Pilgrims' Progress

Budapest, Hungary

Krakow is supposedly the new Budapest. After our one day driving through the more famous city, we were impressed, but holding judgement as to which one we prefer. Leaving Krakow yesterday, we still hadn’t decided – we needed to spend at least one day walking the streets to get much more of a feel for the more famous spot. We’ve done it now, and while only a couple of days in a place doesn’t qualify you to say much, it is sufficient for a quick observation or two.

We can see how Budapest earned its reputation. It truly is a vast, grand, magnificent, majestic, beautiful, ornate city.

It is much bigger than Krakow, much more spread out, with far more attractions and fancier architecture. But that is not to say the Polish equivalent is a poor cousin. It’s just different. It’s smaller, cosier, more intimate, more easily walked around. Of particular interest to our pocket, is that Poland is cheaper than Hungary; transport-wise, accommodation-wise, food-wise and attractions-wise. And whereas Krakow has at least one bakery on every single street, we had to hunt for affordable food in Budapest. One reader had recommended two delicious things to sample on the street, but we were unable to find either. And we are now assuming “streetfood” is a generic term for food available in a cafe or restuarant – there were no sellers with food LITERALLY on the streets as in other places we’ve been. (Ah well, we have another day; we’ll track down that cheesey-garlicy-sourCreamy fried dough and those drum cakes yet!)

Budapest. Our little local guidebook informs us there are six pages worth of museums to visit. Almost as many churches. We can take any number of themed walking tours or a hop-on, hop-off bus tour or an amphibious vehicle tour on road and river, or go on a variety of pub crawls, or visit Europe’s largest functioning synagogue or largest parliament or one of many theatres and concert halls or one of the almost-a-hundred thermal springs or dozen medicinal baths (did you know that 19 million gallons of thermal water rise to the surface here every day? no, we didn’t either)…..there sure are sights to see in Budapest.

We do what we are familiar with. We take a walk. Time being short here, we make a note of “places not to be missed”, determine to get over the river to the castle on the Buda side tomorrow, and today to see as much as we can on the Pest side. If there’s time we’ll stop in the middle of the river – on Margaret Island, where apparently there is a UNESCO-protected water tower, a musical well, an open-air stage, a church, the ruins of a several centuries old nunnery, not to mention hotels, eateries, a beach and swimming pool (brrr, bit cold for that!)

Parliament buildings, the biggest in Europe.

 
(you get much better pictures from the other side of the river like we did last time we were here)

The Danube promenade.

Chain Bridge, the oldest in Budapest.

St Stephen’s Basilica
….relatively recently constructed (not even a couple-a hundred years ago)….before it was completed, the big dome collapsed inwards…..it’s a merging of western christianity and eastern king-saints….as ornate as anything in the Vatican City – not an inch unadorned, everywhere glittering with gold…..when the town planners designed the area, they designated a gigantic space for a cathedral (couldn’t imagine that happening in NZ)

Andrassy Avenue, under which the oldest underground train line in Europe hides (and still operates). The avenue, where there used to be a lane for the gentlemen to go riding. The avenue, which is filled with all sorts of famous buildings that we read about pre-walking and failed to observe once on the road. Oh, except for the Opera House. And in the brochures the avenue looked much more impressive – I think you need to see it in summer when the trees are green! Here are a couple of our officially poor photos, real “nothing shots”:

Taking this walk, we also happened upon stirring monuments:

What a grim reality – people executed at the edge of the Danube. Further up the road, people executed in the square outside parliament.
We contemplated that perhaps it is living through these and other similar experiences that gives people the boldness to plant such thoughts on public land (we can’t see this happening in NZ – far too emotive, far too strongly-worded, far too un-PC):

And we happened upon a lot of very big men sitting on very big chairs. Very Big.

Budapest or Krakow? We like them both, each for their own character.

Budapest, Hungary

Our final day in Krakow is Independence Day. Undoubtedly there will be a big parade. Patriotism runs rife here. There will be red and white flags flapping, national costumes, brass bands, pomp and circumstance.
But it’s pouring with rain, absolutely bucketing down, and we make the decision to remain hermits in the hostel; we’re going to get wet enough walking to the bus station this afternoon. In over thirteen months, this will be the first time we have been stuck unavoidably in pouring rain with packs on our backs. Can’t complain really.

And we were right. There *was* a big celebration. As we stumbled along the puddle-filled cobblestone streets for the last time, we were not alone. The parade-goers were all heading home, still clutching their flags. The police were still stationed near important monuments  – remember the horse monument we walked past on our first night? As we left, it had an enormous flame burning in front of it, and the metal barricades were in the process of being removed. We definitely missed something.

But we gained something else. Obviously that day it had started snowing in the mountains and the children got to see for the first time what it looks like when snow is just beginning to fall – how the green grass still pokes through, how there are big dark shadows underneath trees, how it sticks just a little to the road signs, how you can still see the different patterns of tiles on roofs, how the trees are gently outlined. Further on was the deeper storybook snow similar to what we saw coming across Russia. And, just like back then, everyone wished aloud that we could STOP. 

please excuse photo quality – through foggy window on moving bus with snow falling outside

But public busses don’t stop. Although sometimes they DEPART half an hour early, even without all the passengers. And sometimes they double-book seats. At least, those are the experiences of some other people, who had previously used the company we picked. Our budget dictated that we take the risk – and make it to the station with plenty of time to spare. Our decision was well-rewarded. What a surprise; here was the nicest (by far) bus we have been on. Airline-style seats and overhead lockers, free hot drinks, onboard toilet for urgent cases (heehee), DVDs with personal headsets, smooth driving and a half-hour early arrival.

Good-bye Poland, hello Hungary (albeit briefly).

Quote of the day: ”My bed’s got bones in it.” ~ ERgirl3, who clearly did not appreciate the luxury of an innersprung mattress.

Krakow, Poland

She heard the whoosh of the car racing at breakneck speed through the puddle.
She turned to see who, on that busy street behind her, would wear the splash.
It turned out to be her!
The car had sounded as if it were further away, but no.
Funny really, coz at that exact moment she was traipsing up the street wondering about how to use a blog post written a few days earlier. She was contemplating saying that although it was written on a bright sunny day, ever since then it had been drizzling or down-pouring. She was considering commending the decision to bring wet weather gear, thankful that having needed to use it only a few times up til now, we were now feeling justified in bringing it. Rain jackets are the kind of the thing that take up a lot of space (a whole backpack’s worth for our family), are hopefully not used often, but are invaluable when needed. They’re not too dissimilar to an insurance policy; reassuring to have, but you hope you won’t need it. This week alone – in fact, this puddle-splashing episode alone – made lugging them through forty degrees plus for months on end, all totally worthwhile.

Today we watched/listened to the trumpeter play his stirring tune – twice! It is another one of those surreal experiences to realise you are witnessing a tradition, which has been performed for almost a thousand years with a break only during the second world war (or is that an urban legend? I’m not sure). Every hour since the early Middle Ages a golden trumpet has emerged at the west window of the dominating St Mary’s church on the square and played the famous-in-Poland piece of music, the Hejnal Mariacki. It is then played to the north, south and east as well, and at noon is now also played on national radio. But for the last seven hundred and fifty years it has never been completed; the final note has always been left off, allegedly in honour of the trumpeter, who was killed by a Tatar archer in 1241, shot through the throat by an arrow as he played. (Sad, as the story is from a Polish perspective, if you think of it from the Mongol’s point of view, their guy was a good shot!) There’s an irony in that – the trumpet call was used to warn the townspeople of attack by outsiders. It was also sounded at the opening and closing of the city gates, to inform of fire (such as the great fire that destroyed a large part of the town in the 1400s) and of course, as a timekeeper too. Whenever we are in the Rynek (market square) on the hour, we are compelled to stop and watch, and today, to wave. The trumpeter even waved back! And some of the children mulled over theories of why the trumpet call should sound so much clearer today than other time we have heard it (hint: first clear sunny day, no fog or mist or drizzle to muffle the call). It was a truly fascinating observation to the more scientifically-minded amongst us, a theory they tested on further (always dismal misty) occasions.

The next time we read “The Trumpeter of Krakow” aloud (excellent book – do get it!), the kids will have their own memories and experiences to bring to the book, instead of just my old-memory descriptions. Now they have walked down Pigeon Street themselves, they have heard horses hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones, they have been to the Small Square and the university, and they have heard the tune, so integral to the plot of the book.

If you’d like to, you can click here to hear the bugle call for yourself too. I’d suggest you pour a glass of tea while you wait (just like in Poland, where tea is drunk from glasses sitting in special metal or wicker holders), because it will take a minute to load. Don’t worry – you won’t mistake the call for your whistling kettle.

Krakow, Poland

What do you do when you turn up in a country where you don’t speak the language and very few people speak English?
Well, I don’t know what you would do, but we went from door to door in our neighbourhood trying to see if anyone would talk to us. We had a Polish student living with us and he would translate and record onto our state-of-the-art walkman, a little saying for us to then learn off by heart….and out we would go.

Hello.
My name is Robert (or Rachela – no, not a spelling mistake; just Polish) 
I come from New Zealand.
I am learning Polish.
This is all I can say.
Thank you.
Goodbye.

That was the first little speech!
A bit later, when we were in the thick of coming to terms with numbers up to the millions (just a loaf of bread cost a couple of thousand), we would carry a piece of paper with a dozen  numbers on it, and say our memorised phrase:

Hello Sir/Madam (we were also learning the way to address people by then)
Please tell me one of these numbers and I will point to it.
(WAIT WHILE THEY PERFORMED AS REQUESTED)
Thank you.
Goodbye.

Slowly, but surely the strange sounds became familiar.
Now they’ve lopped three zeros off each banknote and the numbers are a doddle.
But on the same day recently we both thought of that very “please tell me” sentence!
It was an effective method – our grammar was still perfect.

There were other advantages to our door knocking. We got to know our neighbours. We made friends. Good enough friends to exchange the three kisses on the cheek upon meeting (just the girls, that is!) We were given countless cups of tea and sampled all sorts of homemade Polish delicacies like bigos-off-the-balcony, cakes, sausages and even broad beans (no, really, an old man cooked them for me specially!!) We also met a couple, whose son owned a private language school, and in doing so solved our dilemma of how to make money during the school holidays (at the time we were working at another school, living hand-to-mouth day-by-day, and needed to work in order to eat). We worked the summer camps for the son that year (during which the gherkin exploding episode occurred) and came home with permanent jobs providing much better conditions.

We made contact with this son last week, and today met him at his parents’ place.
The father is now 79, a very spritely 79, too. His mother, a year older. I had thought she might now have grey hair, but no. She is still Pani Redhead, as we affectionately used to call her (Pawel, if you are reading, please use your discretion as to whether or not she should be told of this!!) She might be eight decades old, but there are no pastel colours for her! Their flat is still a vibrant blast of colour, just as we remembered it. As a painter, and a well-known one in Poland, she has plenty of artwork at her disposal for decorating plain walls. She is also fortunate enough to have embroideries stitched by her own mother and other trinkets with special meaning, all artistically arranged.

What a wonderful evening we had. Of course there was sumptuous food (pierogi, bread and ham, cakes and more cakes, apples, grapes – a real feast). Eat, eat eat! Older Polish folk are sure children are always hungry and if they are not, they should be eating anyway. How else do you get to be a nice big fat healthy Babcia? I thought back to sharing Easter lunch with this couple the first year we were here. Red beet soup was on the menu and to us it tasted delicious – our hostess was disappointed that the potatoes in it were not of good standard, not that there was any choice at the time. You bought what you could get.
Funny how little memories come floating back.
We talked and laughed a lot. Pawel found himself translating things we had said in Polish into English supposedly for the benefit of his parents!!! I guess we had never had cause to speak Polish with him, and so he no doubt expected us to be English-dependent. With his parents we had always struggled along with increasing degrees of success in Polish; they were used to us butchering their heart language and were some of the best language helpers, because they were not afraid to correct us. We made a million mistakes tonight, and could have just used Pawel to translate everything, but somehow it is more connecting to communicate directly. The translations to English were fun though! While we chatted, the children found a cat to taunt play with. And there were all the wonderful things hanging on the walls to just look and look and look at.

Upon leaving, Pan Z, the father, took my hand and kissed the back of it.
Ah, that’s right. Poland is so nice. So polite. So cultured. So dignified.
They don’t seem to do it as much now as they used to, but men even tip their hats to ladies in the street. Gentlemen.
It was easy to like living here.

PS We now have an enormous hard-cover book to add to our baggage. A record of all her work, it is signed by Pani Z. We looked through it together, her telling the stories behind many of the paintings, the children picking out which ones they could find on her walls. And then she gifted it to us. What a treasure, even if it is enormous and heavy.

Krakow, Poland

Our walk took us to the Wawel Castle, where the cathedral, today a symbol of Polish national identity, can be visited outside of mass hours (six services on a Sunday!)
For over a thousand years a cathedral has been on the site, and from the mid-11th century the kings and queens of Poland resided in the state rooms and had their coronations and funerals in the grounds too. For A Very Long Time.
Following the loss of independence in the late 18th century, the castle served as army barracks for Austrian soldiers, who somewhat tragically demolished many of the buildings within the castle walls. In the early years of the last century Wawel was returned to the Polish people and a monumental conservation project undertaken.

This is what we saw inside:
(there are no pics to show as it is strictly “nie wolno” to take photos inside any of the exhibitions, and so ours are necessarily limited to outdoor grey foggy shots.)

*big ornate brass door hinges

*enormous tapestries – easily taller than two people and nearly three times as long
(what fun to guess the stories being told – hint: you’ll need to be familiar with biblical themes and a spot of Greek mythology)

*embossed leather wall coverings – from floor to ceiling in room after room after room

*safes with interesting locking mechanisms

*candles standing in wall-mounted shining silver candlestick holders

*intricately carved oversized wooden furniture

*four-poster bed for a dwarf (OK, so it wasn’t for a dwarf, but it sure was short)

*three metre wide marble staircases

*larger-than-lifesize portraits, that didn’t look so big coz the rooms they were in were proportionately gigantic…massive….tall…..wide…..spacious….huge

*delightful friezes a good metre high marching around the tops of other equally enormous rooms

*carved wooden heads staring down from the ceiling

*gold

*solid stone architraves surrounding solid metal doors

*poets’ crypts

*highly decorated heaters about the size of an English telephone box
(Looking to Rob for a description of them, he managed in slow deliberate words, “Gaudy painted floral green things, but they looked quite impressive despite that.”)

*Queen Jadwiga: crowned at age ten, married at age twelve to a Lithuanian prince (and so began the Christianising/?Catholicising? of Lithuania), restored the university, generous benefactor of the poor, died in childbirth at the age of twenty-five – a short but influential life with a legacy still revered now (and that was all back in the 1300s)
(not that we saw her today – we just read about her)

*objects discovered in archaeological excavations – fascinatingly displayed in cabinets lining a walkway leading you *over* the remains of stables, coach-house, kitchens and a chapel

*ionic columns (cheekily called “ironic columns” by Mboy6 to an older sibling, who has had a recent habit of misusing the word “ironical”)

a week ago the leaves were brillaint gold ~ now look!

(waves at Reader Allie – recognise “your” picture?)

Krakow, Poland

Prepare at least three days before needed!
Preferably make a huge portion and leave it sitting on your balcony all winter long.

1kg fresh white cabbage, shredded finely
1t salt
   Place in a heavy pot with water to cover and bring to the boil
   Cook uncovered over a medium heat for about 30 minutes or until tender

1kg sauercraut, rinsed and well drained
1/2kg pre-cooked or smoked pork and/or ham, chopped into bite-size pieces
1/2kg kielbasa, chopped into bite-size pieces
1 large onion, chopped finely
1T minced garlic
50g dried mushrooms
8 prunes, pitted and cut into small pieces
1T peppercorns
1-2 bay leaves
1/2-1T allspice
   Add to the fresh cabbage and stir well

250g bacon, chopped
   Saute until crisp, drain off excess fat and add to the above
   Cook uncovered for 20 minutes on a medium heat, then cover and simmer over a   
   low heat for at least one hour
   Remove and discard bay leaves
   Set aside in a cool place

The following day…..

50ml vodka or 1/2C dark red wine
   Add, taste and add seasoning as needed
   Then cover and cook over a low heat for at least an hour

Repeat the following day, and also before serving. (it really is worth the daily cooking – every day it gets darker and darker, and tastes stronger and stronger).
Serve with boiled potatoes or dark rye bread.
Any leftovers can be reheated. Although, when we make it again we’ll need to at least double the recipe, because we gobbled it all up in one sitting. (Actually, our family version is likely to have a greatly increased amount of cabbage with no change being made to the meat quantity. Additionally, we’ll use red wine rather than vodka, because it adds a great deal to the appearance, which, as you can see, could not be classed as one of its finer features as is.)

* cubed venison steak and/or a ham hock can also be used (it was, after all,
   traditionally a hunter’s stew)
* in times past every home in Eastern Europe had a barrel of pickled cabbage, which
   was prepared in the autumn and used through the winter – we have been
   fortunate enough to be able to buy this home-prepared brew at the market.

And while we’re writing about pickled veges, here’s The World’s Best Pickling Recipe according to Janette Blackwell, who I don’t know from a bar of soap, but to whom I was introduced by Mr Google. Of all the pickle recipes I read, I enjoyed hers the most, and even though it’s Bulgarian and not Polish, I’m sure Polski pickles wouldn’t be too dissimilar. I wonder if hers explode!

The World’s Best Pickles – Author: Janette Blackwell

I knew they were the world’s best pickles the moment I tasted one. That first taste took place around 1950, and I’ve tasted a lot of pickles since, am a pickle hound in fact, but I’ve never come across anything else as good.
They came to us by way of my Uncle Ronald Smith, who was an electrician in the Bitterroot Valley of Montana where I grew up. One day he was doing electrical work for a Bulgarian family, and they rewarded him with a sample pickle. He liked it so much he got the recipe and gave it to his wife Gladys, who gave it to Grandma Glidewell, who made it and gave some to me, and I thought I’d died and gone to pickle heaven.
And thus, although they became an old Glidewell family recipe, they are really an old Bulgarian family recipe. The Bulgarian family, whose name I do not know, told Uncle Ronald that in Bulgaria, when the first heavy frost kills the tomato vines, they put all their end-of-garden vegetables — including those green tomatoes — into a barrel, fill the barrel with pickling brine, and eat the best pickles in the world all winter. It turns out, though, that the pickles’ travel from Bulgaria to the U.S. was only one leg of a more ancient journey. Because I mentioned them to an Iranian woman, and she said, “My family has always made pickles like that! Exactly like that, except we add tarragon.”
Iran being the new name for the ancient kingdom of Persia, who knows how many centuries these pickles go back?
There’s more: I later lost the recipe’s brine proportions. Gave some thought to its travels between Persia and Bulgaria, looked in an Armenian-American cookbook (Treasured Armenian Recipes, published in 1949 by the Armenian General Benevolent Union) and there they were, under “Mixed Pickles No. 2.” Turns out the world’s best Armenian pickles are just like the world’s best Bulgarian and Persian and American pickles, except they include dill, and sometimes green beans and coriander seed.
So this is an old, old recipe belonging to the whole human family.

END-OF-GARDEN PICKLES RECIPE

Vegetables:
Green tomatoes, cut in half or quartered if large 
   The green tomatoes for this recipe should be at least thinking of getting ripe.
   A tomato demonstrates its thoughts along this line by getting a white overlay
   on top of the green.
Carrots, peeled and cut into strips
Cauliflower, separated into small florets
Baby onions, peeled, or larger onions halved
Quartered green peppers, cut into broad lengthwise slices
Garlic, two peeled cloves per quart jar
Medium-hot peppers, two small whole peppers per quart
You can also add unpeeled and unwaxed small cucumbers, zucchini, or lightly cooked green beans, though we never did. The hot peppers add adventure and zest, but if you prefer to save your tears for really sad occasions, why not?
Amounts and proportions depend on what vegetables you have and how many quarts you plan to make. You don’t have to have the green tomatoes, and the other things can be bought in a grocery store. But you do need a variety of vegetables, and you have to have the onions and garlic, or you won’t have the world’s best pickles. You will have the world’s so-so pickles, and that would be a shame.

Armenian-Persian-Bulgarian Brine
To one quart of water add 1/4 cup pickling salt (salt that isn’t iodized), and one cup of white distilled vinegar. Bring the mixture to a boil. This is enough brine to cover two quarts of mixed pickles, with a little left over.

Processing
Follow the canning instructions in a good, standard cookbook. Or, if you plan to eat them right away, pack the vegetables into clean quart jars, pour over them the hot brine, and keep the pickles covered in the refrigerator. Some of the more impressionable vegetables, like zucchini, will be ready to eat in only two or three days.

Krakow, Poland

We peered in through the fogged up windows.
Yes! There were a few little tables with wooden chairs, yes there were coathooks on the wall, yes, there was the tiled hatch to put dirty dishes through, but more importantly, yes, everyone was eating pierogi. It was just as we remembered. We’d *have to* come back one day when we hadn’t already eaten.

Today was the day. Into the dimness of a big wooden-doored building we tripped and clattered on up the stone steps, past a small pizzeria and the entrance to the apartments upstairs, and right through to an outdoor courtyard. At the other side of the courtyard was “u Stasi” (directly translatable as “At Stasi’s”, perhaps more eloquently translated as “Stasi’s Place”)

A few things surprised us.

1. That we found it.
   We were told about this little Polish home cooking restaurant just before we returned to New Zealand twenty years ago and we went to it only once.
2. That it is still there.
   It is not even a block from the most touristified centre of Krakow. You’d have thought it might have been bought out by some bigger establishment by now.
3. That it still serves only Polish food.
   Two sorts of soup, half a dozen pierogi varieties, stuffed cabbage, pork cutlet, compote and tea.
4. That it is still cheap (despite being in tourist town).
   The pierogi portions were the largest of any we have seen advertised as we have walked around, and about half the cost.
5. That we all got to eat at the same time.
   Our historical experience was that a large queue formed outside (and when we were there the other day it was the same) and as a seat or two became free inside, one or two people would be admitted. We all got in at the same time, although not at tables near each other!
6. That when we sat down, ERgirl3 said, “I’d like rice please” – you can tell her restaurant experience is limited to Asia, where invariably the choice was either rice or noodles!

And so we checked off another of our like-to-do items for Krakow.
We also strolled round town, took lots of photos and chose some artwork to take home (a few months back Rob suggested we should have one picture for each overseas trip we have taken – when we were in Malaysia eight years ago we bought a painting for our wedding anniversary; that covered that trip. This time we are going to create our own art from our photos – somehow. But we didn’t have anything from our first two years away, and as we spent most of that time in Krakow, it seemed appropriate to find a Krakow painting – actually, we ended up with three little ones to mount together. Hopefully this means we will finally mount the Malaysia one too!!)

And when we look at them, we’ll remember eating pierogi for lunch.

Pierogi z miesem.
Ruskie pierogi.
Pierogi ze serem.

Pierogi with meat.
Russian pierogi (filled with potato).
Pierogi stuffed with white cheese, sprinkled with sugar and drowning in butter.

Krakow, Poland

“We should take a picture for Grandpa!”
”And one of the sticker too”
”I know! Why don’t you put it on your ear?!”

It all started in Mongolia. We stayed in gers, and gers are not renowned for having very high doorways. Even though he cognitively knew this, poor ol’ Grandpa would knock his head almost every time he came out of his ger, something you do fairly frequently due to the fact that there is not a lot to do inside one of those tents other than keep the fire stoked. Unfortunately for Grandpa, he does not have the protective covering on his head, called hair, and in its place ended up with both a large lump (making him effectively taller than usual and so even more prone to knocking his noggin) and a nasty graze, that turned the stomachs of anyone, who saw it uncovered. Whenever Martin, the big burly ranch owner, saw Grandpa, he called out “Duck duck rubber duck!” – but deep down I’m sure he respected the almost-eighty-year-old man for actually managing to swing himself up on a horse. More than once.

(I *could* insert a picture here as proof of the horse mounting, but it ain’t all that elegant)

That was the beginning. After that, any surface that *could* be used to graze the head, was. Bunks on trains. A suitcase lid. A kitchen bench.
Then there was the motorhome. Again, there was a slightly lower than usual doorway. Donk. And there was a bed in the canopy, which was at just the right height for knocking your head on as you went from the living area through to the cab. Donk donk.
Grandpa looked like he would not be scarred for life, but permanently grazed.

There was not too much to be done about the doorway, but the alcove donking-ground lent itself to some solutions by kind-hearted grandchildren. First of all a piece of foam was fastened to the fairly sharp edge. But it didn’t last. Neither did it work – graze number who-knows-what was scraped in spite of the foam.
Next the kids studiously coloured a danger warning strip black and yellow. Failed.
Daughter-in-law found a pinecone and hung that, embellished with some heather to make it look like an intentional decoration, a bit lower than the edge. It got knocked about a lot, but at least it didn’t leave a graze. No-one knows where it disappeared to or when, but one day Grandpa found himself grazed again.

In desperation he went to Canada, where he was certain he would be immune from such experiences. Turns out it wasn’t to be, but the funniest episode of all happened en route.
In an email Grandpa described the scene succinctly, never one to exaggerate:
“BTW I munted my cell phone – cracked the screen so I have to look for a new one tomorrow.”
Rob’s sister, who was travelling with him, filled in the hilarious details:

You’ll laugh when you hear how he damaged his phone.  We were walking around town taking  photos and had found a quaint medieval street called The Shambles.  The buildings lean over the street toward each other and Dad leant up against a building to get a better angle when he was clonked by a large sign that fell off the wall as he leaned against it.  He quickly stopped it from falling onto the ground and hooked it back up though it was a precarious hold.  He then leant against the same wall to get the same photo as he had been unable to previously and the sign not only fell off the wall it clonked him on the head and fell to the ground.  I turned around just as he was picking it up and putting it back up for the second time!!  As he did a bit of a shuffle when he got clonked he must have leaned against the wall and the hire car key must have pressed hard up against the screen of the phone which broke the LCD display.  It looks like a picture of a shattered window!! 🙁 

After two weeks Grandpa returned to us, still grazed.
More of the same (and we visited some cool castles and mountains).
But in the end he went home! Where he fell off his bike three times in a month, his account of which brought much laughter to our hostel room across the other side of the world.

And so when we were at the Wieliczka salt mine with its reasonably frequent red and white danger stripes on low ceilings and some without any warning whatsoever, our thoughts did not have to move far to turn to Grandpa. He’d have loved it!

But what about the sticker?
That story goes back even further.
In 2001, we were in Malaysia for a family wedding.
We also went to a butterfly park, where we were issued with a little tag on a rubber band for attaching to our cameras to prove we had paid the camera fee. Grandpa had missed that part of the entrance instructions, and so when Rob told him he had to hang it over his ear, he did. Unquestioningly. We saw a good many butterflies, scorpions, lizards and other miscellaneous wildlife samples before he realised he was the source of our out-of-proportion enjoyment at this particular attraction!
We had almost as much fun with the Wieliczka sticker – aren’t memories grand?

Now you know.

Krakow, Poland

Look how nippy it was this morning:

And last night it was –11*C in Brasov, where we are soon headed, so everyone is hoping the forecast snow will be a biggie!

Anyway, I digress, before I even begin.

Boys need their daddies.
Where did that come from?

We have a boy (not the youngest and not the eldest, which is saying little enough to ensure anonymity for the offending party, and he also happened to be the taker of the above photograph, which adds nothing further to his identity), who was sent down to the street yesterday to check the temperature on the display outside one of the shops (yes, the same one as in the picture above). It was warmer yesterday. 4 degrees C. You really can’t tell just how cold it is by simply looking out the window, and as our window does not have an outdoor thermometer like most other windows around town, we rely on the one up the road. We know to believe the thermometer. We learnt that lesson twenty years ago. One day in the middle of winter, a clear blue day greeted us, and we did not, for a moment, believe it could possibly be the minus twenty-something that our thermometer claimed it was. After weeks of murky grey, when we had needed the lights on all day long, the sun was now shining brightly.  It *had* to be warmer than that. In fact, we decided it must be over zero and so just donned jackets and headed out. It took less than a millisecond for us to be racing back up the stairs to find thermal underwear, an extra pair of socks, thick hats, long scarves, woollen coats and our sheepskin mittens to put on top of our standard gloves. Believe the thermometer.
Today I told everyone they would need hats and gloves. Said boy suggested *he* would be fine. I informed him no-one would be going out without a hat.
”Are YOU going to wear a hat?” he enquired of his Dadda.
I don’t recall if the Dadda merely grunted an affirmative or declared enthusiastically, “I’m definitely wearing one” – but that is irrelevant. The matter for the boy was now settled. His Daddy would be wearing a hat, and so he would too.

Boys also need daddies to teach them to be strong. To arm wrestle and promise that the day a child beats the adult in such an activity, there will be a celebratory dinner. That was the day before yesterday. The promise, not the beating.

Boys need daddies to teach them to be gentle. Gentlemen even. They need to watch someone, who will open the door for the girls, who will stand back and let the girls go first, who will carry the heavy load. It’s just not the same if it’s the mother always harping on at the boys to give preference to the girls – mainly, because then the little girls start demanding, “I’m a lady, you need to give way to me”, but also because the boys seem to learn so much more quickly if it’s their revered Daddy teaching the lesson. I’m not sure if this is normal behaviour, and I *do* know that it’s not desirable, but it’s the way it is in our family, and so the task of teaching the boys in particular to respect and honour their mother, to listen to her and accept she knows a thing or two that they don’t (like when it’s four degrees you need a hat, for example)  falls mainly to the Daddy.

Boys need Daddies.

Time for one more story.
Once upon a time about twenty years ago there was a young man, who lived on the seventh floor of an apartment block. One day in the middle of winter he pulled on his socks, fastened his hat under his chin, buttoned his long woollen coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, ready to pull up over his nose before opening the front door….and out he went. This particular day the lift was a) working and b) on his floor, so he took it to ground level. As he emerged, he noticed it was cold, and he pulled his scarf up almost to his eyeballs. He opened the door that led from the stairwell to the little heat saving foyer, and closed it behind him, before opening the very front door. Even by now he was aware of something happening to him, but it would not be until he stepped out into the snow that he realised he was still wearing his slippers and his toes were snap-freezing.
Boys need daddies, who have funny stories to tell, daddies, who are not perfect, but can admit their failings and laugh at their mistakes.

I’m glad our boys are blessed with such a dadda.

As for the story behind this picture, you’ll have to wait til tomorrow to read that!

Krakow, Poland

There’s an object lesson in today’s expedition. A Scripture or two to reflect on. But we haven’t yet. We were too busy writing a story. Jgirl15 came up with the outline and then frantically scribbled the main ideas and some sample sentences onto paper. Together we fleshed it out.

CLANG CLANG CLANG
The operator rang a bell and the lift I shared with eight other miners descended, plunging into instant darkness, rattling its way into the depths of the earth.
”Times have changed,” I murmured with ever-present relief. We do not have to fear a slow and insecure ride to the bottom of the shaft in a hemp swing-like seat hanging off a rope as fat as my growing son’s arm. So fearful of falling to the bottom and certain death, were the miners before us, that all the way down, prayers and hymns for safety echoed, bouncing off the walls before being consumed by the darkness. Even with their flickering candles, they couldn’t push away that close darkness surrounding them.
The creaking lift and helmets fitted with torches we are using now have put an end to that. The lift, what a fine piece of technology. It always threatens to drive us occupants into the rock at high speed, but, thankfully, it hasn’t yet. It IS safer.
Down down down……..some 327 metres underground. In earlier times the miners did not go so deeply, but we have dug down to a third level now.  

I start my work at 8am, using the original hundreds-of-years-old method used for mining salt. My companions and I hammer tar coated wedges into the rock. It’s hard sweaty work, but after much banging there’s an ear-splitting crack and a ten tonne block of salt escapes. It lies still, waiting to be chiselled into three or four blocks and then further chiselled into cylinders. It’s much easier to move a “log” of salt than a block – blocks don’t roll.
Despite being hard work, we proceed with enthusiasm; our wealth is in salt!
Four hundred years ago when this mine was just beginning, salt was being used as a currency. One log of salt could buy a small village – forty houses.
Before extensive mining, the white powder had been extracted from a large saltwater lake, pottery containers of water being boiled over fires to evaporate the water, leaving the precious trade-able commodity behind. But when the lake dried up, the residents of the region began digging, presumably looking for more water. What they found, instead, was salt. A Lot Of Salt. For five hundred years the area will provide both salt and work for many – over 300 kilometres of tunnels will eventually be excavated, a labyrinth extending under the whole town of Wieliczka. There’s wealth in salt alright.

Our work comes to a halt at midday. We’re Polish. We’re Catholic. Most of us walk to the big chapel of our patron saint, Kinga. You could be forgiven for thinking the floor is polished black marble, but, just like the steps we descend, the statues of the saints, the carvings depicting the life of Jesus….they are all made of salt. Of course, perhaps. Salt gives riches not merely measured in monetary terms.
The chapel itself used to be a very large mining chamber until it was transformed into this highly decorated place of worship – actually, it’s not even finished yet. The last carving will not be completed for another half a century, until 1963. People will stand in awe under its shining chandeliers, amazed that even they are made of salt. Pure salt is white or transparent, and special pieces have been taken to create these magnificent lights. They really do sparkle against the blackness of the rest of the salt, salt coloured by being mixed with other stones, rocks and metals.

Before heading back to work I enjoy a small jelly filled with fish and vegetables. I’m rich to have a caring wife, who after years of marriage, still shows her love, making special treats to eat. It’s not that I’d mind gnawing on a poppy seed bread stick like the rest of the crew, but these little delicacies do brighten the darkness.
Strolling through the different chambers, there’s always something new to see. Today I took a different tunnel and found an old unused winch. It had points for coupling horses to, and a seat. Round and round and round the horses used to plod, hour after hour after hour. Someone had to steady their pace and initially this person, too,  with the animals, would plod hour after hour after hour, round and round and round. That was before The Seat. It doesn’t look like much, but it was as desired as a throne. Everyone wanted this job – instead of having to walk at the horses’ side, they could sit, almost at leisure, a rich man.
Nearby was a feedbox, undoubtedly used by the working horses. You know what? When my Great-Grandfather worked as a miner, he helped to transport the horses. With the wealth of stories passed on from one generation to the next, I have heard how the horses were fitted into hemp harnesses and lowered into the darkness, just like the miners themselves. Unsurprisingly, plenty took fright. My predecessor, with a lifetime of handling these beasts, still had trouble calming them as they arrived at their destination. Occasionally, a horse arrived calm; usually it meant it had died of fear on the way down. Needless to say, this was no easy job. Eventually, my great-grandfather, yes one of my very own ancestors, came up with the bright idea in the midst of this darkness to build underground stables, to end the  necessity of daily hoisting. From that time on, once the horses were down, they were destined to live the rest of their lives deep underground. I can imagine hearing the hooves clip-clopping along the salt floors. I prefer not to think of the smell, the heat generated by so many men and animals in such confined spaces.
These days all that is left of those times are the impressive chapels, enormous old winches, crystal-encrusted ladders and tools, some of which are still in use. My favourite would have to be the wooden cart on wheels that is run along a track up and down the inclines – to prevent too many chunks of salt falling out, the front was designed higher than the back. It’s amazing to think that you’ll still be able to see these carts with their original wooden boards in another hundred years’ time. You could even say salt preserves memories.

I return to the chamber, where I’ve worked all my time. In the entire history of the mine, every single miner has worked in the very same chamber that they started off in, never changing to another one. Why would you leave a job undone? Sometimes even a few generations work the same chamber. It was – and is – a long slow task. Some say it must be tiring to always be working hard, monotonous to always be doing the same thing day after day, but it’s a special job, and seeing the cavern emerge out of solid wall makes it all worthwhile. Watching the carvers create birds clinging to the ceiling or monks kneeling at a cross or beautiful angels brings me a satisfaction I could not find anywhere else.
Besides, it’s a safe job. I could be mining coal or iron – in unhealthy dangerous conditions. At least I’m not breathing substances that can kill me. I can lick the walls here and it does me no harm! One could even argue it’s beneficial – I mean, we do use salt for preserving our meat and vegetables, and we gargle it whenever anything ails us. It’s funny to think of licking the walls, but I’ll tell you something. In a hundred years’ time people will be descending the same shafts, walking through these tunnels, these chambers, and clambering up the stairs, escorted by tour guides, who will inform them they may lick the walls, but not the carvings. And they’ll do it! Good thing salt kills germs, I say.

I work the afternoon.
I don’t lick the walls.
I take the lift back up again, hurtling through the darkness, towards the outside darkness which blankets our town by mid-afternoon in the winter.
CLANG CLANG CLANG

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SOME RANDOM FACTS, WHICH DID NOT MAKE IT INTO THE STORY:

• the mine is kept at 14 degrees celsius year round – which makes it much warmer than the outside temperature for most of the year, and cooler in summer
• every miner is (and has been from the beginning of the mine’s existence) issued with a special uniform. In times past they were also given decorated ceremonial axes; now they are given something else instead, which the tour guide told us, but which none of us can remember the details of!
• way back at the beginning of the mine being dug, hooded men would crawl through the tunnels carrying long poles with a fire on the end of them. It is believed the fire would burn up pockets of methane, ensuring the tunnel would then be safe for other miners to proceed into. Of course, this was a dangerous – or even deadly – job when a large amount of methane was encountered.
• when the miners had tallow lights, it made the black salt appear green, and so the salt was called, for quite some time, green salt.
• some of the salt crystals are perfect cubes.
• there’s a museum to visit at the end of the mine tour, but it was not mentioned by our particular guide. Like the mine tour, you are required to go through with a guide, and although they do hurry you through the exhibits, we would highly recommend the museum to anyone, who happens to go there. It was a pricey day (although a lot cheaper than taking a tour from Krakow – we caught the bus out to Wieliczka ourselves), but money well spent. We had heard the mine itself was awe-inspiring, and indeed it was. But no-one had mentioned the 380 steps down a mineshaft, the three kilometre circuit you end up walking, the hunks of salt that a miner will rip from the walls and ceilings to give children to take home, the underground lakes, the pre-recorded “performances” by statues, the light shows, the winches, the whole forest of tree trunks supporting walls, the paintings, the statues of famous visitors like Copernicus and Goethe, the dioramas….it was so much more than we expected.