Tag: Europe (page 2 of 4)

This post is for our friends, Julie and Brendan. This is a thank you. Without them as our touchstones, living in Berlin would have been so much more challenging, and not nearly as much fun.

I’ve already written about our adventures with them, but they are worthy of many more words, and because we miss them, and feel very lucky to call them friends, I shall write just a little more.

J&B are the ultimate Jack and Jill of all trades, or as the good folks at Columbia Chicago would say, true interdisciplinary artists.

Julie is a ceramicist, and her work is exquisite. On one of our last hangouts, I had the privilege of seeing her work up close. In her home studio, she showed me the ceramic beads that she makes. They were beautiful! What struck me most were the ones that she wrapped in thread/embroidery floss. I loved how the textures felt…the softness of the thread combined with the cool of the clay. So pretty….like poetry drops. She also gifted us with three of her lovely bowls which I carefully tucked into my suitcase for the trip back to the States. They are a gorgeous little triptych, related in terms of approximate size, but each with their own unique textures and slight variations in color. They remind me of eggshells, sandstone, and porcelain. If ceramics could speak, Julie’s pieces would have an elegant voice…deep and quiet. I know she has some shows coming up, and I wish my friend big success. She deserves it. Also, the woman is an excellent cook, but I am saving the details of her culinary talents for later in this passage.

Next, to Brendan. Benjamin got to know Brendan better, as they worked together, but during our many brunches, dinners, and hangouts at their apartment, I was lucky to get to know him too. He’s a guitarist and singer. Every now and then, he’d sing along to something we were all listening to, and I admired how he would harmonize. Along with the musical talent, he is a damn fine writer. During one of our last get togethers, he shared his prose with me. His voice was pure, insightful, and direct. He was experimenting with a new form, or maybe he would say a lack of form, and I liked how he was so willing to be exploratory. I feel like he has a thousand stories within, and I hope he tells them all. I like how he pushes his work and himself, constantly reinventing. And like his lovely girl, the man can also cook.

We were invited over to Brendan and Julie’s house for tequila drinks and Mexican food this summer. Yes, yes, there are many of us who crave food from the sweet, southern part of the American continent. What can we say, except la comida Mexicana es excelente! J&B made a phenomenal meal! Benjamin humbly admitted that Brendan’s guacamole was superior to his, and man, was it tasty, perfect! J&B also made shredded chicken and pork perfectly spiced, and a chipotle sour cream–deeee-li-cious! The tequila cocktails were fantastic, and as usual, the conversation was lively.

I truly hope that regardless of time or kilometers that we can keep in touch and visit with Julie and Brendan again someday. When you make a huge change in your life, like relocation to a different country, friends are invaluable. They make you tea with cinnamon and ginger, they make you think, and they make you laugh. Sweet Julie and Brendan, (we are raising our imaginary cocktails), may your Berlin winter be warm or may you travel to a sunny Mediterranean place to escape it, and may you and your families feel healthy and happy! We love you!

P.S. Being back in the U.S. is like “watching an invisible carousel,” and it has way too much pep sometimes. “I hate enthusiasm.” heh heh

I haven’t posted in a while, even though I have been writing. Organizing my thoughts enough to ‘publish’ them here in Duchess has been challenging because of a major distraction.

After our trip to Prague, we made the difficult decision to leave Europe and return to the States. The short-of-it reasons were SoundCloud was not a good fit for Benjamin, and even more, our immediate families needed us closer. So we decided to return.

Writing this now, back in D.C., in another temporary apartment, I am exhausted, and I am not sure how much or how I should put this all down. While we were having coffee at her place in NC, my lovely friend Jen asked how I thought I was doing “mentally.” I answered that I wasn’t sure yet. I’m still not, but I suppose writing will get me there eventually. I know I have learned some things in the last six months.

1. I know I am a writer. I am a writer, and I have to keep myself from returning to the traditional classroom. Leading groups toward their academic or creative goals is an honor. But the profession is not respected. Expectations do not match pay, unrealistic work loads exist in most every educational system (public, magnet, private, charter, etc.). The classroom is a powerfully comfortable but energy-sucking place, and if I am to ever teach again, it needs to be in a creative workshop capacity or contractual tutoring of some kind. Maybe. I know I can’t have any more imbalances with regards to this. I am a writer. I need to focus on publishing, even if it takes years.
2. I know I want to keep traveling and writing about travel. Previous to being in Europe, Funny Duchess was not a travel blog. It was not a collaboration with Benjamin, so it had none of his beautiful photos. Duchess was a word-based blog about different kinds of art, and while I liked it, I have decided to officially make FD about travel…international, national, and local. Yes, a trip across the Atlantic was a big deal for me, but I also believe that traveling within your own city is worthy of reflection, depending on how you describe it. John Stilgoe’s book, Outside Lies Magic, reminds me that a walk or a bike ride down your own street can be a story. There is history and symbolism right outside your door. This being said, it is also healthy to go somewhere far from home. The lessons are invaluable. The traveler in me was asleep for awhile, out of fear. I think I can handle airplanes now, and I want to keep going.

3. Moving to a foreign country is very different from visiting one. Duh. Benjamin used the term “cognitive overhead” to refer to the energy it took to figure things out, the smallest things, in another language and culture. Yes, it’s Romantic and fun to dream about living abroad. But when you finally do it, the practical stuff hits, the daily differences can seem like mountains to climb, and you feel exhausted. If you, dear reader, have never lived in another culture, it will not be possible for you to relate. While yes, the Southeast or Southwest of the U.S. is different from the Midwest, or while the East Coast has varying flavors and paces from the West Coast, etc. etc. etc., this is still one language, one country, one shared, big ol’ messed up history. The U.S. is one kind of dream, and Europe is another. To my U.S. friends and colleagues who have lived in countries far more “different” from Europe, I extend deeper respect. You’re probably thinking, “Germany is nothing compared to Nepal, Sudan, or Cambodia (to name just a few of the places where our friends have spent extended amounts of time).” Friends, I believe you, even more now.

4. Variety is something that North Americans take for granted. In the stores in Berlin, certain things seemed to be offered with only 4 choices–4 flavors of Greek yogurt, 4 types of canned soup, 4 types of red sauce for pasta. Other things of national pride, however, were there in abundance like: bread, beer (or ‘liquid bread’ made with, you guessed it, 4 ingredients–this is a rule, for real) cake, ice cream, cold meat, and cheese. I’m glad to be home to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s.

5. The numbers 30, 60, and 90 are important in Germany. When leaving a job or an apartment, you must provide 30, 60, or even 90 days notice. When waiting for something to ship from another country, you must be patient. Now, I understand that ships are slow. But I think there is perhaps a “nostalgia for waiting” that may be left over from the old days. When German customs sent a package back to my parents, after it had been sitting there for 90 days, I was at first upset, but I eventually shrugged. It was my mistake not to research the very strict laws about bringing in cold medicine, vitamins, and Advil. My friend hurt her back, and the Berlin doctor wrote a prescription for ibuprofen. Healing naturally takes time (maybe 30, 60, or 90 days–ha ha). Healing means waiting. This is indeed true. But if you deal with pain every day, you may want relief a little faster. If you’re making a big personal life decision regarding job or family, you most likely don’t want to wait either. I’m glad to be back where the numbers 5, 7, 14 are more popular.

In fairness, Germany has excellent health care when it comes to physical therapy. I did not have to wait for this, and my PT taught me strengthening exercises that I will continue to use. She was compassionate, smart, and fun to talk with during our sessions. I feel lucky to have been part of Germany’s health care system.

6. Dogs were more popular than cats in our neighborhood, but I still found cats and friends with cats. Thank you, Laurel and Roman, for letting me babysit Meshka, and thank you, Julie and Brendan, for letting me babysit Nico. Meow!

7. Bureaucracy and order are often confused as synonyms, and with certain German officials, these are cherished above critical thinking, context, circumstance, or compassion. Also, paper is extremely important to the officials. This is weird for me to poke fun of, yes, because I draw and write on paper, and I love to feel my hands in pulp when I make it. But in a world where you book train tickets on-line, I think there needs to be some flexibility, some get-with-the-times-already for certain German officials. In a future post, I will describe how leaving Germany and interacting with DB officials was truly ridiculous.

8. I loved the quiet of Europe, how it was perfect for writing, and along with my friends in Berlin, I will miss this the most. Julie guessed that returning would feel like this. I thought simply hearing English would be a big distraction, and it is. But it is nothing compared to the annoying music in public spaces. From restaurants to food markets, there is unnecessarily loud blasts of usually crappy music everywhere. While we were in Barnes and Noble, I asked the manager if it were possible to change the discordant, frenetic jazz to something more ‘cafe like.’ Ok, I didn’t use these exact words, but it didn’t matter. She answered, “Well, I can skip the CD, but there’s no guarantee what the next one will be.” I pushed further, “Doesn’t it get to you?” She said that she just ‘tuned it out.’ Oy. I can only hope that eventually I will do this. But I don’t know. To her credit, the manager did skip the CD ahead and some nice folk music came on.

Shakespeare and Sons, I miss you. Hopefully, I will find a quiet cafe to write in the District of Columbia. This is my quest. Please stay tuned for posts on friends in Berlin, the rhythms and romance of Paris and London, the beauty of Florida, and the comforts of North Carolina and D.C. Thank you for reading. Until next time…

I like to talk to strangers. As soon as I was old enough to understand that talking to a stranger required a certain amount of discretion (avoid the ones with shifty eyes), I did this and I liked it. I still like learning, getting a sense of a person. I love what these exchanges with strangers do for my poetry.

One evening in Prague we decided to try a wine bar called Vinograf, and we had a great conversation with the waitress.

I was only “touring” Prague, but I wanted to hear from a resident, soak up as much as I could. I wanted to know her opinion of what the city was like before, under communism, what she liked about it now, and what Slovakia is like, since everyone seems to focus on Czech Republic for vacations.

I asked her questions out of sincere curiosity, but I also wanted to hear her speak, because her voice was pretty. Yes, I am in love with the Czech language and the accent of Czech people when they speak English. Forgive my lack of knowledge of famous Czech people, but the only reference I have is this…her speaking voice had a similar timbre to Marketa Irglova’s, the singer from the movie, “Once.” Beautiful.

She said that under communism there were times when they didn’t have enough toilet paper. She also proudly stated that now, if you want to go to the opera in Prague, the best seats are reserved for the locals, not the politicians. Slovakia is where people go if they like winter sports like skiing. But her opinion was that the government hasn’t taken good enough care of the people, because some are living in poverty. She talked about music that she liked, and because Benjamin is always more knowledgeable about this than I am, he understood her. I commented that I loved how much music you can hear on the streets in Prague (reflections on the music at the end of this post). Her answer for this was beautiful. ‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘of course.’ Then, she proceeded to list all the art and music schools in the city. Lovely Europe. Art and culture are givens; they are “of courses.”

Wine and cheese are also “of courses,” in Europe, and we sampled some lovely Czech varieties in Vinograf. Our waitress made great suggestions of tapas to have with our wine. We chose a dry white from Moravia, and she paired this with 3 cheeses, 3 spreads, bread, and olives. We had a hard parmesan that we drizzled with Czech honey, a softer cheese that we ate with white grape jam, and best of all, a walnut cheese dipped in grape seed oil. Delicious!!!

Along with wine, music is “of course” one of our favorite things. And in Prague musicians literally line the Charles Bridge, playing on it, under it, and in the streets around it. This is the bridge of the saints, a popular tourist area, and why wouldn’t the buskers take advantage of it? The portrait artists and jewelry makers sell their wares too, and of course, I admire their craft and skill, but Europe has been, most of all an auditory experience for me…so to the singers and players I nod my head with deepest respect. We listened to a blind woman playing piano as a younger woman sang perfect opera next to her. We heard a duet of violinists, who couldn’t have been more than teenagers, playing under one of the bridge’s arches. A man set up his keyboard in the middle of the old town square and played gorgeous classical music. At night, a trio of older gentlemen played a stand-up bass, violin, and accordion. They played a polka that I recognized from one of the many family parties we used to have in Wisconsin at the Knights of Columbus Hall. If my hip could have taken it, I would have danced right there.

This is how I will, of course, close this post…I could have danced right there.

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.