Month: August 2013 (page 1 of 1)

She cleared the park. This little girl, with a purplish-pink kerchief-babushka, completely rid the park of pigeons, and then she built a fire.

Benjamin and I were sitting on a park bench in Kampa, a city island in the Vltava River of Prague. The morning was perfect. It was sunny, bright blue skies, a cool breeze. Behind us, the boats passed by slowly, and the water gently splashed at the banks. La, la, la…

Then, all of the sudden, from the North, came this fierce little girl! She was running full speed, with her hands up like claws, and she was growling deeply, like some sort of warrior. Her enemies were the pigeons. Not a single one was safe. She ran directly at them, and she ran them out, one by one, sending them flapping and squawking into the air and over the river. When she scared the last two up and over our heads, she smiled at us. I swear I wanted her to take a bow and say, “You’re welcome.”

Once the park was free of the pesky birds, she and her father gathered sticks. She arranged them carefully into a pile, bigger sticks on top, and smaller ones as kindling. She even knew to get some dry leaves for extra spark. When she tried to put a leaf in her mouth for a little taste, her father stopped her, and she giggled.

Before visiting this magic park, and seeing this pigeon fighter, I had just finished a draft of a children’s book with a little girl as the super heroine. I am also writing a poem about (among other things) a time when as a little girl, I tried to taste hickory bark, because it looked like a fun texture to put in my mouth.

I love it when poetry comes to life like this!

I love breakfast, and I love brunch. Here in Germany, I have enjoyed the Saturday and Sunday brunches in Prenzlauerburg at places like Butter and Anna Blume. While these are delicious, the meals that we had at a place called cukrkavalimonada in Mala Strana were the absolute best!

Warning: The list you are about to scan reads like a foodie blog. If you have to, feign a pretentious voice in your head, but don’t allow this to sway your opinion of the food. This little restaurant was so good, we went there every morning and one afternoon. Our friend Roman, a native of Czech Republic, eats here all the time as well. Here are some of the food and drinks we enjoyed:

elderflower lemonade with fresh mint

white wine with mint and elderflower syrup

salty pancakes (or savory crepes) with garlic, spinach, and bacon

salty pancakes with ham, cheese, and arugula

sweet pancakes with strawberries and cottage cheese (not salty cottage cheese; this was sweeter, more like a sweet cream cheese)

sweet pancakes with maple syrup and lemon

salmon croissant with dill dressing and mixed greens

salad with sautéed garlic mushrooms, blanched and toasted almonds, cucumbers, and tomatoes

a strawberry/blueberry torte with a crumbled butter crust and homemade whipped cream

Yes, divine! And the atmosphere is relaxing. Good tables and chairs for lingering, talking, and reading, Stevie Wonder and more happy, funk for music, and open doors with lots of natural light looking out at a quiet street. If I lived in Prague, I’d be a regular at cukrkavalimonada.

Ok, so it doesn’t matter where we are in the world, we will find Mexican food.

Honestly, for this trip, we did not have to search. Roman and Laurel somehow knew to include a gem of a restaurant, Las Adelitas, on their list of recommendations for Prague.

Situated in Stare Mesto, Las Adelitas had 4-6 tables outside where we parked ourselves in sweet anticipation of quality Mexican food. We were not disappointed. We ordered 2 margaritas classicos, guacamole, and chips to start. The bartender poured nice and heavy, and the drinks were on the rocks, not frozen–yay! The chips were homemade and the guacamole was fresh, not laden with too many onions. There was also a side of prickly pear cactus that we tried. Yum! We saw mole on the menu and decided to order it for our main course. Good mole is hard to come by. We’ve had this excellent, chocolately love in Chicago, thanks to our neighborhood joint, El Tipico, and in DC, thanks to the hands of my lovely students. But we were in East Europe, and we weren’t sure if it would be good. Again, we were not disappointed. It was mouthwatering!

After my second margarita, I had to ask the waiter, Luis, how he ended up moving from Mexico to Czech Republic. I should have known. He slanted his eyes over to the cute waitress. “I came here for a girl,” he smiled. Then we smiled. I thanked him for letting me practice my Spanish, and we left full and happy.

Upon the recommendations of our friends, Roman and Laurel, as well as our B&B host, the lovely Veronika, we chose to have traditional Czech food on our first night in Prague.

Some may say that the food from Czech Republic is similar to German food, and I suppose to some extent, this is true. The basics– beer, cheese, bread, potatoes, and sausages are there, yes. But the food and beer in Prague, at least at a restaurant called Lokal, is beyond the basics. It is exceptional.

We had a creamy, tank beer that was so fresh and served blessedly cold, dumplings like my Mom used to make, and the most buttery potatoes. I chose a simple chicken breast, and Benjamin opted for the pork schnitzel. Both were cooked simply and perfectly.

The atmosphere was also perfect. We sat in the front of the restaurant as the outside seating was full, and I am so glad we did. Our table faced the beer tanks, and we were definitely nestled among the local cast of characters. A man to my left had a golden lab dog sleeping beneath his table. He was watching the TV intently. There was something on that looked like the Olympics, and a Czech runner was taking the lead. When she won, this man stood up, raised his beer, and cheered. He also yelled at anyone who blocked his view of the TV, even though his table was right next to the hostess stand, where people had to wait to be seated. I love an ornery old man when he’s this colorful.

A man to my right had a T-shirt on that said something about poetry or the Czech ‘poezie’ (of course he did; I am a poet magnet, ha ha). He and his lady friend looked like bikers. They were sun weathered, and their eyes were bright, like they laughed easily. When I was little, I told my Mom that I wanted to join “a really nice motorcycle gang.” Of course she was not surprised. The best dancing I have ever done to Cajun music and blues has been in biker bars both in the Midwest and the South. I am still comforted by folks who love the road.

And a few words about words in the Czech language…wow, is it ever a pretty, pretty tongue! Reader friends, if you want to hear something lovely, go to Google translate and type from English to Czech the following: red wine, please. You ears will be soothed, I promise. I continue to think of German as a nice language, and I still maintain that unlike what many people think, German is not harsh or “ugly.” But while German sounds lilty and cute with everyone saying “Genau” and “Tschuss,” Czech rolls off the tongue as pretty as Spanish. My whole body relaxed in Lokal as the people spoke to one another. Czech also sounds a lot like Polish, so somewhere in me, perhaps in a childhood memory eavesdropping on my Grandpa and Grandma, I heard the familiar. Complete, corny Romantic that I am, I felt a little teary as I listened to the crowd and ate food that tasted like home.

But I will not end on the nostalgic. Instead, with the amusing, I shall close. In Lokal, when you order a beer, the waitress gives you a piece of paper for your tab. On the paper, you see a checklist where she ticks the number of beers you consume. The total on this piece of paper is somewhere around 100. Pivo z tanku, prosim, ano, ano, ano!

Praha is a city of quiet buildings. Everywhere is a statue, sculpted figure of some sort–saints on bridges, angels over church doors, a wizard with wolves guarding the front of a municipal building, even dragons curled around the park benches. All of these, in their stone or metal stillness, and in the fairy tale wonder of it all, seem to be watching the constant flow of the tourists, as much as the tourists are snapping pictures of them.

I grew up both near Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin,* and then near Orlando, Florida, so I am somewhat desensitized to throngs of tourists. I don’t want to hang out with them for a long time, and after a while transcending them is a feat, but put a margarita in my hand, give me a table with a view, and this slice of humanity can be quite entertaining. Seeing the tour guides shepherding their groups with raised umbrellas of varying colors was, well, both horrible and funny. Horrible because the people looked hot and exhausted (especially the women who chose fashion over comfort for shoes), and funny because well, c’mon, you’re basically in a parade, trying to listen to snippets of huge history, while simultaneously trying not to run into the person in front of you, schmooshing them with your drippy gelato. It’s just a human phenomena I suppose, to tour like this. I’ve done it in the Dells and at Mickey’s Kingdom. Guilty as charged, yes, as a youth, I’ve ridden the “ducks,” sampled the fudge, and taken Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Now that I’m older, however, I need things slower, and this includes how I experience a city and its history. I need to look longer. From our Air B&B window in Mala Strana, we gazed; we had to, because it would have seemed irreverent not to pay homage to the vast styles of architecture, right outside the window–Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, Art Noveau–just to name a few. In the distance, we could see a tram car climbing an impossibly steep hill through a medieval orchard, leading to monastery and convent. All the while the half moon shone perfectly misty above. Romantic, yes indeed.

When we walked in Prague, we did not rush, we meandered. We wandered the side streets, away from the masses, and we experienced a tranquility among the stunning architecture that was quite humbling and beautiful. Simply knowing that the buildings were thousands of years old, that they had survived wars, was enough to create pause. But the beauty, the knowledge that architects of these various times made choices in the name of not only longevity, but also sheer aesthetic pleasure was enough to make me sigh and smile.

In art school, we were instructed to ask questions like: What is beauty? If beauty can be defined, should art be beautiful? My answer now is the same as it was then, an even more resounding, yes! No, not everyone sees the same things as beautiful, of course not. And maybe the average person riding the tram to work in Prague becomes immune to the gorgeous views surrounding them. Maybe. But this slow tourist wishes to thank the makers. Praha, you are lovely.

*Wisconsin Dells is a tiny town in the south /central part of the state, which grows three times its size in the summer due to, among other things, curiosity about the indigenous culture, the beauty of Cambrian sandstone, and an unusual attraction to homespun fudge.

Ah, adding to the previous posts of quirky things here in Berlin, I must describe the experience Benjamin and I had as we looked for a familiar food–refried beans.

Benjamin grew up in Colorado, so food from the Southwest US was a part of his upbringing. He’s not that big on cooking, except for this kind of food. He makes delicious quesadillas and guacamole. Everywhere we have lived (Chicago, Raleigh, DC) we have made these, as well as burritos, enchiladas, and tacos. In each city, we have searched for good restaurants seeking mole, tamales, horchata, and the queen of summer drinks, margaritas. Because I have taught adult ESL, my extremely generous students from Latin America have always cooked for us. Thinking about them with their joyful senses of humor, I admittedly become a little teary with homesickness. But I won’t dwell on this. Instead, here’s a little more background on our food history, and then onto the quirk.

I grew up with a father who is multi-lingual. When he took a job working with Mexican farmworkers, my brothers and I accompanied him. As he worked with the adults in the fields, translating and helping to ease any conflicts between the Mexican workers and the non-Spanish speaking managers, we were under the care of a woman named Zulema. I used to sit in her kitchen and watch with fascination as Zulema flipped flour tortillas over an open flame. I remember wondering how she didn’t burn her hands. My mouth watered as I waited for her to smear those tortillas with butter and put them on my plate. I remember her encouraging me to taste my first avocado, how as a little kid I wasn’t sure about putting that “green stuff” in my mouth. Then I recall how surprised I was that it tasted so fresh. When Zulema’s daughter, Glenda, dared me to take a bite of a small green pepper, I was a little scared. But I took the dare. As my eyes watered, Glenda laughed (She was my friend, but when you’re little, even friends can play mean tricks), and I felt like my whole head was on fire. Zulema came to my rescue. She simultaneously scolded her daughter while pouring salt on my tongue to neutralize the heat. So I grew up with the real deal–Mexican food, not only homemade, but part of home itself.

In Berlin, we have found one restaurant that has good Mexican food, and we are on the search for others. I know, I know, it’s not like geography plays in favor of Latin American delights here in North Europa. Still, this city has been called the “New York of Europe,” so one could hope for a variety of international restaurants. And when you’re homesick for a certain taste, your taste buds rule over your logic. So when Benjamin said, “We should try to find refried beans to make burritos at home,” I was game.

Here comes the quirky part. Did we find them at Kaiser’s, the well-known chain grocery store here? No. Did we find them at Nah und Gut, the neighborhood market that carries a nice line of bio products? No. Did we find them at ANY of the bio markets? No, again. Where would one look at this point? Advice from other expats said, “Go to Galleria.”

Now, Galleria is a department store with four or five levels. It is very organized–men’s clothes on one level, women’s on another, bedding and house stuff on a third, escalators…you get the idea. So this was weird, but whatever. Again, taste buds over logic. We walked in, through the barrage of scents in the cosmetic and cologne section, to the back of the first floor where there is, yes, a gourmet food market. Tucked way in the back of this strange, mall market is the International section. And on the shelves marked “Mexico,” we found our coveted can of beans. To describe what was on the shelf market “American” would require me hiding my face in shame. Let’s just say that the good folks at Galleria are hip to the US junk food addiction. Please know, my German compadres, that some of us don’t eat like that.

Anyway, what a quirk-fest it was to basically go to the mall to get refried beans. I wonder what would seem equally odd to a Berlin native if they visited the US? Hmmmm…

Benjamin and I recently took a train ride out of Berlin. We needed a little break from the city and our city weekend routine. It was so good to do this!

We rode the U2 to Alexanderplatz where we negotiated the maze of signs trying to find the S7. This part of the journey was an exercise in patience, as it is whenever you’re trying to transfer trains in a bigger station. From the perspective of someone who walks with a crutch, it was a challenge indeed, and a little reminiscent of DC’s system, as we encountered busted escalator after busted escalator. Sorry DC Metro, but you know I speak the truth. When we did finally reach the correct platform, however, all was well. The S7 came right on time and off we went.

The ride out to Potsdam on this line takes you West out of the city through Grunewald, a dense forest, famous for its lakes and nudists. I have learned about a movement here known as Free Body Culture or Freiekörperkulutur (FKK). It began in the 1920s, was of course banned by the Nazis, but stayed active and remains particularly popular with some East Germans. Some ‘theories’ suggest that people shed their clothes as a rebellious response to all the uniforms and badges that Communism once dictated. But this movement is also, from what I have learned, mostly centered on communing with nature, being strong and one with nature.

Here in the city, in some saunas, it is considered healthier to be naked in them rather than clothed, so nudity is a requirement. Hmmm…of all the things I have had to adjust to so far, this may be one of the biggest cultural challenges. I loved the saunas in Minneapolis, particularly in the winter. I went into them regularly as a reminder of lovely humidity. Now, with arthritis, I know that sauna humidity would relieve some of the pain. To strip or not to strip? This is the question indeed. If I do do it, I will not be sharing this in blog form. ha ha

So we didn’t see any nudists from the train. What we did see was trees, beautiful, beautiful trees. Berlin is a green city with parks everywhere, but there is nothing like seeing big pines and maples and oaks without the buildings as interruptions. Everyone who needs nature knows this. To look out a train window is also good for deep breaths. At least for me. So good.

For a paragraph now, however, I am going to include one rather “picky, North American” observation. I just have to. On one part of this trip, two musicians jumped on board. The duet included a man who had a trumpet and a woman who was carrying a CD player. She made a loud announcement and pressed ‘play.’ Then, she and the trumpet player began a bizarre karaoke version of “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I can’t help it now. Please forgive me, but I have to poke at this a little bit. This song, which we hear a lot in Berlin played by various buskers, is a rather sacred song for me. Having lived in Chicago, visited New Orleans, and attended countless live performances of blues and jazz, I feel like these forms music, with their sorrowful and powerfully strong histories, belong on a altar. They are worthy of reverence. This is my opinion. So when I hear renditions of “Saints” done in pop form, I cringe. I can’t tip the buskers. And a last word of advice to those buskers…if you are going to try to sing this lovely, deeply rooted song, at least know the lyrics. Please don’t mutter them and pretend to know, as the trumpet player blasts past your voice to cover you up.

But away from my opinions on music, and back to the beauty that lies just outside of Berlin. We got off the train at Wannsee, and transferred to the S1, where we rode only one stop to Griebnitzsee. There we exited, and it was a short, easy walk to the bike and kayak rental place. I loved the man who worked there! He was friendly, helpful, and funny. He got us our green beach cruisers, and we smiled like little kids, how we always smile when it’s time to bike.

We cycled first through a neighborhood of giant mansions or I believe former Prussian estates. We passed the Truman Haus Villa, Churchill Villa, Gugenheim Villa, and the Stalin Villa on a street appropriately named Karl Marx Strasse. We then entered Park Babelsberg, where we hugged Glienciker Lake and the Havel River while simultaneously passing castles. This was a first for us. We’ve ridden on some gorgeous trails in the US, but we have never looked into the distance to see a castle. Ah, the fairy tales of Europe come to life indeed!

Along the trail, when we stopped for photo ops, we met some nice people. The first two were a mother and son (I think) from a town in Germany famous for being the film location of a well-known police show. I’ve forgotten the name of the town now, but the pair seemed to think it was amusing trivia. After chatting a bit, we shared that we were trying to learn German. Oliver, the son, said,”Oh to speak this language, you have to make it sound ugly. It’s not beautiful like Spanish.” Aw, of course I disagreed with him. I know that this is the stereotype of German, and it is difficult for me to pronounce, but I still maintain that it’s a soft language. If I have to do as Oliver says, and sound “ugly” to be correct, than I’d rather mispronounce things.

We also met a lovely man who stopped to talk where we were lounging under a tree by the river. All of us were fascinated by the trio of ravens perched above. Again, the fairy tale feeling presided. He had been bicycling through another part of this area known as Berliner Forst Duppel, and he said there was nothing but woods for kilometers. At this point, we had biked quite a bit, so as much as we wanted to check it out, we marked this for next time.

When we got hungry, we biked out of the park to discover a little Spanish tapas cafe between two churches, St. Antonius and Friedrichkirche. It was lovely and a bit surreal, to sit outside and sip sangria in a village, a true village, while our rented bicycles were propped next to a tree close to our table. It felt a bit like time travel, and this was a great feeling, a why-we-came-here feeling. Potsdam is so filled with beauty it begs for several excursions, and we will be making this trip again. Lovely Saturday.