, in my mind, that Cinderella, Snow, and Tink all made residency in the Czech Republic--in the enchanting gilded city of antiquity known the world around as Prague.

There are far too many elements one could recount and embellish on from a weekend passed in Prague--the streets, skyline, food, markets, people, puppets, music, sparkle, and nightlife--as such it is an act of great difficulty to synopsize the finest points of Prague. Over the past few decades it has risen to the ranks of one of the most densely visited cities on the European continent, a tourist haven on par with the dazzle of such cities as Paris and London. Though the Czech Republic was made EU member only in 2004, Prague has been a world cultureal and economic center for over 1100 years and remains under the aliases of the Golden City, the Mother of Cities, and the City of a Thousand Spires. Prague seems of existence for the single purpose of gaiety and a good time, an unspoiled majesty remains on the land that perhaps before one thought only possible to find on Main Street and Splash Mountain. It is a nonpareil city in this respect; a poignant contrast to the cool sad grayness left behind in Poland. There are Pixies and Pucks to be found in the winding streets of Praha, and a certain mystery seeped in the odd and puzzling atmosphere of a Scandinavian village mingled with an Eastern Turkish feel and a whimsical Bavarian charm. I say, put down the map and look up--there is a puppet show to be seen, and a 20 crown Pilsner with your name on it.

What is this? This can't be real? Are the classic first words heard to escape ones mouth as they emerge from the winding cluttered village onto awe inspiring Charles bidge. The sheer population and commerce found atop the Charles Bridge is enough to deem it a city upon itself; portrait artists, painting peddlers, puppeteers, novelty salesmen, and musical artists of every make inhabit the outer lanes of the bridge from dawn until dusk. The ever present classical and authentic Czech style music paired with the smell of sweet roasted street nuts is a constant reminder that you are on vacation in a fairytale kingdom.

The Charles Bridge is perhaps the most prominent landmark of Praha; of the myriad bridges that traverse the Vltava River, it is the most highly decorated and revered as it boasts the history as the replacement of the first bridge (the Judith Bridge in 1170) when it collapsed in 1342. Charles Bridge is named for the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV, and is the direct link between the old town and new town on opposite sides of the river. The bridge is lined with a near 30 baroque style statues depicting Christian characters and icons pointing and jabbing in directions every which way. Of the many, the statue of Saint John of Nepomuk is the most eye chatching--though do not be fooled by the sparkling austerity of his golden crown, for all of the bridge statues are replicas of the originals who have since 1965 been residing in the national museum. Regardless they are wonders to marvel at. Though once across the bridge on both banks there are spectacles to gaze upon that leave all thought of counterfeit deceit behind: Prague Castle, the Opera House, the the Town Hall Tower and Celestial Clock, St. Vitus Cathedral, Tyn Church, and the Old Jewish Quarter. This city has by far too much to see. But make sure you squeeze in a black light show or you will regret it to the end of your days.

If there is a single thing one picks up on in cross-border travel, it is the similarities and differences in the everyday and average aspects of life. For instance--beer. Beer secretly runs th the world and civil society as we know it. In Ireland one must dig deep to find an add, sign, or human not boasting the label Guinness, and in France it is without a doubt Kronenburg seen on the tables of the nouveau-sans-vin generation as it is manufactured in Strasbourg in the Alsace region of France. In the Czech Republic it is Pilsner, and there is no competition. As often as one encounters Guinness in Dublin, once encounters Pilsner in Prague.

Pilsner Urquell originated in the Bohemian city of Pilsen in the mid nineteenth century, and has since become one of the nations top grossing manufactured exports world wide. Aside frm the beer, kabobs are rudy everywhere in Europe--though I much prefer and recommend the rabbit roasted and stewed in a red wine and plum sauce served with golden raisins and potato dumplings followed by a slow mulled hot wine. But would you believe if I said 10 euro for said feast? Fairytale land, I will emphasize once again--the currency of Crowns, or Koruna, is an unearthly wonder for an An American living USD through Euro. Yes, Prague is quite the affordable city.

It is common knowledge that a travel companion can make or break a voyage--it is paramount to find an amicable, trustworthy, and dependable associate in order to not only survive but to have a good time. For every Frodo there is a Sam, every Huck a Jim, every TinTin a Milou, every Lewis a Clark--my expedition was no different, Prague was made only more bright by the company of my comrade H, whose life as a professional photographer meshed well with my charade as an amateur one, and whose similar fondness for marzipan allowed us time for the search as well as a newly mustered mutual respect for our shared interests. Travel is stressful, unpredictable, and certain to proffer a dilemma no matter how carefully the schedule is followed or the steps taken measured--it is not the circumstances of how or when the inevitable happens that matter in the least--but rather that one can come out of them just as happy as when one entered. (As well as, I suppose, not being kidnapped and sold into slavery to an illegal black market puppeteer--but come now, I had everything under control.) That is the unit of measure of a travel companion--if you can laugh and work together through the marshes then it is hardly possible to ask for more short of a Gandalf. But who needs a wizard when you have a friend and a bar of marzipan.

Violins, puppets, and paper mache eggs are symbols of Prague's novelty and beauty. A visit to a medieval village preserved from time is enjoyed through afternoon lattes and evening mugs of grog as the glistening shafts of the dying sun poor through the dusty haze--proof of the City's being sprinkled by golden fairy dust. Even now it seems surreal, a pastoral image paralleled to the likeness of those created by Monet, Sisley, and Bruegel on canvas. But it is real. And had Disney not so knavishly claimed his kingdom the happiest place on earth--such a title would indisputably fall upon this cracker-jack city in the east.

A bientôt

The Porta-Loo Business

First Stop: Krakow
Krakow--why, many have asked, would a fall vacation lead one into the cold, distant, and rather foreign land of Poland when the beautifully warm sands of the Mediterranean lie but six hours south? Good question, I'll get back to you.

Poland pulled for many reasons, and in the end it came to this: if not now then when? Krakow is a beautiful city, the medieval cathedrals and castles joust the sky with the whimsical feel of ancient European charm, but there is something else in the air, stained on the streets, and writ on the faces of the inhabitants, something forced and unprovoked that lingers even after the wounds have closed and the patient discharged. Evidently this reference is to the German invasion in 1939, and though Poland was not alone in twentieth century home soil suffering as every nation was pained during the course of the Great Wars on this continent--but Poland appears different. True Paris was leveled, and rebuilt, but there is no lingering aura of torment, whereas once in Poland one is invaded by a sadness made only more poignant by the contrasting beauty of the land surrounding.

The nation's years of occupation by Nazi Germany that were followed by Soviet rule have left Poland a rape victim conscripted to forever carry her scars while yet make attempt at forward movement. Perhaps it was after all just the effect of the rather low temperature, and the eerie notion of a non-warming sun, but either way the nation of Poland is due its admiration. It shoulders its legacy as an extension rather than as a separate past. Slowly the nation recovers--made member of the European Union two years past, though not yet strong enough to carry the euro, adoption of modern and western forms of culture and materialism with four-story shopping malls and corporate eateries, but all the while never masking the omnipresent scent of being Polish.

The journey from Paris by plane was taken in rather French strides I must say--cheep mini bottles of Bordeaux alongside cheese, crudites, and dried fruit. H--my stalwart accomplice on the voyage--and I toasted to our narrow French escape and anxiously chirped our anticipation and excitement for the East. Upon arrival in Crakovie (the French will tell you how your name is spelled too, do not worry) the change in atmosphere was paramount--it goes without saying that yes, Poland is different than France, but it is a sense that has to be experienced in order to understand these circular and prosaic words I give here that futilely attempt to induce comprehension. Standing outside the airport, the temperature drastically lower than the energy-spiked air of Paris, we found ourselves finally completely alone and without direction, a liberating notion despite its apparent gravity. Cab, of course--but 70euros to get downtown? Rape for the non-Polish speakers. Ironically it was the French language that saved us; a French-Polish Speaking Pole called a cab and split the fare, 5euros each. He translated our French to the Polish-speaking driver and we all landed safely at our respective destination. Alright French, you win this round. Our schedule kept us in in Krakow the first night--where a shared hostel with two Brits and a Welsh-man left us with our first taste of Polish vodka and a sleepless night of bed-rattling snores. Morning was greeted early, as our first adventure took us an hour and a half north by bus to the sites of Auschwitz and Birkenau death camps. An experience I've anxiously awaited since my decision to study history. The visit was an exhausting and empowering experience, one that is best left for another time and another form of communication.

Metropolitan Krakow is a bustling tourist center full of the quaint tourist shops, sleigh rides, and cluttered cobbled avenues of authentic restaurants and novelties. Exhausted by the previous days excursion to Auschwitz and awaiting our night train, H and I passed our last hours in Krakow in an underground Polish pub. A shared bowl of sauerkraut and red cabbage soup accompanied by what else but Polish vodka quickly began to lift our sobered spirits, enhanced only by the arrival of a traveling gang of businessmen from Ireland whose generosity toward fellow English speakers provided H and I with myriad rounds of free drinks. As we will shortly discover through our journey, it is the other foreign travelers one meets abroad who provide the best company and warmest memories. Our Irish blokes commenced their introduction as a pair of Toms--one from Dublin and the other from Waterford, yes like the crystal, whose employment in the porta-loo business brought them to Krakow in an attempt to monopolize the market. Slurring Irish-men at times are difficult to follow, as such it took a few moments to discern that what they referred to were portable toilets, porta-potties for we Americans. "The cleanest rims you'll ever have the pleasure to place your tush on." Only in Poland, we told ourselves, would we find ourselves in animated conversation over porta-loos. It is the people one meets abroad--as I will be repeat in phrases to come--that remain in my thoughts of voyages and adventures. Streets will always be there, the castles and walls have been stationary for years and will remain for years to come, but people are chance, and that is the real thrill of adventure abroad.

Aboard the night train from Krakow, we left the breathtaking and proud country of Poland behind in the thick settling nocturnal mist, a fitting shroud for the melancholy first stage of our journey. Poland's past creeps into ones pores, a tristess forever embedded in the nation's identity, though one does not have to look far to find happiness--good people willing to help lost travelers, affordable sausages, the worlds most homely cat, and of course the fecundity of losing oneself in harmless conversations on porta-loos.

History is a treasure to learn, but it is even more so to feel. I have been to Poland, and porta-loos and chilly streets tucked safely in my memory, I anticipate my return someday, perhaps to a city with the cleanest street toilets ever found.

A Bientôt.

Michael Lives In Normandy

In the Old Testament, the Archangel Michael is personified the battle cry for war, the field commander of God's divine army both on Earth and in heaven. As such it should be quite clear as to how he wound up the patron saint of French chivalry as well as the guiding muse of northern fish mongers and mariners. And I thought he lived in Paris.

The French hold an affinity for Saint Michel, an observation easily garnered from the myriad namesakes, monuments, and tributes to the angel strewn throughout the city of Paris. The melding of Michael's embodiment as war lord and chivalrous saint is psychologically fitting for the nation of France, as historically the French pride a chivalrous society married to a curt vulgarity and violence as a history. Patronizingly classified the 'loser' by critics and charlatans throughout the Western world, France's misfortunes in the first and second World Wars have cast a shadow over the nation's musketeering past. Wimp appears an unfitting and illogical epithet for a nation whose streets have run with the blood of countless massacres and wars including Centuries of religious crusades including the thirteenth century massacre of the Albigensians, the infamous Bartholomew's Day Massacre of the Huguenots in 1572, the Reign of Terror during the Revolution, the Napoleonic wars, the 1842 Revolution, the Franco Prussian War, etc. The Marseillaise has bean battered and beaten over the years for its severity in content, though has survived. Imagine the reaction if at the opening of a Yankees game the call to arms rang through the loudspeakers soliciting for the watering of crops with the impure blood of the enemy instead of the twilights last gleaming? Exactly. The French eat with poise, wear colorful scarves, and hold a certain set of manners...yet to stick a crowd of English among the down trodden rugby fans at Hotel de Ville would ensure a bountiful crop season...high in iron.Somewhere between war patron and chivalric icon Michael became a seaman, a guiding beacon for mariners on France's Normandy and Brittany coast. Le Mont Saint Michel, the floating fortress and abbey built for the archangel strattles the boundary between Normandy and Brittany on the sandy coast. The medieval town is made island only with the changing maritime tides; a geographical phenomenon contrasted by the grazing hoards of shorn sheep at the villages base. In retirement Michel runs a a died yarn facility, as well as a dairy farm that produces the finest Camembert in the north of France. To watch the setting sun behind Michel's abbey clears all doubt as to why he prefers such a countryside palace to his Fountain and batiments in Paris, there truly is no better place in this world than the sea.

An hour or so east and I find myself in the Bretagne region of France, in the small fishing port of Cancale. Oysters. Lovely barrages of oyster fields as far as the eye can see. Not surprising then to discover Cancale to be the oyster capital of Brittany. Regretfully we left Cancale and her early morning oyster shuckers for our journey to Brittany's Saint Malo. Regret was quick to fade as the walled city of Saint Malo appeared perched in the distance on the coast of the English chanel; a castle and marina linked to the middle ages, the city of the Corsair pirates provided a day of fantasy and exploration that yet again propelled me into the frame of shock and awe at how simple yet joyous life can actually be.

Scaling the fortress walls of the city, strolling through the cobbled streets, peering through shop windows and dozens upon dozens of seafood eateries, and simply sitting on the quay dangling limbs over the sparkling channel water is a day in Brittany. Michael chose well when he stationed in France; a chivalrous and proud nation quick to temper, yet simultaneously mellowed by the sea in bearing. Oysters and angels--perhaps Mike will someday sublet.


A bientôt

Guinness, Grass, & Father Ted

Wandering through Dublin and Galway
James Joyce remarked of his country, "If Ireland is to become a new Ireland, she must first become European." Mr. Joyce, we meet yet again, but this time around I find myself no longer cursing the day of your birth. James let us forget and forgive, I did tape those pages back into Ulysses afterall.

One month in France. Time to leave. Never did I imagine this to be possible--to weekend (verb) in Ireland. By no accounts may I accredit here a spur of the moment adventure, this trip had been in the books since day one. The occasion: the birthday party of a dear friend--not just a friend, but that friend, the one you consider family, and (depending on your outlook) have either been blessed or lucked with friendship. Me: damn lucky. K's 21st birthday, In Galway, Ireland, the land of Pubs. A nice little escape from the hustle and bustle of the Paris city life--understatement. For a country only an hours flight north, Ireland could not be more different from Paris, nor could it be more homey, comforting, and familiar. Paris is exhausting for a foreigner: big, fast, French--its own world in which one is a pin prick attempting to navigate and blend. Ireland: Gray, tepid, small, messy hair, tawdry sweaters, and English.

Undoubtedly a statement to offend many an Irish--but I finally felt at home. Joyce said Ireland must first become European, I trust him now. Ireland is not European at all--and is worthy, I now admit, of being time-capsuled in eight hundred pages of stream of conscious.

The previous noted travel woes of this author would have any cognitive reader questioning her solo attempt at crossing a border via 5 different modes of transport. And right you are for questioning--wrong metro stop, wrong bus, missed exit on Luas...but the difference? I predicted these, scheduled them into the time table if you will. Once in Dublin I was to take a shuttle bus to Heuston train station, not surprising I found myself on the wrong bus. I informed the bus driver if I had actually boarded the right bus, the cosmos would have torn apart. I scheduled this in: I had 5 hours in Dublin to roam in the footsteps of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, so the above the ground tram car the driver took me to was more than what I could have hoped for, until i missed my stop distracted by a brawl between the conductor and a ticket-less youth. Unphased--walk to the station from the next stop. Dublin is brilliant. My four hours walking along the quay of the Liffey River, switchbacking the myriad bridges, the Guinness factory, pubs, Ireland's national museum, pubs, people, the James Joyce House where the story The Dead (in Dubliners) took place, and more pubs. Though brief, Dublin was breathtaking, a preview for my next visit and a n inspiration to finally attempt a second round Ulysses, for the bastard did say, "The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole life to reading my works." Teatime Joyce. Teatime.

Dublin and Glaway are on opposite coasts of the country latitudinally, therefore I may claim that I crossed the nation of Ireland by train. What lays in between the country's two largest cities: grass. Fields upon fields of austere cornea-burning green pastures spattered by herds of grazing sheep. Irish sweaters are scarves are not cliche, for there absolutely are more resident sheep than people. The sheer beauty of endless fields, small farmhouses, dotty stone fences, and overcast skies left me with an esoteric nostalgia for home, family, and friends. Arrival in picturesque Galway was one for the films: K and J were waiting for me on the platform, waving and beaming like an old married couple. Stations and airports are notorious abodes for tears, hugs, and laughs either commencing or ending a separation.

Dinner was already simmering on the stove; a chicken curry, rice, and homemade naan bread (K is an exceptional chef and baker, we have very similar interests). After dinner: Irish Pub, my first Irish Pub, and therefore my first Guinness in an Irish Pub. Make that first sips of Guinness, for as an acquired taste, it is not one I have 'acquired' yet.

Galway lies on the sea, a welcome sight for this Seattle born. The salty air, swift breeze, seagulls, and humid air were yet more bolsters for that ol' nostalgia. Peaceful, happy, and friendly is the definition of Galway with its winding streets, packed shopping allies, Guinness, Guinness, and Guinness, beached boats, and 24-hour super store centers. Not, a city. No, not a city, but rather a home.K's birthday commenced with (my standard) two hour breakfast. In Ireland: porridge, fruit, and two teapots of liquid love. English television is a perk, though the television hours were spent on Father Ted, a beloved BBC program of mine I feared I would never again find, though there it was, in neat DVD format...was I indeed meant for Ireland? Presents from France: wine, scarf, chocolates, and yes, a baguette. All things French minus the beret. Presents in tow we headed to Salt Hill, a sandy point where one can gaze out to sea while the rocky Atlantic waves crash into the ancient stone walls below. Evening was passed in bowls of potato soup, cider, chocolate cake, and more Father Ted. Not the raucous 21 many an American immortalizes, no something much better.

Irish coffee, cards, tea, Ted, and warm mist. My weekend in Galway rescued this drowning foreigner from this brilliant, yet exhausting Charybdis of a city, depositing me in welcome arms that recreated home far from home. Appreciate the second half of "family and friends" for more likely than not, your friends will invariably become family to you. Ireland now for me represents all of this; an escape home from Paris. The weekend was spent traipsing down memory lane, while yet experiencing a completely new life. The new and old melange; somehow life is built with enough room to keep everything while adding tenfold. The ride from Galway to Shannon to catch my flight home dug up Joyce's words yet again, "Every life is many days, day after day we walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves." Pick up the tome again he's telling me.

One may find here the saccharine tone tiresome to follow. Well, Ireland gave me a new phrase for response: feck off!


A bientôt

Madeleines D'Automne

Cinnamon Madeleines de Commercy

The toaster oven has been tamed, I am now the master. So I say unto it: spit forth the pretty little cake iconic of France, the simple yet sophisticated treat known as the madeleine. If you, the reader, have been following my charades in the foyer kitchen stocked with non-savvy and archaic appliances, then you understand my tart gayness at finally--and successfully-- manning the oven. Toaster. Not, an oven. Madeleines for an October in Paris, and to honor les éspices de la saison--cinnamon, as I am lacking in cloves and cardamom. After losing myself in an early morning run from Luxembourg to Montparnase, to the Tour Eiffel, and then home, I was inspired by the mini-city tour to re-attempt the classic French cake--and it was not at all a coincidence that I needed a birthday cake for a darling upstairs.

The madeleine is a traditional cake originating from the small village Commercy, in northeastern France. There are varying versions of the tale outlining their creation, but most agree they are named for Madeleine Paulmier, an 18th century chef for the father-in-law of Louis XV. Paulmiers use of shells as cake molds is the defining characteristic that denotes a madeleine from any other butter cake, for a madeleine is not a madeleine unless in the shape of a shell of St Jacques. A sponge or pound cake is all the cake is. No more no less. Though, there are myriad ways to dress it, spices, perfumes, chocolate, seeds, nuts, what one does with a sponge one can do to the little madeleine.

The plan this time, varied slightly from the last. This time, measurement would be taken more seriously, and the oven watched on par to a vulture eying an interstate. The measurements: a jam jar. The jar read 370g--my measuring cup. The oven this time, not foolish enough to attempt 220 degrees, was set at a low 200. Success. The resident black lab of the foyer, Reglieuse, wholeheartedly beamed in approval of the sweet cinnamony perfume that filled the halls, indicating through the sharpest of the senses the presence of autumn and the impending holiday season.

Cinnamon Madeleines:

• 3 eggs
• 140g sugar
• 150g flour
• 1 packet baking soda
• 125g softened butter
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon
• extra sugar for dusting

Whisk together the sugar and eggs until frothy, add flour, soda, cinnamon. Mix. Add softened (not melted) butter. Butter or spray madeleine pans, fill shells 3/4 full. Baking times will vary as I used a toaster oven. Just watch them closely. Once removed from pans, pat shell side in course sugar.

The madeleines were fitting for a birthday in France, though a bittersweet celebration away from friends and family. If a recipe or an attempt is a failure, do not let it win. Attack it, prove to it you are the chef, not the cook, the chef. And while pitted against an oven, a sack of white powder, or a lump of lard, it is you who has the upper hand. Hopefully. Failure is rewarding, for success proves your ability to manipulate food, to bend it, and to make it your own.


A bientôt