The Road Less Traveled

Getting there is half the battle 

When I boarded the train in Mannheim headed toward Frankfurt Flughafen (Airport), everything seemed to be running smoothly for a change. (My former roommate Bethany was not so lucky—her train was running about 45 minutes late).  When I arrived in Frankfurt, however, I was told that my train to Brussels was not running. Instead, I would have to take another train to Koeln (Cologne), then a third train to Aachen (on the German-Belgian border), then take a bus to Brussels.  Frankly, I was pissed.  I had paid 89 Euros for the comfort of the ICE, not to be stuffed into a bus. The train to Koeln was overcrowded and I stood for half the ride.  Eventually, I sat next to a young woman from China who studies Biology in Liege.  She said this type of cancellation happens quite often, especially in winter. I swore to myself if I ever had to take a train internationally again I would try to take the Thalys train instead because it’s not run by Deutsche Bahn..

It took a while for everyone in Aachen to board the buses and find a seat.  We finally took off around 9:30 p.m., around the time my train was originally scheduled to arrive in Brussels.  We arrived two hours later.  The only good part of the trip is that on the ride in I saw sights I knew I would want to return to later. 

Because it was so late, I was tired, the streets were icy, and I had no idea how far the hotel was from the Metro, I ended up taking a taxi (12.50 Euros) to the Hotel Queen Anne. The taxi driver was nice, and told me that if I knew English, French, and German I could get a very nice job with the European Commission, with my salary paid by both the EC government and “my” national government. 

 Meeting Goliath, I mean, the European Commission 

After enjoying the free breakfast at the hotel (eggs, bread, deli meat, cheese, coffee, and juice served buffet style), I meandered towards the Place de Brouckere Metro station.  Along the way I discovered the Place des Martyrs, a monument honoring those who died fighting for Belgium. I also found a charming street leading to the opera house. I tried to scope out a place to have mussels and a bier for dinner, but was surprised to see that most restaurants served only steaks, pasta, fish, and pizza. 

I finally got on the Metro and took it to Shuman, per the instructions on the European Commission Education Culture and Audiovisual Executive Agency (ECAEA) map. When I got off, I took pictures of the grand European Commission administrative offices I had seen last night—the Berlaymont 3000-person building. On the outside was a huge banner wishing happy New Year in 20 languages of the EU. Across the street was another building with a banner in English and Spanish welcoming the new Spanish president of the EU. 

The area around the Berlaymont building was under construction, but I managed to find the bus to the ECAEA. I got off in the fairly residential area, went inside the ECAEA office, and asked the security guard where the library is.  He replied, “there is no library.”  Mind you, I had called and asked about the library the week before and was told it was closed until January 4. On the other hand, that entire exchange was in French so I may have missed something or miscommunicated along the way.  The guard told me the phone number I called and the address I had given last week didn’t match my current physical location.

The guard was pleasant about the whole thing. He first tried to call someone in the office who was an expert in the Bologna Process, but without an appointment no one (unsurprisingly) was available. He wrote down directions for me to the Info-Press center near Place Shuman. On the way out I grabbed three things sitting in kiosk, two of which turned out to be beneficial to my research:  the last Russian-language brochure on TEMPUS (the grants program that seeks to “modernize” education outside the EU), and two periodicals for civil servants in the EU. 

 Touring Brussels 

I caught the bus back to Place Shuman. I had no map on me and couldn’t find the street I needed walking around Berlaymont, so I went into the Metro station to look at a neighborhood map. I found the street I needed to take (Rue de la Loi) on the map, but the strange thing was there didn’t seem to be a second street on which to turn left.  This street headed straight into the Jubelpark.  Ahead of me was an amazing gate that made the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin looked small. It was flanked by the kind of long, columned buildings that an American can only see in the great cities of Europe.

I walked through the thin layer of snow to the gate and still did not see the street I was supposed to turn left on.  I did, however, see the military museum and the Autoworld museum.  At that point, I decided I wasn’t meant to find the Info Press center, and instead plunked down 6 Euros to see the Autoworld museum. I saw some of the first Mercedes Benz cars, a Model T Ford, and even the first Honda.  They had some more “modern” cars as well such as Cadillacs and T-Birds from the 1970s. I was disappointed to see that some of the cars on display were in really poor condition—some of them had rust, low tire pressure, cracks/dents, or all of the above. 

Following the guidelines of the map inside the park, I wandered out the other end of the park and headed in what I believed to be the general direction of the Grand Place (Main Square/Market).  Along the way I saw the first restaurant offering mussels—for 20 EUROS. WTF!?  I decided I’d better eat cheaper, and found a small sandwich shop with a line out the door (always a good sign).  I ordered the “Nordique” sandwich for 3.15 Euros—a foot-long baguette with “Philadelphia” (cream cheese), lox, and cucumber.  Yum! 

 Place Jordan 

I meandered until I arrived at Place Jordan, a cute square that seemed more lively than the quiet neighborhood I’d just wandered through.  I again looked at the restaurants and noticed a couple of them had a strange sign saying (in French), “we partner with Maison Antoine—frites accepted here”.  I thought maybe it was some kind of discount card, until I completed my circuit of the square and found the Maison Antoine, a 50+plus year old kiosk that serves frites (Belgian fries) topped with mayonnaise (or any other sauce you want) in a paper cone for 2.50 Euros. 

As I ate my frites with a little fork, I tried to find a map at a bus stop to orient myself to the direction I should keep walking in to get to the grand place.  It was at this point I began to realize that Brussels is a city of crooked streets that leave one more disoriented than a kid spun around for a piñata hit or Pin the Tail on the Donkey.  Fortunately, I had bought two metro/bus combo tickets (1.70 Euros each) at the de Brouckere metro station.  I used my second one to take a bus that was headed to the Namcourt, a place I remembered from earlier maps had a metro station. On the way I saw another bus sign for Bourse, a stop I knew was close to the main sights. I hopped on that but hopped off as soon as we passed by the Royal Palace, a building which was truly palatial.  I took photos of that, the Magritte Museum, and city view in the valley below.  I found the tourist information bureau and finally got a map of the city. It was at this point that I realized I had taken the wrong part of Rue de La Loi at Place Schuman.  But it was already nearly 3, and I didn’t think I’d have enough time to get to the Info-Press to get meaningful information and see the Grand Place all before dark. 

The Tourist Area

Instead, I half walked, half slid down the icy hill past the royal library to the maze of shops around the Grand Place.  I splurged on a gaufre du Liege (Belgian waffle), and a few minutes later I splurged again on hot chocolate from the Valrhona store (wow!).  I would have bought some chocolates there for my roommates, but the clerk was so officious and snooty-sounding, I felt too unwelcome to linger and look for more to buy. 

The Grand Place was truly grand.  I can’t begin to describe the guilded buildings and darker walls that probably saw bombing in World War II.  I used my map to find the Mannekin Pis, a fountain that looks like a boy peeing. When I got to where it should be, though, I didn’t see it. I looked  at a map on the corner and a group of people standing around and soon learned that the Mannekin pis is truly a little pisher.  My friend has a 9-month old who is bigger than that statue. I felt like we were all perverts for taking pictures of this little baby peeing.  [NB:  I heard about and later found a card for a similar statue built in the 80s of a young girl squatting and doing her thing, which I find equally disturbing.]

I got the hell out of there and back to the main road (Boulevard Anspach). I stopped at a supermarket where I got a liter of Evian for 54 Eurocents, and saw shopping baskets with wheels (very clever).  I walked all the way back to my hotel and collapsed in bed for a few hours.

 Lassez le bon temps moules (Let the good times mussels) 

Around 9 p.m., I realized I really should get outside.  I picked up a Brussels guide book in the hotel lobby, and found a place that is open all night. However, the stupid brochure didn’t have a map that showed clearly where the restaurant was, and I couldn’t even find the street on my map from the tourist bureau.

I started wandering back down the way I’d come up this afternoon hoping to find another good bar or restaurant.  I found another city map, and this one listed the street where the all-night restaurant, Si Bemol, is. I discovered that the restaurant was very close.  I took the dicey walk at night past the nude clubs down a fairly empty street, and found the restaurant. I almost didn’t go in, especially since the mussels were 21 Euros there, but there were signs outside in Spanish and there was 80s music playing inside. 

I sat at the counter of the small restaurant; there was only one other party in there.  I ordered a biere and was disappointed to be offered a Jupiter beer from a bottle. Apparently their tap wasn’t working.  The Leffe I ordered after that was equally disappointing. If I were going back there again, I would definitely stick with wine; their collection of was more impressive.

Once again I engaged in a culinary splurge and ordered the mussels.  I had figured out from some of the restaurants advertising mussels at “market price” that these mussels were pricey because they were so fresh.  I was given an aperitif of green olives and salami. I asked if that was traditionally Spanish or Belgian; the server replied that it was Spanish. Her mother was Spanish. 

The mussels came in casserole pot filled with the vin blanc (white wine sauce) and diced onions.  A metal bowl of steak fries was served on the side. The mussels were so fresh I could still taste the water they had been caught in.

After all the salt of the mussels and fries and the bitterness of the beer, I needed something sweet to cap off the night. I again splurged and ordered the chocolate mousse.  The server asked if I wanted it with crème fraiche. I said, “a la costumbre” (which I hope meant “as is customary). The cook then explained in English, “the chocolate is very strong. Do you want something [to soften it]?” I replied in English, “I like chocolate. Bring it on!”

The chocolate was dark, heavy, and should not have been eaten by one person. There was more caffeine in it than a shot of espresso.  I didn’t care.  It was good and I was enjoying it. Sated, I paid the bill and waddled back to the hotel.  I had an early train to catch in the morning. 

Around 6:45 p.m., Peter grabbed the Rotkapchen champagne and the giant bag of fireworks and put them in the back of the Mercedes.  20 minutes later, we were in the city center of Heidelberg looking for a parking space.  The parking angels I’d prayed to seemed to have shined upon us, as we found a free space not too far from Bismarckplatz.  The weather angels were not quite as kind—it was raining hard enough that even Peter decided to use an umbrella. 

I didn’t know how far the restaurant was, but I figured there would be time to come back to the car for the fireworks and champagne before midnight, and suggested we leave stuff in the car.

As we headed towards the pedestrian street (Hauptstrasse), Peter asked me if I knew who Bismarck was. I said of course—he was the person responsible for unifying Germany [in the 1800s].  He replied that in Germany, Bismark is more famous for starting the social security system, a move which was designed to curry workers away from Marxist or socialist ideologies.

We hurried down the long Hauptstrasse through the rain and about half an hour later we arrived at Alte Gundtei, a Turkish restaurant famous for its lamb grill. (No one knows what “Gundtei” means.) On the way to the table we saw a group of Americans but I didn’t say hello to them; ditto for the Russian speakers at the table next to us. 

Peter’s friends were already waiting for us at the table:  Christiane, her husband Thorsten, and their 11-year old son Yannick; and Christiane’s brother Stefan and his friend Wolfgang. We shared a platter of appetizers and two bottles of wine. The stuffed grape leaves and hummus were fantastic.  I had Patlican Kebap, lamb grill with eggplant (in a tomato sauce).  Peter isn’t a fan of lamb, so he had beef kebap with mushrooms. It looked really good. 

Our waiter was in surprisingly good spirits.  When everyone but Thorsten had gotten their meal, the waiter said to Thorsten, “Oh, you wanted it for this year?”  Later he asked us if everything was all right.  We said yes, and he said, “Truly?” Then he told a story about a man who ordered a steak. The waiter asked if it was good and the man replied, “I’ve had better steaks.” The waiter responded, “Yes, but not in this restaurant.”

The restaurant closed at 10, just around the time Peter’s friend Christoph joined us.  We lingered drinking our Turkish coffee (in Germany called “Turkish mocha”), milk coffee, or Turkish tea in traditional glasses until the waiters began closing the blinds.

By that point (i.e. after Peter’s friends teased him for parking so far away and leaving the fireworks in the car), it was clear that we were heading not back to the car but onwards.  We first went to the Alte Bruecke (Old Bridge), which has a lovely view of the castle lit up in orange. Once again, my camera was crap at night and I couldn’t get a decent shot. More importantly, Christiane became nervous around all the people setting off fireworks on the bridge so close to us. It was decided that we should instead head up to the castle.

The Burgweg (castle path) was a 10 minute hike up stairs; I probably took longer to pause and catch my breath.  The castle itself was closed off for a private party, but there was an outlook near the castle where we could see the Alte Bruecke. Or rather, we could have seen the bridge if there weren’t already a ton of people standing at the edge of the outlook.

We parked ourselves around a bench a few feet away, and Thorsten opened the first bottle of champagne even though it was 50 minutes until midnight.  I’m not sure if that was because his backpack was getting heavy, we needed something to do until midnight, or if he needed an empty bottle from which to shoot off his fireworks. After a couple of sips, I couldn’t be bothered to ask.

Stefan and Wolfgang disappeared momentarily; when they returned they said they had found a path below the outlook where we could have an unobstructed view of the bridge and safely set off fireworks.  We packed up and headed down.  We started setting off fireworks slightly before midnight like most people were doing. Stefan used his radio-controlled watch to help us countdown to true midnight, at which time we took a more meaningful sip of our champagne and clinked glasses.

For at least another half an hour, we along with everyone in the region set off our own fireworks. I was a bit surprised there was no single, publicly-run fireworks in Heidelberg, the kind one would get in an American city on fourth of July.  Yet I also can’t deny or adequately describe the energetic beauty of thousands of personal fireworks set off in rapid succession over the orange lights of the Alte Bruecke and the Neckar river.  Even the rain that fell on and off couldn’t dampen the joy of that.  Peter said 1.3 Billion Euros were spent on fireworks in Germany alone for New Year’s.  In that moment, it seemed like money well spent.

Around 12:30, we started walking down the mountain.  We didn’t take the path the way we came, and there were good reasons why our path was the road less travelled. Part of the road had collapsed, and when we got to the bottom of the hill we found the big wooden gate was locked shut. Fortunately it was only wood and we could pull the door open just wide enough to squeeze through.

In the corner near the gate, Thorsten noticed a man was passed out. At first I thought it might be a homeless man, but he turned out to be a young American. Peter and I separately guessed that he was under 21 and enjoying his first chance to drink legally in Germany. He could barely stand up, but Thorsten managed to place him near people and we eventually saw him on his cell phone calling friends.

We walked on down the Hauptstrasse (main street).  It wasn’t crowded, but there were definitely people out in various stages of dress and drunkenness. The streets were littered with trash and broken glass. Some clubs had people lining up to get in. One of the most humorous names for such a place translates roughly into English as “Assisted Drinking Facility”. 

We made a big loop on side streets back to the Hauptstrasse and finally sat down in a quiet restaurant for a nightcap. I had gluehwein (mulled wine), and the others had beer or soda.  Yannick sat and drank his soda and built a house—not out of cards, but out of coasters.  Around 2:30, we finally headed back to the car and drove home.  It was the best New Year’s I’d ever had in Germany. Prost Neu Jahr!   

LAST DAYS IN GERMANY

June 22, 2009: Munich

From Salzburg I took the RailJet (Austrian ICE) train to Munich, and went one S-Bahn stop to Motel One Sendlinger Tor (the hotel chosen by Business Spotlight). I spent over an hour checking email (free wi-fi access in the lobby). I also looked up the address and directions to the Free Ukrainian University.

I walked down Sendlinger Strasse past multiple shops to the Old Rathaus Square. I found the Fraukirchen and basked once again in the pious beauty of its vaulted white and red-brick ceilings.  I walked on till I reached the university, then the Victory Arch: “Built in Victory, Destroyed in War, Restored for Peace.”  I checked my map and realized I had gone too far; I needed to get into and down through the Englisher Garten to get to the Ukrainian University. I walked through the park past the “Chinese Tower” as the rain poured down. I found my way to Pienzenauer Str. 15, but there was no school there. I was disappointed, but I still enjoyed my walk to places I’d seen in 2005.  I had forgotten how charming Munich was.

I came back out near the neighborhood where Peter and I had stayed on my last trip there. I found a place called News Bar that had happy hour, a rare find in Germany. I ordered a Cosmopolitan and a spinach soup that was so good I stayed to have their penne pasta with cheese, also excellent.  I read the local newspaper while the TV showed MTV reality shows.

As I was getting ready to leave,  a show called “Parental Control” came on. I saw man say (with German subtitles), “Hi, I’m Jay, I’m a DJ”. His wife Linda introduced herself. I realized it was my friend Nick’s friends Jay and Linda! The odds of that happening are astronomical, and I took a picture of the TV with my camera and sent it to Nick just to have proof that I wasn’t using Cosmo goggles.

June 23-25, 2009

Dinner in Mannheim

The presentation at Business Spotlight went well. I had lunch with Ian (the editor-in-chief whom I met at the conference in Dnipropetrovsk and who invited me to give the presentation there) at a nearby Italian restaurant. I caught the S-Bahn back to the hotel, picked my things up, and caught the ICE train to Mannheim.  When it arrived, Peter miraculously was standing right in front of the door of my train car.  He was able to carry my giant suitcase off the train.  We headed to his place and I had the usual tour of what’s been renovated in his apartment since my last visit, but not my usual stop at his parents’ house since they were on their usual trip to the Black Forest for a week.

After settling in, we set out for dinner. We passed by a Chinese restaurant that Peter said was good and that looked nice, but I wasn’t in a mood for German Chinese food. He then said there was a popular Greek restaurant on the Rhine that his parents often go to.  That sounded good to me. The weather was much nicer in Mannheim than in Munich; it was warmer and drier.  We sat outside and watched all the ships and barges floating down the Rhine as we ate our tzaziki appetizer (a thicker, less herbed version of what I usually get in the States), lamb salad (the lamb was perfectly cooked) and moussaka (also fantastic), and drank our beer.  Peter corrected me when I said “Weissbier”, saying that term is only used in Bavaria; in Mannheim it is called “Hefe-Weizen.”

A Day at a German School

The next day we headed to Peter’s school at the uneducational hour of 7:00 a.m.  Peter felt bad that I had to get up so early, and I felt bad that he and the students have to do that every day.  He introduced me to the principal (who greeted me in German that I understood), then took me to the spacious teacher’s room.  Peter was giving a test the first two periods, so I went to another teacher’s (Tina’s) class.  Even at 8:00 a.m. I was surprised that students who have had several years of English could not say three words without switching to German, could not say words like “three times a week” in something approaching English.  In all classes I was introduced as someone who spoke no German so the students would be forced to use English, but when one student asked me what languages I speak, I had to be honest and mention some German as well as Russian. One student then told me he was from Kazakhstan, but when I switched to Russian he
couldn’t say a sentence in that either.

Upon leaving that class I was reminded that in Germany, the teachers move from room to room and the students stay in one place.  I thought that was really strange, and Peter added that it really makes things difficult when you have to set things up.  During a 20-minute break I drank some Viennese mélange (coffee with sweet milk) from the vending machine (70 euro cents), and met a woman who teaches Russian. She would have invited me to her class, but it only meets on Fridays and I was flying out Thursday.

The second class I visited spoke more English, though I also did my activity where everyone goes around the room and says their name and their favorite word in English to open them up a little bit.  The third class was the most enthusiastic about “asking the native speaker” questions; they even asked me to stay an extra period.  On the other hand, there was so much talking among students (which reminded me of Ben Rampton’s research except they weren’t always focused on the topic at hand) I often had to shout to ask them to be silent and listen to each other. I soon understood why Peter was losing his voice!

By the end of this class I was happy that I’d “done some good” but ready to say goodbye to the school. Peter had some last minute business to wrap up though, so while he did that I browsed through Tina’s copy of the “Abi-Zeitung”, a yearbook for students who have finished their Abitur (grade 13 diploma, the highest of three diploma levels which makes them eligible to attend university). On the way out Peter also pointed out a wall painted in sections by graduating classes, a concept introduced by the principal to reduce graffiti.

Peter drove back to Mannheim, and I said I was ready to try the Chinese restaurant. I thought they might have a lunch special, but in fact they had an exquisite buffet for 7 Euros with recognizable and high-quality Chinese dishes, dim sum (sesame buns and potstickers), and something that resembled kim bap. Peter said on weekends they have a very popular buffet with fish as well.

Saarbruecken and France and Flammkuchen!

Satisfied with lunch, we went back to the apartment. After a brief rest, we got in the car and drove to Saarbruecken, where Peter’s friend Christoph lives.  Peter pointed out the sign welcoming us to Saarland, which said in German, “It’s beautiful that you are here.”  We also counted and realized I’ve now been in 9 of the 16 German Laender (states).  So in addition to seeing all 50 U.S. states I now have the goal of seeing all 16 German states.

We picked Christoph up at his place, and drove to a park on the Saar river. We sat outside in the warm sun at a bench and drank another large Hefe-Weizen.  That really gave me a strong buzz, but I managed to walk with Peter and Christoph to Saarbruecken’s castle, which wasn’t even worth taking a picture of.  At least the walk along the river was nice.

We turned right and headed into the center of town, a surprisingly hip yet architecturally historic area.  Christoph said many young people from France (12 km away) come into Saarbruecken to have fun.  That didn’t sound good for France, but Peter knew after all the times he’d told me about driving to France for flammkuchen (an Alsace-Lorraine thin crust white pizza) with his friends that it was a dream of mine to do the same, and he wanted to make that dream come true.

We walked back to the car, and 10 or 15 minutes after hitting the road, we saw an EU sign (blue background with gold stars in a circle) that said “Frankreich” (France).  We couldn’t stop anywhere to take a picture, but it was literally a sign that we had left Germany and entered France.  It took a few more kilometers, though, until we left Saarbruecken city and started seeing road signs in French.

We stopped in one town, but found no place to eat. Christoph saw a sign that the center of that town was another mile away. We got back in the car and found the center; Christoph wanted to park again but I didn’t want to park till I knew there was a place to eat. Poor Peter drove around a bit and we saw nothing open. Christoph knew a place in Saarbruecken that had Flammkuchen, and since this town in France seemed pretty dead, it made more sense to head back.

We drove back and saw the “Bundesrepublik Deutschland” (Germany) EU sign, but foolishly I didn’t take a picture because I’ve been in Germany so many times.  It was only later that I really understood the significance of that sign, that there was no more border control. These were two states in the European Union.

After stopping one more time to see a historical restaurant, we finally made it to Der Flammkuchenhaus.  And what a fortuitous thing it was that we came back to Saarbruecken.  Der Flammkuchenhaus was running a special on Wednesday nights, all the Flammkuchen you could eat for 9.99 Euros per person.  They even used the English words “all you can eat” in the sign.

Our first round I got a small ‘Elsasser Art’ (the classic Flammkuchen with bacon and onions), Christoph got the “Special” (all that plus some strange orange cheese), and Peter got the Champignon (classic with mushrooms). We agreed that of the three, the Champignon was the best.

It had taken so long to get the first round we ordered the next round as soon as our pizzas arrived. I got the tomato and basil, which was good but as Peter correctly said really wasn’t Flammkuchen anymore.  Ditto for Christoph’s olive and feta Flammkuchen.  Peter got one with potatoes, and said he learned today that you should never eat potatoes on Flammkuchen. He said the second lesson of the day was that two all you can eat places in one day is too many.

Our last round was dessert: a large apple Flammkuchen a la mode, and a raspberry Flammkuchen. The apple Flammkuchen was okay; Peter said he’d had better apple Flammkuchen in a different part of France (that place is only open on weekends).  I was quite satisfied with the raspberry Flammkuchen.

By the time we left it was after 10:30 pm, but the sky was dark blue rather than pitch black.  I slept most of the hour-long ride home. I felt bad because Peter was tired too and had to stay awake and drive, but I didn’t want to talk to him to keep him up because his voice was so hoarse and sore.

The Journey Home

The next morning, Peter dropped me off at the train station at 8 a.m. on his way to work. It was far earlier than I needed to leave, but I couldn’t have gotten myself with all my luggage on the tram and didn’t really want to pay for a taxi or hang out in the apartment alone. I plunked down 22.50 Euros for the ICE train direct to Frankfurt Flughafen (airport).

When I got to the gate for my Lufthansa flight, they were calling for volunteers to take a later flight because they were overbooked. The deal was either overnight in a hotel, or a same-day flight to New York with ground transportation to Philadelphia.  Both options paid out the same hefty voucher.  I had to be in Philly for things on Friday, so I chose the New York flight, as did three other people.  They also gave us a 15 Euro food voucher, which I used at a newsstand to buy more goodies to bring home. I went 6 dollars over, but still feel I got a bargain.

The three other volunteers and I went out passport control and exchanged our vouchers for Euros. One of the volunteers,Yasmin, helped me find the best exchange rate—still way lower  than the “interbank” rate, but better and easier than anything I could get in the States and hey, it’s still free money.  Later another volunteer said I could have the money credited to my bank card.  That would have been better.

I’m not sure how or why, but somehow when they rebooked me and another woman, Yasmin, they upgraded us to business class.  This meant before the flight we were able to sit in the departure lounge, a quiet oasis with soft drinks, champagne, beer on tap, grilled sandwiches, beef broth, fruit, and more.  On the way out I grabbed Izvestia (a Russian newspaper) and a Russian magazine, signs that there are some Russians who are doing very very well.  On the plane I got a seat that lies all the way down, and plug-in port for my laptop at my seat.  So much for being a poor and starving student!

We were all amazed when we got off the plane, got through passport control, and our bags were there almost immediately.  I thought for sure they’d be lost or waiting for us in Philadelphia.  Yasmin predicted correctly, however, that JFK did not get the message/email from Frankfurt, and had not booked a shuttle for us.  The ticket agent started calling around frantically and said one would be there in a hour. That didn’t seem so long to wait. When the car did pull up, it was a limo.  I’d never been in a limo in my life (I went to both proms in a minivan) and I have to say it was the coolest ride from New York to Philly I’ve ever had in my life.  Somewhere in my wicked, miserable youth, I must have done something good.

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I’m not normally a “Europe in 10 days, if it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium” person.  But when I had the opportunity to go to Munich and found out it was only 2 hours from Salzburg, I couldn’t not go and see as much as I could.

Day 1

I arrived at the Salzburg Hauptbahnhof (Main Train Station) about 5 minutes late; it looks to me like there is construction around the train station that is slowing things down.  I had found a cheap hotel somewhere on the Internet, and per the hotel clerk’s instructions I dragged myself onto Bus #1 (2 Euros) and took it to Braunhausstrasse, then walked a few meters down Maxglaner Hauptstrasse to the Hotel Astoria (58 Euros per night, including breakfast).  Although it’s slightly out of the center, the bus was a perfect orientation to the city. On the way I saw places I would want to return to later:  Mirabell Gardens; Mozart’s Residence (Wohnhaus); a walking street with tons of people on it; and a path and bridge along the river.

As pleasant and inexpensive as the hotel was, I soon found out it is not wheelchair- or heavy suitcase-friendly.  I had to go up several steps to enter the hotel, and even the elevator was down a set of stairs. Going down is easier than going up, though, so I took the suitcase down more steps, took the elevator up one floor, then took it down two more steps to get to my room.

I dropped off my things, freshened up, and looked at the free map and brochures I had picked up in the lobby. I was very tempted by Fraulein Maria’s Bicycle Tours, but when I called to make a reservation for the 4:30 tour there was no answer.  Instead, I took the bus again to Mirabellplatz. By the time I got off it was pouring rain and I was glad not to take a 3.5 hour bike tour! I walked first into a church that had been bombed in WWII and restored afterwards.  Then I crossed the street and walked around Mirabell Gardens. Even in the pouring rain it was beautiful. The fountains, the immaculately sculptured gardens, the unicorn statues, and the baroque figures were all breathtaking. I later read in a guidebook that the fountain was used in the filming of “Do-Re-Mi” in the Sound of Music, but I remembered the arched trellis better.

From Mirabell, I walked to Marktplatz (Market Square) and decided it was time for some coffee. I found a passage to an Italian cafe so Italian the server spoke to me first in Italian. I ordered an Americano (it’s embarrassing to order that, but I like coffee with some water in it!). I asked for a piece of strudel, but he suggested something else instead. It turned out to be a profiterole—fried dough with chocolate filling and cream on top. And I asked for one portion and got three profiteroles. Oy.

From there I walked to Mozart’s Residence, not to be confused with the house he was born in (Geburtshaus).  The residence museum cost 6.50 Euros, or I could by a combined Wohnhaus/Geburtshaus ticket for 10 Euros.  But they said I wouldn’t have time for both (it was already after 4 p.m.), and that the Geburtshaus is on the other side of the river. I decided just to buy the ticket to the Wohnhaus.

The furnishings inside the residence were rather basic, I imagine because they don’t really have any information on what his house looked like.  There was plenty of other things to enjoy though. There were original letters written by Mozart to his friends and family about things like his successful opera concert and the death of his mother in Paris. There was a small collection of pianos and pipe organs he had played on.  There were maps and descriptions of various travels around Europe with his family. There was an explanation of his relationship to father-figure Haydn.  Best of all, the English audio guide (included in the tour price) played Mozart selections as well as explaining his history.

After the tour of the Residence, I walked across the river to the Altstadt (Old Town). I saw the Rathaus (town hall), and lots of modern shops in old buildings.  I saw a well dating back to the 1100s. I saw the University Church.  I saw a place for dinner that looked interesting, but it wasn’t 6 p.m. yet.  I walked on and found another place with an interesting menu. I walked in and at the back was a bar shaped like a horseshoe, and not much bigger than a horse’s shoe. There was disco ball and music blaring. I thought about pulling up and having a drink, but there was no place even to sit. I started to walk out, and it started pouring rain. I came back and a middle-aged woman had given up her seat for me. I had some cheap wine and older-tasting beer, but it was worth it to watch the silver-haired, mustached owner turned DJ playing songs and dancing to them.

For dinner (on the silent recommendation of one of the horseshoe bar patrons) I went around the corner to another café for Flammkuchen. There were two choices; one was Schinken and the other I could not understand. I took the one I couldn’t understand, which turned  out to be hot peppers. Yikes!  That’s the last time I’ll take that one.

Day 2

By the time I was up and ready for breakfast, it was past the 9:30 bike tour time.  One of the places listed on the tour, though, was Hellbronn Palace. Using a brochure in the hotel lobby and the kindness of bus drivers and strangers, I found my way to the Rathaus bus stop and Bus 25 which took a relatively short ride out of the city to Hellbronn Palace.  I got there just in time for a tour offered in German and English. The tour guide helped me understand why Hellbronn’s nickname is “Lustschloss”  (The Humorous Castle).  There were a series of trick fountains that could get people wet, and canals lined with miniature mechanical dolls depicting daily life in Salzburg a few hundred years ago. On a hot summer day it must be delightful, but on a cold day with on-and-off rain it was a bit harder to enjoy.

After the fountain tour, I walked around the palace residence (absolutely lovely), and took the path down to the “Sound of Music Pavillion”, the gazebo where Liesl sang “I am 16 going on 17” and where Maria and the Captain sang also. I was a bit disappointed to learn that the gazebo was not original to the palace; it was built for the movie and given to the city of Strasburg by the movie producers. Still, that was nice of them to give that to the city, and it was great to see the gazebo where that part of the movie took place.

I decided to skip the 27-34 Euro lunch at the palace, and the 3 Euro Wurst with roll didn’t sound appetizing either.  I caught a bus back to Rathaus.  I started walking towards the restaurant I’d seen yesterday, but it was closed! I forgot I was in Western Europe on a Sunday and not only are stores and supermarkets closed, but so are many restaurants. I headed towards a popular wurst stand in the main square, but by the time I got there it was HAILING. I didn’t want to stand out in the rain and eat, so I headed up the road and found Saran Essbar.  I felt a little cheesy eating someplace with Rick Steves’ (“Europe through the Back Door”) picture on it, but it looked nice and warm.

As tempting as the goulasch with breaddumplings were, my eyes were drawn to the Indian chicken curry.  In fact, when they accidentally brought me a sausage and potato platter, I sent it back and I’m glad I did.  The curry sauce was lighter and thinner than what I get at Indian restaurants in the States. The best part though was the FRESH CORIANDER. I’ve never had that in my life, and it was worth every penny.

When I finished lunch it was still raining, which gave me an excuse to stay inside for dessert.  They didn’t know what Americano was, so I ordered an espresso and their homemade struedel with ice cream.  Yum!!!!!!!

By the time I left, it wasn’t raining as hard. I found my way to the Residence of the archbishop, and walked around its impressive “apartments” (rooms).  With its impressive painting collection, treaty rooms, private chapel in the bedchamber, and a “blue room” (with light blue wallpaper), it evoked images of the Hermitage, the White House, and the Vatican all in one.

After the tour, I went upstairs to the art gallery. I was irritated to have to check my purse, even if it was for “security” (so I wouldn’t swing my bag around and hit someone or hit a painting, it was gestured to me).  I had to walk through the small gallery once to cool off, and once more to enjoy the collection.  By the time I left the museum, it had stopped raining. I wandered to St. Peter’s Cathedral, and around the impressive cemetery. Neither words nor pictures do it justice.

At last, I found the path to the Festung (Fortress). There were two ways to go:  the Festungsbahn (tram), or the “steep and difficult steps”. Since it had stopped raining and I had just fortified myself with a fresh bottle of water and a giant pretzel, of course I chose the difficult way. And they weren’t kidding. I stopped several times to catch my breath.  But at the end I was proud of myself.

The fortress itself wasn’t as exciting as it looked from the bottom of the hill, but there were many walls marked with names and dates of construction (15^th-16^th century, mainly). My favorite is the “torture tower”.  The best part of the fortress was that I happened to be there for a Mittelalter (Middle Ages) festival. There were stands selling corn on the cob and beer and chicken legs. There was a stage with minstrel performances, and little children with medieval robes, wooden shields, and swords they had bought at kiosks.  There was even some metalwork and woodwork.

When I’d finished seeing the fortress, I walked back down the steep hill (as children ran by me and parents ran to catch up to their children) and followed signs to Stift Nonnberg (Nonnberg Abbey), also a reported filming site for the Sound of Music. I saw a gate and the church and recalled the scenes in the movie that took place there.

I walked down the hill towards “Nonntal”, thinking it was a sight, but all I found was a nice neighborhood. I decided therefore to follow the signs back to the “Zentrum” (center), and found my way to the wurst stand for a bratwurst hot dog. While I was eating, I saw a sign in the window. In Spanish it said “Welcome to Salzburg. Here are some places we recommend. They won’t rip you off”.  One of them was the Irish Pub up the street, so I decided to go there. I had a couple of Irish coffees and chatted with the bar owner (from Ireland) about his travels around the U.S.. We also talked about Ukraine; he knew about Donetsk, Ukraine because their soccer team, Shaktar, won the UEFA cup this year and they played once in Salzburg.  He wished me a pleasant stay in Salzburg, but I realized as I was talking with him that this was the last stop on my two-day tour.

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Journey to Kolomyya and Arrival at On the Corner

After checking out of the hotel, I walked the 500 km with my suitcase (which survived this journey), and found a bus leaving for Kolomyya in 20 minutes (all the others were leaving later). The driver unlocked the back and laid my suitcase on top of the spare tire.  I was able to overlook this cringeworthy moment when he walked with me to the kassa and told the cashier that I needed a ticket to Kolomyya. He then showed me on the ticket where my seat number was!  He must have guessed I was a foreigner, but even so, to get that kind of service from a bus driver as a foreigner amazed me.

When the bus pulled in to the Kolomyya bus station, I asked the driver how to get to Vul. Peremohy—I knew from my map in Lonely Planet that I could walk that road to the On the Corner guesthouse I’d be staying at.  He pointed me instead to marshrutkas. On the way to the marshrutkas, a taxi driver asked where I was going.  It was raining lightly and I had all that luggage and I was not oriented yet, so I said “vul. Hetmanska.” He repeated back the street and number of the guesthouse! Again I was stunned.  Totally worth 15 hr.

He drove up to the house and set my big bag on the sidewalk. I rang the doorbell, then turned the knob and it was open.  Slav came and helped me (or rather, I helped him) carry my things upstairs to the spacious second floor room with a balcony.  He showed me the shared bath and said there are two other bathrooms downstairs.  I looked on my own at the library on the third floor.

I went downstairs and had lunch with a film professor from UNLV and a tour agent who had  driven from Italy via Budapest.  I enjoyed the vegetable soup (in chicken broth). The bread tasted homemade. The second course was shredded cabbage salad with sweet red pepper (not overly salted or oiled up), and pasta topped with chicken in a red-orange sauce.

            During lunch, Slav and Vitaly talked with the two men. In the course of the conversation, I learned that at this time of year, the mountain I thought I could try to hike on my own according to Lonely Planet (Hoverla) is likely covered with snow right now; it can only be hiked in July and August. I was glad I didn’t stay in Yeremcha Monday night and try to go at it on my own.

Around Kolomyya

After lunch, I took a short siesta, then decided it was time to see the city even though it was cold and rainy.  I walked first to the museum of Hutsul art.  Walking through those rooms, I saw types of wooden decorations and intricate carvings that I’d  seen replicated on souvenirs sold in Odessa and Chisinau, but here in the museum, I realized that people really used to make and use such things by hand.  The intricacy of it all was amazing.  I even took some pictures of the replica of the Hutsul hut, with a ceramic hutch similar to the one I had seen in Yeremcha. There were also exhibits of oil painting and a special exhibit on the writer-researcher-lawyer (?) Andri Chaikovsky who had lived in Kolomyya.

At the end of the tour I walked through one more room that turned out to be a gift shop.  There a ceramic dish with a bird design on it caught my eye.  When an object calls out to you like that, you have to buy it.  And it wasn’t overpriced.

From there I went to the pysanky (painted egg museum). It is a smaller museum, but filled with painted eggs by professionals and students from all over Ukraine and even the USA.  The best part though was that the building itself is painted and shaped like an egg!  I’m also glad I stayed in Ivano-Frankisk an extra day, as both museums are closed on Mondays.

I wandered down Chornomola street and popped into a shoe store to have something to do.  Adjacent to it—and this is the first and only time I’ve ever seen such a store on Earth—was a store with ladies’ raincoats on the right, and a wall of power tools on the left.  I can only hope it wasn’t a front for money laundering, especially since I bought a lovely plum short-waisted raincoat.  From there I popped in to the Kazka (fairy tale) café for a cappuccino and a cookie that tasted like it was made from almond paste and topped with coconut. The cappuccino was just okay, but it was good to get out of the cold and stare at the décor, large puzzle-shaped paintings of Ukrainian fairy tales.

I kept walking and found a couple of nice looking churches, the middle school, and the town hall building.  I didn’t expect to find a synagogue, but I did.  It’s only open Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays; maybe I’ll try to go in on Thursday. Less than 2 houses away from the synagogue sat an old Audi with a small trailer full of pigs.  It would have been funnier if it hadn’t been 2 houses away from the synagogue.  Plus, walking past it I understood why pigs are used as a metaphor for filth.

Dinner is Served

I made my way back to On the Corner.  Slav greeted me and asked what time I wanted dinner. Would 8:00 be okay? Perfect, I said.  I worked on my pictures and blog. I didn’t want to walk downstairs right at 8 because I didn’t want to be rude and show up on time expecting dinner if they were running late. But at 8:03 (by my computer), Slav came up the stairs, knocked, and said dinner was ready.

I came downstairs and was a little sad to be at the long table alone.  And then the plate came.  It was steak and colorful potatoes. It was so pretty I almost couldn’t eat it.  I wished Gen were here to take a picture of it.  It turned out the steak was a thin pork cutlet, but it was grilled so prettily it looked like beef to me. And the potatoes were not potatoes—they were summer squash with bits of tomato, onion, and what I think was scrambled egg chopped  finely.  With my tea, Slav brought three small pastries (2 squares filled with poppyseeds and one mini crescent roll with a spot of jam). Though Lonely Planet may have exaggerated about the town being as “pretty as a picture”, they didn’t exaggerate about On the Corner.

Slav also said he talked with his father (after my request for a walking tour after reading in Lonely Planet that they offer excursions), and said there is a bus to Yaremche at 8:50. So I will have breakfast at 8 a.m. (on the dot), and his father will come at 8:30 to take me to the station and on a walking tour.  So I will get a second chance at Yaremche.  And a chance to try the famous coffee.

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The Suitcase Part I

In the morning I asked at the front desk about luggage repair (remont sumki); the clerk said she knew a replace to repair bags (i.e. purses/handbags) but not big suitcases. She asked another, male employee to look at my bag, and he suggested using crazy glue to get the wheel casing to stay on.  I knew the way I abuse bags even crazy glue wouldn’t save it, and resigned myself to buying a new suitcase. I mean, it was Samsonite but it had outlived its warranty by almost 2 years and it was probably my fault for stocking up on alcohol in Moldova so I couldn’t really complain.

I walked around the neighborhood until 10 a.m., when the stores open.  (On Sundays stores are closed or have shorter hours).  I looked in a place called Colby. The clerk showed me a suitcase that was nice and had good wheels and would probably fit on a train.  But it was not a rolling duffel bag. I walked to another store thinking they might have a rolling duffel bag or even a luggage cart. But the salespeople there were bitchy, and the Colby people were nice, attentive, and tried to find something that was good for me.

I went back to Colby to make my purchase. I took out my credit card and they said their machine wasn’t working. They suggested I go to a bankomat (I mean, ATM) nearby.  I wasn’t sure how much money I had in there, and I really wanted to get to Yaremche and not spend extra time dealing with the bank.  They then suggested I leave a 20hr note in the suitcase as a deposit, and they would hold it in the back room for me.  I could come back the next morning after 10.

The Bus to Yaremche and the Unexpected Gift

I walked the half kilometer from Colby to the bus station, and found a bus heading to Yaremche.  On the way the bus passed villagers tilling fields, boys riding bikes down dirt roads, ducks or geese,  chickens, and cows.  There in the bus with a view of this valley at the foot of the mountains, I understood the meaning of the words “idyllic” and “pastoral”.

When we arrived at the Yaremche bus station, I had no idea where I was except that I was closer to the mountains than before.  I went to a shop at the bus station and bought a map (8 hr).  I sat in the bus station office, opened it, and realized it was a map of the REGION.  Yaremche was one big blob, with no street or sightseeing markings.  I worked up the nerve to go back in and say I wanted to exchange (peremenyat’—though maybe I could have said obmenyat’ here?) the 8 hr map for the 15 hr map—the 8 hr didn’t have enough information. Another man asked what kind of info I wanted. I said I wanted street names, directions to the waterfalls.

The man behind the counter found a map with street markings, said something I didn’t understand, then in English said “present.”  I was stunned.  I took it, thanked him, and started to walk away. Then he asked me to wait and gave me my 8 hr back! All I could say was thank you again (in Ukrainian).

Guljat’ po-Yaremchy (Walking around Yaremche)

            Looking at the map, I decided to follow a short bike trail to something marked with a sun logo, which I assumed meant a point of interest.  As I walked though, I couldn’t figure out how the road I was on could be considered a bike trail, and I couldn’t see any points of interest except a river, a hillside covered with fir trees except for one bald spot, and a house with a family of goats.

I walked back to the main road (the one the bus came in on) and went past hotels, cottages, tourist information, and a museum that looked closed.  I was getting hungry, and when I looked up address of the restaurant Hutsulshchyna in my guidebook, I couldn’t find the street on my map.  I figured it had to be near the main road, but I hit a point where it seemed like I was hitting the edge of town. I saw a new-looking brick café-hotel-bar with smoke coming from an outdoor pit. That could only mean one thing—shashlik!

I sat in a plastic chair and alternated between watching the older man cook the thick chunks of meat on a skewer that looked 2 feet long and an inch wide, and staring at the fir-covered hills in the distance.

Soon 200g of pork shashlik was put on my plate along with sautéed onions, ketchup, and mayo.  I took a bite and it was the worst shashlik I’d ever had.  The thing had been cooked until it was shoe leather.  I couldn’t taste the spices I smelled.  Still, I was happy to have food and the after-lunch tea I drank while bundled up and looking at the mountains some more.

After lunch I walked around two “souvenir bazaars”.  I was both happy and sad I’d bought stuff in Moldova, as I’d never seen such souvenirs in Ukraine and surely buying them would have made my suitcase too heavy and my wallet too light.  Especially tempting were the warm-looking coats, vests, blankets (probably made of sheepskin), knit socks, and woven bags that reminded me of Peru. I did buy a small bag (15 hr) of tea made of loose dried herbs and berries; I remembered well the tea brand Karpatsky Chai (Carpathian Tea) and figured the real thing would be even better.

Looking at the map, another “point of interest” seemed to be nearby. Maybe they were waterfalls?  I decided to try to be brave and go off-road, following a well-worn dirt path that other people seemed to be walking on, and tried to follow the sound of rushing water.  Still, I felt nervous.  In the city, I can find landmarks and street names.  In the woods I felt completely helpless.

I passed a natural wooden table surrounded by tall trees where a group of friends were eating lunch.  Then I came to a clearing and saw the restaurant Hutsulshchyna!  First I walked around the souvenir bazaar and on a footbridge that overlooked what I hoped were not called waterfalls; it was a lovely view but I think I’ve stepped off curbs in Los Angeles that were higher.

Although I’d just had lunch, I decided to go into Hutsulshchyna for the first course (soup) which I hadn’t had.  Plus, Lonely Planet said it had a good wild mushroom soup. It actually had four on the menu; I chose the house style (po domashomy) with potatoes and beans.  The soup was 21 hr but worth every kopek; the mushrooms were so flavorful I wanted the taste to linger forever. Even the kitschiness of the restaurant didn’t bother me because I’d never seen such decorations before, like a wooden hutch filled with white-glazed earthenware etched and painted green and red, and waiters wearing sheepskin-lined vests and leather shoes.

“Vy ne ukrainka?” (You’re not Ukrainian?)

After soup, I walked up the paved road everyone else was travelling (yes, I recognize the irony here) and saw some high-end hotels in the distance.  I started walking toward them and then saw a sign (in Ukrainian) that said “Church of Peter and Paul 400 m”. Intrigued, I turned right and soon saw some spires in the distance.  It looked cool, but there was a fork in the road.  I turned right, and ended up walking past a pile of plastic bottles that must have been carried there by a river of stinky garbage.  In other places I’ve seen signs like “thank you for keeping this place clean”, but I think Ukraine might be ready for a commercial like the American Indian shedding a tear over litter. Maybe a weeping Hutsul?

At the other side of Stench Gulch, I saw again a hotel I’d passed and realized I had made a pointless circle.  I felt tired and demoralized—I’m just not a mountain girl.  A woman and her daughter stopped me to ask for directions. I said in Russian (which maybe passes for Ukrainian too), “I don’t know. I don’t live here.”  (Ja ne znaju—ja ne zhivu zdes’).  She must have said something like “where are you coming from?” I said I was trying to find the – the – suddenly I couldn’t remember how to say “Peter and Paul” in Russian. Finally she looked at me and said incredulously, “you’re not Ukrainian?” I said no, I’m American.  She asked why I wasn’t in a group.  I said I’d lived in Ukraine several years (niskilko let), but told her (and as I told her realized it was true) maybe it’s better to go in a group.

In retrospect, I don’t think I blended that well or my language skills were that exceptional; I think she like other people simply don’t expect to find a non-Ukrainian in this neck of the woods.  But in the moment, it felt totally awesome to be mistaken for a local and that gave me a boost to continue on the journey.

Hotels and Return to Ivano-Frankivsk

            I  turned left to continue to head towards the spires and discovered that it wasn’t a church—it was a hotel!  That was a disappointment. I decided to trudge up the hill again and this time get to Hotel Edelweiss (written in Ukrainian as “Edelvase”). It was only worth it because I could read a sign that the hotel’s restaurant earned the distinction of being one of the top 100 restaurants in Ukraine.  I walked back down the hill and started walking back towards the bus station.  After about 50 m, though, it didn’t feel right. The road was heading away from the railroad tracks I had crossed to get to Hutsulshchyna.  Maybe I’m not so helpless after all.  I turned around, tried to go through a tunnel I’d seen on the way to the Hotel District, but it led to a roadless “cul-de-sac” of houses.  I realized the only way to get back was to retrace my footsteps exactly.

Reluctantly I started down the paved road to the restaurant and saw a girl walking the other way. I stopped her and asked her in surzhyk (or maybe Bridgian) how I could get to the bus station (budlaska, jak ja mogu doiti do avtovokzala?)  For the first time in my life, I felt like I got directions in Ukraine that I could follow (once it was clarified that the word kolii meant the tracks of the poezda).  I found the tracks, crossed them as she suggested, and was right at the main road without having to clamber through the forest!

I trudged down the main road again and made it to the bus station just as people were boarding a bus to Ivano-Frankivsk.  Having seen the bus on the way up stop at the “drama theater” bus stop next to the hotel, I was able to ask the driver to stop there, saving me a .5 km walk. I went up to my room at Hotel Nadia and collapsed.

Around 8 p.m. I got hungry and went down to the delicatessen for one last snack—holubtsi (cabbage) stuffed with rice; a potato dumpling consisting of mashed potatoes stuffed with mushrooms and fried;  and “beets with horseradish.” I thought it would be a beet salad that happened to have horseradish in it, but it was really horseradish with beets like I would serve at Passover (but not as hot).  Oh well.

Luggage Part 2

In the morning I went to Colby, cash ready.  As soon as I walked in, they recognized me and brought the suitcase out. It took me a while to understand (i.e. the lady had to demonstrate) that they wanted me to check that all of the zippers worked. (They were using the word zamok which I understood to mean “lock” or “castle”; I didn’t know it could also be used for zipper.)  The thoughtfulness and attentiveness of these two acts really made an impression on me.

They had me fill out a form for a discount card which I can use on future purchases. It seemed one woman was talking another through inputting the data in the computer. I said if Philadelphia, USA was causing problems, I could just say I’m from Khmelnytsky.  Another work replied (in short Russian), “No! We want to say we sold something to someone from America. It’s a plus!”  It was a plus for me to buy something from nice people in Ukraine.

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Breakfast

In the morning I went downstairs for my free breakfast. It was such a treat to find a buffet where I could choose how many calories I wanted, rather than being subjected to an 800-1000 calorie morning.  I passed on the blood sausage and fried cabbage and even the scrambled/fried eggs. Instead I went for the yogurt and muesli, one tiny pancake with some jam, one deviled egg, and a touch of kasha (kind of like oatmeal). That was washed down with 3 cups of coffee made Turkish style.

The Park and the Lake

After breakfast I had another email session. Around 11:30 I finally got out of the room. I walked down Nezalezhnosti again, then walked down Vulitsa Shevchenka about 1 km to the entrance to Park Shevchenko. As promised, the park had undergone some renovation, so the entrance had a wide brick path that was lined with fir trees.  I caught part of a show for children (seemed to be advertising for or sponsored by a children’s magazine), saw the Taras Shevchenko statue, and then caught a glimpse of the lake.  I walked towards it and then started walking the path that went around it.

On the way I had my first encounter with Ukrainian missionaries.  A woman and a man started talking to me. I understood from their tone they were offering something, but I didn’t really understand anything until I heard the words “biblia” and “boha” (God), and something about reading something.  I said I already believe in God, but thanked them. They gave me pamphlets anyway and talked about how they are trying to convince people not to treat the lake like a wastebasket.

I continued walking, went over the footbridge to a tiny island, came back, and walked around the area where men were fishing.  I stumbled on the Park Hotel and Restaurant. I asked to see the menu, and though it was expensive it had fish and seemed like I nice place to eat. When I asked if I could sit outside, the waiter said yes but….the only words I understood next were “nemae” (there isn’t any) and “svitchka” (light? No electricity?). I wasn’t sure why I needed light to sit outside, unless there was no light/power to cook food.  Whatever it was, it was enough to send me on my way.

I continued walking until I got around to the area you could rent boats from, and a covered area that looked like it might have lunch.  But the boat rental sign said a rowboat is for “3-4 people”, and the “catamarans” for 1-2 people (paddleboats on catamaran-like twin supports) didn’t look easy or fun for one person.  The eating area only had drinks and snacks, not real food.  Instead I bought an ice cream bar and sat overlooking the lake while eating it.

Path to the City and Lunch

I backtracked 100 yards to a grass-and-dirt slope that led away from the lake toward a building that looked like it might be a restaurant.  I walked down the dirt path to Bavaria restaurant. Not only was it and the café next door devoid of people sitting outside, it seemed to be built on the site of a former quarry, or over World War II rubble.  Not a pleasant place to dine.  I walked on through a mini market (rynok) until I saw a Mango store sign and found myself at Hetman Mazepa street.  I could see the downtown churches to my left and walked in that direction. I soon saw Chelentano, the Ukrainian pizza chain, but decided I didn’t want a big pizza dinner.  Instead, I poked my head in the Belvedere café.

I looked at the menu and the prices were reasonable, the food Ukrainian, and the walls and bathrooms were clean. I ordered a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers (and sour cream) for 7 hr, fish covered with “vegetables” (peppers or tomatoes and onions) with rice (21 hr), and Truskavetska water (4 hr).

As I ate, there was a toddler walking around the café with her father watching her.  I tried to ask in Ukrainian how old she was but I was incomprehensible. I asked if I could say it in English and he said yes. He answered in English that she was 1 year and 5 months old.  He also said he was leaving in 2 weeks for New York to visit his brother in Brooklyn. I said I was in Philadelphia and he asked if I knew a priest at a church in Philadelphia. Of course I didn’t.  When I said I know Russian better, he switched over with me.  This was when I became aware that in this part of the world I was using first Ukrainian, then English, then Russian.  I also noticed he was willing to switch to Russian with me, whereas in the restaurant the night before the young man, I’m pretty sure, didn’t switch when I used Russian.  I don’t think it was a question of attitude, I think it was a question of age—some children born after independence in Western Ukraine don’t know Russian so they can’t switch over.

We talked until my salad came, and then the man and his daughter returned to their group table.  It was someone’s birthday, and everyone stood up and sang “Mnohaya Lita” (many years) in what sounded like 12-part harmony.  They either came directly from a church choir to the restaurant, or they were the Ukrainian version of the von Trapp family singers.  When they finished, everyone in the café including myself applauded.  I still get goosebumps thinking about it.  I was so moved I even considered giving him my email address and offering to show him around Philly if he came to visit. But that seemed to weird so I held my tongue.

City Museums

By the time I got outside again, it had cooled off considerably. I was glad I had worn fleece and carried a jacket even though today was considerably sunnier and warmer than yesterday.  I walked the short distance to church of the Holy Resurrection and peeked inside, then walked to the nearby art museum/church. The 10 hr entrance fee seemed like a rip-off given it was only 1 floor and the collection was really small and mainly religious art.  Still, there was an exhibit of art students’ metalwork that was impressive.

From there, I popped over to the regional museum. I paid my 1 hr entrance fee (children pay 50 kopeks) and saw a display of stuffed birds, reptiles, and a wild boar that my friend Eric would have appreciated if he were alive today.  I thought that was it so I started to leave, but the women at the entrance pointed me to another room. Suddenly the whole world seemed on display.  I can’t even remember half of what I saw in the museum. I know I saw traditional Ukrainian embroidery, including some winter gear I’d never seen before; a sign about a dictionary (with an explanation of the alphabet) developed in the 1800s by a Ukrainian researcher; a whole room about the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (УПА); a collection of professional-quality, artistic portraits taken as part of an exhibition sponsored by Canon; and chainmail.

My brain full, I walked downstairs and back to Nezalezhnosti. I didn’t linger to hear the 12-year old chanson in the main square; instead I headed to Kaffe Kimbo, recommended by Lonely Planet, for a cup of Americano.

Dinner and Dessert at Hotel Nadia

Before heading to dinner, I walked down vul Sichovykh Striltsiv to the place where you can make a telephone call “za kordon” (internationally) for 1 hr. a minute. Talked to my mother for the first time in three weeks.

I walked back to the Nadia delicatessen for one of my favorite treats, kuri grill (rotisserie chicken).  I got an “okorochok” (leg and thigh) for 10 hr.  I saw underneath the grill some round packages wrapped on foil.  I asked what they were, and found out they were potatoes. Of course I took some, and a breadstick (think Olive Garden without the oil), and a pickle, and a Slavytych light beer.

I took everything out on my Ikea tray to the patio, where I got one of the last tables. Never in my life have a seen a Ukrainian restaurant  so busy with different groups of people eating and drinking and smoking and chatting.  It was a joyous sight indeed, as it means people can afford to eat out instead of at home.

After dinner, I wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel room, but I didn’t want to walk back through the city. I walked towards the hotel entrance and saw the hotel restaurant also had a patio and an advertisement for a dessert menu. At the top was Crème Brulee.  It’s one of my favorite desserts/ treats, and at 15 hr I couldn’t not try it.

How can I describe the crème brulee?  The first term that comes to mind is earwax, but that is too wet and doesn’t evoke a sugary taste.  The next thought is the surprise of the club, I mean, “clab” sandwich I had in Kharkiv once, but the crème brulee served here at least bore a physical resemblance to crème brulee. The best way I can describe it is take Yukon gold potatoes, mash it/puree it finely, make it sweet insteady of potato-flavored, spread it thin in a large round dish, and top it with a sugar crystal crust.  Of course I ate it anyway, but I didn’t savor it.

I realized I needed to walk more to work off all the sugar and fat, so I decided to find the train station. I ended up walking first over a bridge to a small church that was having a service. The priest was talking (in Ukrainian) and people were coming and going, but I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I walked back to the train/bus station, and on the way back to Hotel Nadia found a memorial to WWII. It was the only such memorial I’d seen that mentioned “Radiansky Soyuz” (Radyansky is the Ukrainian word for Soviet), and the only one that talked about people fighting for the freedom of the fatherland.  It had a different feel from the WWII memorial in Dnipropetrovsk. It felt newer, and Ukrainian.

With that last adventure in Ivano-Frankisk, I returned to the hotel room to prepare for the next adventure, Yaremcha and the Carpathian National Nature Park.

On the bus from Lviv to Ivano-Frankisk, I realized that Ukrainian drivers, unlike Moldovan drivers, have no fear of driving over roads with potholes (or maybe the potholes are smaller in Ukraine).  What I do know is that I had quite possibly the bumpiest three hour ride ever from Lviv to Ivano-Frankisk. It started off well, but when we got off the road to Chop (a major border crossing) it got really bad.  It reminded me of the time I visited Ft. Irwin and went bouncing across the desert in a Hummvee.  On the upside, I saw mountains for the first time since I could remember.

As we neared the town, I started to wonder how to get to the hotel. It seemed like the hotel was in walking distance from the bus station, but my bags were pretty heavy. I noticed the driver was making multiple stops in other towns, and wondered if I could get dropped off closer to the hotel. I asked the driver if he could stop near Hotel Nadia on Vul. Nazelezhnosti, but he didn’t understand.  Someone else on the bus understood though and said “I will show you.”  He asked the driver to stop and motioned for me to get off.

At this point I felt completely at this young man’s mercy.  I was on a quiet street loaded down with major, nearly broken down luggage and had no idea where I was.  But this being Ukraine and not Mexico or Peru (where taxi drivers can be accomplices in robberies), and being that I’m white, I felt the chances of danger were pretty slim.

The man, whose name was Volodya, walked me with my bags all the way to the hotel (approximately a quarter mile).  As we walked, we talked in English. He explained that he had a Ph.D. in paranormal psychology, “X-Files”.  His wife was working on a cruise ship, and he was studying English while living at home with their 5-year old son.  He also told a story about the company he worked for and something about Paul McCartney. (The problem wasn’t his English; the problem was it was hard to hear on the busy street with the sound of luggage wheels).

We arrived at the impressive blue and glass exterior of Hotel Nadia and I thanked him profusely for his help.  I went in and found out they had rooms available for 300 hr a night, including breakfast. There was also a discount at the restaurant and the beauty salon, and wifi–10 hr for 2 hours.  Since I had just lost my flash drive to a virus and had to send some stuff by email to the States for work, the chance to use my computer in the room was a Godsend.  The room was smaller than the one in Lviv and didn’t have a bathtub, but it was clean and modern and being on the 8^th floor had a great view of the city.

I went down to the hotel delicatessen for an early lunch. As tempting as the “kuri grill” (rotisserie chicken) was, I went instead for the grilled boneless chicken skewer (shashlik), marinated eggplant/carrot/red pepper salad, and seaweed salad (or as it’s called in Russian/Ukrainian, “sea cabbage”, морская капуста). I sat on the covered patio and ate, feeling like the only person there who wasn’t drinking beer.

I went back to the hotel, checked my email, and got dressed to walk around the city. I was thinking I had to dress up what with it being Saturday night. Though many women were wearing high heels, ironically I felt like the only person who wasn’t wearing jeans.

I walked down Nezalezhnosti to the part that is pedestrian only. It seemed there were modern shops but also shops that were closed, under construction, or covered with graffiti.  I made it to the “egg fountain” and then walked wherever things caught my eye—a tall mall with a “panoramic” elevator; a building with a clock tower that is home to a museum I promised to visit the next day; a church I also promised myself I’d visit the next day; and several outdoor covered areas for eating and drinking.  I walked in a big circle and started heading towards the Old Town restaurant I saw, when it started raining.  Even though it was cold and wet outside, one wooden, covered seating area looked cool. It turned out to be the outdoor (biergarten?) portion of the Beer House restaurant across the street. I passed on the fajitas in favor of solyanka (ham soup), but they were out. I looked at the menu again and saw the words “bahchar”, which I’d never heard of, and “national dish.” I decided to try it. It was creamy soup with ham, and a side of horseradish!  I also ordered a cocktail with Bailey’s, Kahlua, and Cointreau. When the waiter brought it, he said something I couldn’t understand even after repeating it three times. Finally, I said, “po angliski?” He said, “Fire.” Ah, he was saying “pozharite”. He lit the drink on fire, then told me to drink it immediately and rinse out my burning mouth with a touch of soda.  Of course I chickened out on drinking it on fire, but the experience is memorable nonetheless. I moved onto their house beer, which had a nice smooth wheaty finish and was served in a glass that felt like a small barrel.  It was so fun I didn’t even feel the cold.   On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a patissierie for tiramisu and green tea.  Then I climbed into bed and watched BBC World until it was time to go to sleep.

In the morning, Michael (the Peace Corps volunteer I visited in Lutsk) walked to the main road, flagged a taxi, and brought it back around to the apartment entrance. (I didn’t think my suitcase, which had already suffered a major wheel injury, would survive 200 m on a muddy, wet path).  I took the 30-hr ride to the bus station, and walked up to a bus that had a sign that it was going to Lviv.  It was starting to pull away from the stop, but thankfully the driver pulled over.  Instead of putting my luggage under the bus, he wedged it between the last and next-to-last row of seats.  I climbed over the suitcase and sat in the corner like a kid in a fortress made of luggage. It didn’t feel like enough of a buffer, though, from the three leather-skinned men sitting next to me with a near-empty bottle of Lvivske beer in one man’s hand. (Did I mention it was 8 am?) Eventually, they got off and three generations of villagers (grandma, daughter, granddaughter) squeezed into their place.

The bus drove past forests and fields of yellow flowers that were reminiscent of the town of Trachtimbrod from “Everything is Illuminated”.  I later realized I liked the views here so much because I didn’t see any big smokestacks. 

Around 11:30, we pulled into the station and I caught a taxi (45 hr, bargained down from 50), to Hotel George.  On the way, the driver voluntarily gave me a lecture (after I told him I had lived in Kharkiv) about how in Lviv they only had communism for 40 years, so they speak more Ukrainian and have a more correct nationalism. In Kharkiv they had communism for 70 years and had so much “propohanda” (propaganda) “They don’t even love themselves. They don’t love Ukraine. It’s like an American not loving America.”  I even retold what he had said and I repeated it to make sure I understood correctly.  I don’t agree that people in the East “hate Ukraine” or “hate themselves.”  But I didn’t dare argue the point with him. As a researcher I was too busy making notes in my head that a taxi driver would say such things, and say it to a foreigner. 

At the hotel, it turned out neither my inquiry directly through the Hotel Web site, nor exchanges of emails with Lviv Ecotour, had converted into an actual reservation at the hotel. They had the type of room I wanted (a single with a private bath for 420 hr), but only for one night not two.  I could have chosen a cheaper room with a shared bath, a more expensive room (over 600 hr), or stayed one night and moved to another room. As in Dnipropetrovsk, the clerk suggested I pay for one night and think about it.  I took that suggestion.

I settled into the spacious, bright room with a huge door and high ceilings, had a morning snack, did a little laundry, checked my email with a free wi-fi trial, and headed out into the city.  I walked on Prospect Svobody (Freedom Boulevard) to the opera house and bought tickets for a ballet.  I don’t think it was a famous one, but it was only 30 hr (about $3.50) an mainly I wanted to see the opera house and sit in it for a little while.

It was cold and rainy and I hadn’t had any caffeine yet, so after the opera house I started walking in the direction of the hotel to find some coffee or go back to bed.  I stumbled on a restaurant-coffee bar called Praha (Prague), which offered Czech dishes in a room whose walls were covered with several stain glass reliefs.  The cappuccino was excellent, as was the grilled pork with a creamy mushroom-pepper sauce I ordered. Those two items plus a bottle of Borzhomi mineral water cost less than $9, and that was in a restaurant with a tablecloth.

After lunch, I wandered around the city center. I stopped in one Catholic and one Orthodox cathedral that I remembered from previous visits to Lviv.  They were both as beautiful as ever. I walked around Plosha Rynok, and this time I stopped in a museum of ethnography.  If I understood the Ukrainian correctly, in the late 1800s the museum started collecting furniture and other objects from the 16^th century.  After the first World War, these objects ended up in “private collections” (or hidden away).  Then in the 1970s a fund was established (either to recover these objects or buy new ones, I’m not sure).  The furniture and Vienna china that was there was lovely, as was the folk art from a man who painted in the 1980s and 1990s and died last August.  After the museum, I walked through the Lviv crafts market, and felt bad that I had bought so much in Chisinau. 

Around 2 p.m., I decided it was time for dessert.  I found my way to Veronika, a restaurant-bakery I remembered from previous trips (though I didn’t remember where it was).  It was even better than I remember. I must have stared at the case for 10 minutes before I finally chose 100 grams of a roulette with yellow cake, butter cream, chocolate cream, and a surprising, thin layer of orange.  It was only 10 gryvnias, too.  I wish I had ordered tea instead of a latte; not only was the latte 27 hryvnias, I finished it too quickly. I would have much rather sipped tea and enjoyed the ambience.

With all the food gone and no reason to stay,  I settled my bill and walked back the hotel, which it turned out was right up the street from Veronika.  I rested a bit and got ready for my night at the opera.  The inside was lovely; many people were having their pictures taken on the steps inside.  I walked up to the 3^rd floor balcony entrance. A man stopped me, and I showed my ticket. He said something and the only word I understood was “наченается” (beginning). I started to walk to the down the hall and he stopped me again. Somehow I understood I had to go down (maybe I had gone one level too high)? but the stairs only led to the very bottom.  I asked another worker, and she pointed to the door leading up. I said (in Russian) that I had already been there and the man said to come down. “Again she said the phrase with “наченается” and pointed me into the first level of seating. I looked for my seat, but the numbers only went to 23, and I had 29. Again I said to her I don’t understand. Finally she said, “любое место” and I understood—take whatever seat you want. 

The show looked like a cross between “Adam and Eve” and “Terminator: The Rise of the Machines.” 
At least the music was good, one male dancer had 6-pack abs, and the ladies were on their toes more than I ever could be.  I later understood from the show that the title, “створчення світу”, probably means “Creation of the World.” I was too cheap to buy a 10 hryvnia program to find out more. 

The show ended by 8:00 p.m.  I wasn’t hungry so I browsed shoe shops until I found a place selling shwarma. I hadn’t had it in Ukraine or Moldova yet, but now I have a new rule: Don’t buy shwarma if you can’t watch them make it. When I opened the foil, it was 80% mayonnaise, 10% chicken, and 10% pickle.  Ugh. 

The next morning I had a real bath with hot water and realized it was totally worth $20 more to have a private bathroom.  I went downstairs for the free breakfast—tea (or instant coffee), meat, cheese, tomatoes, bread, and blini with cheese and sour cream. 

By the time I finished breakfast and finished repacking, it was only 10:30. Since the weather looked better than yesterday, I decided to take one last little walk around the city.  I walked to the street where the bad shwarma shop, because there was a building up the road that looked interesting. It turned out it was a church that appeared to be closed. Nearby was a monument, most likely to communist oppression.  I walked down a parallel street and stumbled on the Lviv Art Gallery, which appears to be housed in a former palace. If I’d had more time, I totally would have paid the 5 hryvnias to walk around it.

I went back to the room, grabbed my bags, and went to the reception to drop off my key. I said in English, “I’m checking out.”  The lady at the desk said, “Passport?” That seemed like a strange question. Since when do you show your passport to check out? Then she showed me MY passport.  Apparently I had given her my passport to check in, and hadn’t gotten it back. I’d been wearing my money belt and thought I felt it next to me, but it wasn’t. That really scared me and made me realize I have to be more careful with it in the future. 

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I woke up late and no one was home.  Lena had left a post-it note on the fridge that their assistant Sylvia would not be coming in the morning to make cirniki (fried sweet cheese patties).  I wasn’t feeling up to the adventure of boiling my own milk and coffee, and since seeing placintas (a long rolled flaky pastry with fruit or cheese inside) in the Fourchette supermarket yesterday, I’d had a real craving for them. I decided to walk up the street to the La Placinte restaurant I’d seen the day before.

When I sat down and looked at the menu, the placintas in the pictures looked different. The one called placinta looked more round and flat like a pizza. There was another variety that looked more like what I remembered, so I ordered a cherry one. Shortly after, the waitress came back and said the cherry one would take 25 minutes, so I ordered the apple.

I was embarrassed by the size of the thick perfect circle of cooked apple, pastry dough, and powdered sugar set before me, and the latte which seemed to be steamed milk with just a splash of coffee. I told myself I would not go again without friends to help me eat such a concoction.  But I was also determined not to waste it.  I’d skip lunch, I figured.

After gorging myself, I walked down the street to the park near the pedagogical university. Lena (the 22-year old university student in my Moldovan family) told me the park had been renovated, and that people line up to pay money to get it in or go there after they get married to have pictures taken.  I walked in, paid my 2 lei (students pay 1 lei), and found immaculate rows of flowers, hanging baskets of more flowers, trees, even a pond with ducks.

I walked back to the house to freshen up, then Lena came and took me to the Hippocrates Center which her mother Diana runs. The center provides physical and social services for children with disabilities, a rare service in a country where parents will abandon healthy or disabled children to work overseas. See http://www.chcmoldova.md for information on the center; click on “donatii” to give money to support their work.

When I walked into the center, one of the employees, Galina, shouted with wide eyes and open arms, “Bridget!” “Bowling!” before giving me a big hug. The last time I was in Moldova, I had gone with Diana and her colleagues to the bowling alley in Chisinau. (See my post, http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Reisefrau/dec-9-part-2-bowling-in-moldova.html, for a description of that experience.) That had been their first time ever bowling and I had to teach them the basics of it, though Diana told they have been bowling other times since then.  It never in my wildest imagination occurred to me that I would be remembered so strongly for teaching them how to bowl.  Other employees hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks and made similar comments before sitting me down—to what was left of their lunch.  Instantly set on a plate for me were pieces of bread with fried chicken or ham on them. And there were plates of placinta with cherry and placinta with cheese. At least I balanced it with fruit tea, tomato, and cucumber.

At the table sat two women from Britain, an occupational therapist and a recreational therapist.  I later found out Linda was from Kent (where my aunt’s mother lives so I’ve been there) and Renata was originally from Berlin but has lived with her husband for many years in Nottingham.  The three of us, Lena, and our driver Boris set out for the Purcari winery.

Although the winery is only 100 km from Chisinau, it took two hours to drive there. The roads are full of potholes that have to be avoided, and we also agreed that Boris is the most careful driver we’ve ever had in Moldova.  It’s good to have such a careful driver transporting disabled children and us.

We arrived at a chateau-like white building set among rows of grapevines.  We met our tour guide, Svetlana, who escorted us through the different stages of wine making.  To be honest, the tour felt out of order at times (we saw the labeling area before the barrels the wine matures in) so I’m still not sure I understood the whole process of fermentation and freezing and maturing and filtering.  But I understood big steel vats, old oak barrels (from France), bottles made of Italian glass so the wine can be exported to Europe,  spots for fishing, and the natural spring running under the grounds.

Our tour ended at the hotel and restaurant. We saw a 4-star suite. It costs 90 Euros a night, but you get three free mini-bottles of wine.  The restaurant had oil paintings hanging tastefully on the white walls, and three windows with a view of the vineyard that looked like a painting themselves.

We sat at a table and watched a video in English about the winery (a bit redundant, but well done) then sat at a table for our tasting.  We tasted four wines—a chardonnay, a pinot noir, a cabernet sauvignon, and cahor (a sweet wine usually used in church ceremonies). We even had a pen and paper to mark our ratings of each wine.  The chardonnay and cabernet came out as the top two, but the pinot noir and cahor were not to my taste at all.

Throughout the day we had heard about the winery’s “black wine”, a darker variant of cabernet-sauvignon.  We were disappointed when it wasn’t included in our tasting.  Apparently we had gotten a special deal on the tour, so we only got four wines. However, our tour included dinner at the hotel (shashlik/grilled meat) and was 25 Euros instead of 23 Euros.  The tour guide agreed that we could use the 2 extra Euros to have a small bottle of the black wine with dinner.  It was without a doubt supreme, totally worth the 175 lei for a big bottle (from a Western standpoint).

After dinner we went to the gift shop to pay for our tour  and to buy wine to take home with us. Then we drove off into the sunset, gazing at the green rolling hills and grazing cows as long as there was light to see.