Rooster Bread

Early the next morning, after our lovely breakfast which included our first Korelian pie – which is rice cooked in a bread-like dough with a topping of egg or something – we drove to a map shop we’d found the night before in the midnight sun. We went in, and I asked if they had a road-map of Finland, and that we needed the whole country. Meghann was browsing Atlases when the shopkeeper brought out a map that he said was very popular. Meghann, being the navigator, examined it, found it worthy, and I asked how much? The man said it was free. Why? Because that’s Finland. Random relatives meet you at the airport; shopkeepers give you maps.

Now before we press on in our storytelling, I would just like to point out that here in Poznań we were picked up at the airport, shown pre-screened apartments, driven to IKEA, driven with all our luggage to our apartment, lent a TV, taken to the internet/cable company to set it up, helped to attempt getting our mailbox key, helped getting my UPS package of a new credit card, shown restaurants, and just generally taken in hand. (Kitten aside: As a Lamb likes to be. “Sheparded,” if you will.) Okay, sure, but my point is, while Finland gives us maps for free, it’s not like Poland has been ungenerous. (Kitten aside: No, the people in Gdańsk seemed to want to give us stuff everywhere we went.) (Lamb aside: That’s true. That will come later in the tale.)

But back to our Finland adventure. We had our map, we had our Google directions, which were 90% accurate, and we got on the road. At first rather large, 4 or 6-lane highways to Helsinki, which we basically went around, and then headed North-east towards Kuopio. (Kitten aside: The amount of tunnels through hills between Turku and Helsinki, quite astounding.) (Lamb aside: Until dating me, she didn’t know that if you hold your breath through a tunnel you get to make a wish. We made many wishes.) (Kitten aside: And I held my breath for over 2 km through one tunnel.)

We stopped at a gas station about halfway to Kuopio and got fishy treats. The gas station, which in our pictures you might mistake for a log cabin with outdoor seating, was actually quite lovely. The pumps themselves, the bathrooms, that sort of thing, was normal gas station. (Kitten aside: Uh, uh. They were cleaner.) But inside the gas station was a restaurant with real food, not a chain, and a menu which you could order from, assuming you knew Finnish or foods. We did not. However, there were pre-made savories. The best of these was a little piece of dark rye bread which had picked anchovies (I think; some fish) and cut up hard-boiled egg. It was a great treat. We also got a fried donut that was amazing. It was like crystallized, fried sugar goodness. We ate our food outside, and a family came out with fresh-cooked meals from the restaurant that looked very good. Meatballs, steaks, salads, potatoes, etc. Had we been able to order, I think we would have been pleased. However, the fishy snack was quite good. (kitten aside: I’m still despairing that I never got a truck-stop buffet lunch.) (Lamb aside: That is sad. I’m not sure how that didn’t happen. According to the Lonely Planet, they are everywhere.) (Kitten aside: Like the reindeer, which we also didn’t see.)

When we got to Kuopio, we got lost, which basically happened every time we arrived somewhere. But we were only lost for 15 minutes max, and we found our hostel, which was our least favorite place, but perfectly adequate. And we stayed there twice. So it goes. The hostel is not worth describing, and it didn’t serve breakfast. (Kitten aside: I’ve grown to take great umbrage against places that do not serve breakfast.)

We walked into town which was, like most of Finland, situated on a lake. We took pictures of the chapel, we went to a cute little coffee shop and had our first Finnish pulla. (Kitten aside; Ironically, they also had a postcard of the Kościół Mariacki.) (Lamb aside: That’s in Kraków for those of you who don’t know; it’s a big church.) The pulla in this place was good. I was surprised that it was in bun form rather than a braided bread, but we would come to learn that this is normal. It had a nice texture, a little dry since it was late in the day, a good amount of cardamom, and, oddly, cinnamon. (Kitten aside: Odd for Lambs.) It was good, but it didn’t blow me away. What did, though, was the fact that I just ordered pulla in a coffee shop. I never thought that day would come.

After coffee, we walked around a bit more, but basically went to our dinner reservation at Musta Lammas, or Black Lamb – like me! This is one of the nicest restaurants in Finland, according to Lonely Planet, and after eating there, I don’t doubt it. It’s built into a hill near the lake, so it resembles from the outside a Hobbit house. Inside it actually quite resembled a nice cellar restaurant in Poland. Not one in particular, more the genre: curbed brick walls, candles, chandeliers of iron, etc.

I haven’t yet mentioned this, but dressing “alt” in Finland is relatively normal. Another way I loved it. Dyed hair, piercings, artsy clothes, whatever, didn’t phase anyone. I bring this up now, because our waitress at this incredibly fancy restaurant, with table clothes and many forks, was relatively alt. (Kitten aside: She had a tongue ring.) Though I think by Finnish standards, she was normal. Did I mention I like this about Finland? Anyway.

It was the type of restaurant where you order courses. I’m not sure my descriptions will truly do the food justice as it was honestly artistic, both visually and gastronomically. It began with appetizer for both of us compliments of the house – remember, no tipping! – which were mini-croutons on a bed of venison mousse and little pickled shallots. When she dropped these off at our table, the waitress explained what each ingredient was, how it had been prepared, and then, in a kind gesture that actually sent delightful shivers up my spine, she placed the very small appetizer fork near the plate so we would know which utensil to use. I loved that little detail. (Kitten aside: Clearly.) Second course. Oh! Wait. She helped me pick out a wine, some French thing, it was amazing. I got drunk. Okay. (Kitten aside: As lambs do.) Second course. I got a perch ceviche with avocado and lemon yogurt that were delightful little chunks on the plate, arranged around a tiny amount of greenery, with some olive oil and balsamic vinegar, I think. Something like that. Again, she explained everything, but my memory wavers. Meghann got a beef tourine, which also had some little greeneries, herbs, she thinks, with apple and lingenberries. We don’t remember them too well. We should have overcome our embarrassment and taken pictures. But, honestly, we felt underdressed and a little like impostors already. If the waitress hadn’t been so kind and warm, it might not have been as much fun. But she was and it was. For our entry, we each got reindeer which came with artichoke puree, mushrooms and a red wine reduction. It was all so light and lovely. And we’ve already explained how great reindeer is. That’s all we’d ordered thus far. When our lovely waitress returned, she asked about desert, and after consulting the menus, we shared a cheese course, and then Meghann got a deconstructed blueberry pie with rye crust, meaning blueberries with some blueberry flavored foam, some crumble of rye crust around the edges, and general loveliness. I got rhubarb four ways. They were: a jelly, an ice cream, baked, and something else. It also was light and lovely. All the servings were small and elegant, and I thought I might be hungry at the end, but during coffee and tea, I was not. I think in part because they gave us time between courses to actually sit and enjoy each other’s company (Kitten aside: Gross!), and for our stomachs to realize we’d been eating. (kitten aside: Novel!) It was, without question, one of the best meals of my life. Top five, surely. As good as, but totally different from, my insane honeymoon steak. It made me feel like I was on Top Chef, or Iron Chef, or something like that. Oh! And our water came – that’s right! Water free gratis! – (Kitten aside: Finnish tap water… is like drinking liquid light. It’s amazing.), the water came in this beautiful clear-glass bottle. The whole thing was just really elegant. Like Top Chef!

We walked home along the lake to the “sunset” at eleven or so, which, of course, never set, and we retired to our dorm.

The next morning we had some time before we set off for Juntusranta, a name which our Polish friends find infinitely amusing due to a pun I shall not explain. Okay, I’ll explain; to them it sounds something like, if I’m not mistaken, Juntu Shithole. Eh. So it goes. We had to find breakfast, so we returned to the coffee shop, but there was no pulla! But there was salmon quiche. It was great and came with a little salad. Then we went to the market in the center of town which was a bit like Quincy Market in Boston, but smaller. It had, however, Rooster Bread, properly named kalakukko. This is essentially a large loaf of dark rye bread baked with pig grease and bits and lots of little fishes inside. I was in love with the concept and bought one for our travels. We wouldn’t eat it until much later in the day while driving, and I’m afraid to say I didn’t like it as much as the theory. It was a little bland. Maybe if it was hot and served with potatoes it would have worked better than cold? Maybe with some mustard? I don’t know. I would try it again, but would want to experiment. Anyway, we bought one.

We also found yet another friendly waitress, I guess you would call her, who worked behind a bakery counter that had many types of pulla. Pulla with fruit, pulla with cheese (like a Danish) (Kitten aside: Quark.), pulla with raisins, and of course, just plain pulla. From this bakery comes the sign, Kahvi & pulla 2.50, which is the first picture in our album. We each got some, mine with quark, Meghann’s plain. She chose wisely. Mine wasn’t bad by any stretch of the imagination, but the cheese was unnecessary. I ended up eating it first, as if it were the white of an oreo cookie, and then eating my “plain” pulla. This was, to my mind, the best pulla we had during our trip. It was in bun form – in fact, we would never get it in braided loaf form like grandma makes – but this pulla was perfect in taste and texture. Perfect meaning nearly as good as grandma’s, but not quite!

After eating our pulla, we hit the road for Alora Farm, the eco-tourist destination in which we would stay before exploring Juntusranta. Stay tuned for more Finnish adventures!

Pulla Is Not An Only Sometimes Snack

So remember at some point Sesame Street wanted to cut down on Cookie Monster eating cookies? So he had this song, “Cookies Are Only a Sometimes Snack,” so Meghann’s title of this blog is in reference to that. I had no idea. This is way later than my time. Perhaps Meghann is younger than I suspected. I can only hope. Strike that. Anyway. In Finland, pulla is not an only sometimes snack. Yum.

“What is pulla?” some of you may be asking yourselves. Pulla is a religion, a treat, and a state of mind. You remember The Dude? Picture him with a loaf of cardamom-flavored sweet-bread – but not too sweet. This is no damn Cinnabun. Well, unless it’s the McPulla – but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Google pulla in English Wikipedia, and you’ll get some of the story. Google pulla in the Finnish Wikipedia, and you’ll get the full story. Including the carefully braided loaves, like my grandmother makes, which I now know are called pitko, like Meghann’s ridiculous last name that she won’t change. Not that I care. I’ve never asked her to. (Kitten aside: If only my last name translated into delicious bread.) (Lamb aside: It doesn’t. Pytka is Polish slang. See if you can find it!)

We went to Finland recently. We left the house in Poznan (Lamb aside: My keyboard is malfunctioning so I can’t make the proper diacritical marks – I’m sorry!) at 4:30am and took a train to Gdansk. It just about killed me. Meghann thought it was fine. I don’t rise before 11am. Anyway, I slept sprawled out on the train seat as if it were a bed. The conductor didn’t think much of this, but I didn’t care. (Kitten aside: I felt a little embarrassed.) (Lamb aside: I was asleep.) (Kitten aside: The snores clearly indicated that.) Once in Gdansk, we went to the mall, because that’s what we do, and got Meghann coffee. Did I mention she hadn’t had coffee all morning? She was pleasant. She almost killed a Polish Trixie who was in line in front of us at Coffee Heaven. Then we found this hotel, from which a WizzAir shuttle left to the airport. We waited in the lobby, the Lamb barely able to sit in his terror that the bus would fill up and we’d miss our flight. That didn’t happen. Instead, we got on the shuttle and a creepy older German businessman hit on a young Coloradoan and made it clear that he’d come to Poland to destroy any virtue a young woman would offer. (Kitten aside: It seemed as if he remembered Gdansk from sometime circa 1940s… What would a German be doing in Poland in the 1940s…?) (Lamb aside: He wasn’t that old. He just acted like a Nazi. German businessman, Nazi, you know.)

We made it to the airport, got our boarding passes, and were very amused by the Finns who couldn’t understand the Polish “system” which is essentially a lack of system in which clumping counts as queuing, and a sign saying a flight has finished boarding doesn’t mean that that the plane has even landed. Instead, you must sit or stand in a central location as you never know what gate the plane may or may not land at, and you must be near at least the center of the clump to not get pushed to the end. I don’t know why the Finnish family didn’t realize all of this. (Kitten aside: A) Survival of the fittest, B) Understanding Polish helps.) (Lamb aside: I thought I was properly sarcastic and that it was clear no one could possibly be expected to understand this without visiting Poland repeatedly, and, yes, perhaps understanding the language. Or at least the language of the clump.)

But everyone got on the plane, everyone had a seat, we had our own row. The flight was fine, it was short, we landed in Turku, which is a Finnish city, not Swedish, on the southwest tip of Finland. It is on the sea and off the coast is the Finnish Archipelago, which consists of over 200,000 islands. Now, you can do cool things in Turku; you can rent bicycles and ride around the islands in idyllic, seaside country towns; you can, if you’re me, meet unexpected family at the airport and probably get to know them better. But we chose to do none of this. Instead, we had booked a car ahead of time—prepaying online—and after staying one night in Turku, we planned to drive approximately 10 hours north-east to the tiny village Juntusranta, basically on the Russian border, nearly at the Arctic Circle, and land of my ancestors – well, ¼ of them.

Before we could carry out this madcap plan, though, we had to get the car. The tiny Turku airport did not have a desk for the Scandinavian car company from which we rented. Asking the guy at the Avis desk (who’s English was impeccable) he said they normally showed up wearing red with a car, but he didn’t see them. I didn’t see them. Meghan didn’t see them. Where was our pre-paid, very expensive car? (Kitten aside: Taxes man, makes for quality of living and expensive prices.) I called the company’s number, and it was disconnected, adding confidence. Oh, I wailed inside my head, the money’s gone, there is no car, there will be no Juntusranta, what sadness, but then we were saved! Meghann saw a woman holding a sign which said, “Jacob and Meghann Juntunen.” I assumed she was the car person, but no! She was my cousin! I didn’t even know I had a cousin! What a thrill! So now we need to back up.

By coincidence, this trip, June 16, 2011, was exactly 100 years after my great-grandparents made it to America. To the day. I found this out because my dad’s cousin, Maryellen, who’ll come into the story later, was also, by coincidence, planning a trip to Finland, and Dad put me in touch with her. She was researching the family far more systematically than I. Rather than simply renting a car and driving, she was doing research and contacting people. One of those people was Annikki, a woman who does genealogical research and had been in touch with my grandfather before he died, and is also somehow related to me, though I think somewhat distantly? In any case, Annikki was cc’d on some of the e-mails I had sent Maryellen, and Annikki told the mother of the woman who met us in the airport that we were coming. The mother texted the daughter, Hanne, in the middle of the night saying she had to meet us the next day. And she did. Without knowing our flight number, our airline, or even the time we were to arrive. Clearly she is amazing. Her boyfriend is pretty cool, too, because he figured out that the car company’s phone number contained one digit too many, called the correct number, talked to them in Finnish, and got us a car. Thank God. Epic succeed. Then after they helped us, we abandoned them. They were going to Hanne’s mother’s for dinner, and I couldn’t quite tell if we were invited. It was so culturally difficult. In the U.S. I would have felt like I was inviting myself to their house without an invitation; but in Finland, perhaps they felt like it would be an imposition to ask us when we might have had other plans. Or perhaps they were simply meeting us at the airport and we weren’t invited. It was confusing and vexing. In the end, though, they left, and we went our separate ways. However, we are now friends on Facebook and next time – and I hope there’s a next time – I definitely want to plan to spend time with our saviors.

Though their Messianic abilities only extended so far. They could get the Lamb a car, but they couldn’t teach the Lamb to drive a car. The car was a stick, which is okay, I know how to drive a stick. It had 6 gears, which was odd, but the principles were the same. The real issue was that 1^st and Reverse, were both in the upper left-hand corner of the gear shift, right next to one another, making me very concerned I would put the car in reverse by accident. I also kept stalling the car. (Kitten aside: Clearly he started driving without understanding. Fools rush in.) (Lamb aside: Do you even have a driver’s license?) (kitten aside: yes.) I also ran a couple people off the road (Kitten aside: In the finest tradition of our family vacations). Finally, I parked the car, and couldn’t get it into reverse. We were trapped. Until Kitten pulled out the owner’s manual, which was in Finnish. The Lamb found an illustrated digest of the manual, found the relevant picture for “reverse,” but the Kitten discovered the clever disk on the gear shift that you needed to pull up before you could go into reverse, thereby keeping one from accidentally putting the car in reverse. Seriously complicated. It also meant I had been trying to start the car in 3^rd gear the whole time, which accounted for the stalling. Now, in a positive light, I think it’s somewhat amazing that I drove around town as well as I did starting the car in third. But it was much easier in first. Sukces.

We found our lovely B&B with some difficulty, and an incredibly hospitable man showed us our rooms, the bathrooms, where we’d have breakfast, the whole works, welcomed us in Finnish, and explained to me, as Meghann took a shower, some of the important things to know visiting Finland, such as not tipping. He said especially if someone does something extra nice, do not tip as it would be seen as an insult. Doing something nice would be commodified if you tipped rather than an act of kindness. I find this awesome. (Kitten aside: And thus the Finnish nationalism begins.) I love that waiters or hotel owners or whomever are nice not for the $20 you hand them because they upgraded your room, but because they’re being nice. Now, admittedly this is probably due to living wages and government health insurance making the $20 less necessary, but that’s lovely. It’s structurally and culturally lovely. If that’s Finnish nationalism, so be it. I liked niceness for niceness’s sake. I like to think I have that quality. But I probably don’t. Because I’m American.

We went out into Turku and of course it wasn’t dark because we wouldn’t see darkness again until we got back to Poland. As in the sun never set. It kind of got to twilight, but never dark. At midnight you could easily walk in the streets as if it were, say, 7pm during the summer in Chicago. (Kitten aside: That might have led to some midnight craze.) (Lamb aside: And not from the bi-polar one in this relationship.) (Kitten aside: Not from the diagnosed one, anyway.)

We walked around the city, saw a cathedral, saw art everywhere, and ate fish on a boat in the river. It was so cool. And, I thought even better than the fish, was the reindeer soup. It was essentially melted cheese with reindeer chunks. My friends, my relatives, my fans, my students, my peers, whoever reads this – and I have no idea who you are – you must, if given the opportunity, eat reindeer. We named it “FinnCow,” though, alas, we never saw one. Well, not alive. Heh, heh. Let me try to describe the wonder of FinnCow. It has the texture and color of very lean, very high-quality beef. It is not anything like venison. It is not gamey, it is not chewy. It is silky and melts in your mouth, not like the fat or marbling in aged steak, but instead like the carefully cut filet mignon. Do you have the texture in your mouth? Beefy, melty, and lean? Now, if you can, add a smoky, almost bacon-like taste to that texture, and you have FinnCow. Chunks floating in a rich, creamy, cheesey soup was one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. Ever. (Kitten aside: What a Lamb.)

So that was dinner; we walked some more, and Meghann alternated between saying, “I’m so tired, let me lean on you, we have to go back to the hotel so we can sleep,” to saying, “let’s run up this hill! Where does this go! What’s behind this museum! Why are those hoodlums drinking in the park in the middle of the day?!” (Kitten aside: I still don’t understand the bust of Lenin.) (Lamb aside: It’s because Lenin spent time in Turku.) (Kitten aside: Did you get this verified by anything other than Kitten?) (Lamb aside: Yes, I knew it at the time, it’s in the Lonely Planet. It talks about Lenin being in hiding or some such, various people wanting him dead, etc., and staying in Turku. Hence a bust of Lenin and, yes, a museum Meghann wanted to run around, literally, at about midnight, in this deserted park. And, sure, Finland is safe, I’m sure we were fine, but there was this group of guys drinking in the park at midnight, and the this whole midnight sun business seemed to confuse Meghann A) about whether she was tired or not, and B) about how safe it was to wander around a city we knew nothing about.) (Kitten aside: I promptly backed away from the hoodlums.)

It was strange sleeping during the light because the curtain was not heavy enough to block it out, but we slept. Breakfast was good, but no pulla yet. We hit the road. Finnish roads are good, and we’ll tell you were we headed tomorrow…

Finland/Gdansk Pictures

I am probably too tired to write about our amazing Finland trip -- sorry! -- and we're heading tomorrow to Wrocław for another trip, so the Finland/Gdańsk blog entry might have to wait until next week. However, pictures are available now at:

http://community.webshots.com/user/meghannpytka

Skull Chapel et al

So we need to start this post on an orthographic note. The Żapka of the previous post should in fact read Żabka. (Kitten aside: That’s what happens when you don’t have Kitten edits.)

So skulls.

We woke up, and from the day before knew where to get breakfast, this time fortifying ourselves with protein and other bizarre American ideas about morning eating. Okay, that’s not really fair. Polish breakfast contains lots of protein, this town just didn’t serve breakfast. Except one place. Which we found. Then off to the Skull Chapel.

It was a short walk through town, and Meghann first needed a fill-up of dirty water. (Kitten aside: Ahhhhhh… Dirty water… I miss it.) After her fill-up, which C--- declined, and which J—went along with half-heartedly, we walked to the Skull Chapel in earnest. We took the short route and arrived when a large group of small children were leaving. Perhaps we would luck out and have a tour of the Chapel to ourselves! But no. A group of surly teenagers arrived. It seemed school groups arrived on the half-hours in order to get a tour of the one-room chapel encrusted in skulls. What a field trip!

But since we weren’t from a school, and we weren’t surly teenagers, we got preferential treatment, and were allowed in first. (Kitten aside: Indeed, I believe pani liked us.) So in we go to this chapel made from regular plaster on the outside, but lined with skulls and bones on the inside. Oddly, this wasn’t creepy. (kitten aside: Indeed, it’s a celebration of life.) In fact, I’d say it’s a celebration of life. (kitten aside: It made me think, “What you are now we once were; what we are now, you shall be!” Actually, not that cheery.) It made me think, “Wow. Bones.” No, it made me think, “Better enjoy this flesh while I’ve got it.” The nun spoke in Polish at length into a microphone. I didn’t really understand, but M—and C--- did. So I guess they should be writing this, but they’re not. (Kitten aside: No.) I do know the Nun said some kind of prayer at the end, and all the surly teenagers immediately bowed their heads and chanted back the response, proving that even surly Polish teenagers have Catholicism drilled into their bones. Perhaps by field trips like this one! (Kitten aside: One thing they say about Catholics, they’ll get you before you’re warm.) (Lamb aside: I have no idea what that means.)

So it was cool, this chapel. Check out the pictures on their website; we weren’t allowed to take any.

Then there was another death march, but shorter, and I want to write about Finland, so I’m not really going to go into detail. (Kitten aside: It ended with blisters.)

I suppose I do need to mention that the next day we pressed on to some shit hole town that I can’t remember the name of (Kitten aside: Wałbrzych.). It was terrifying. Worse than the Skull Chapel because the inhabitants wanted to make us skulls. We took a taxi to this castle which was the whole point of us going to this town, and they refused to let us tour the Nazi tunnels under the castle. Indeed, as we stood in line trying to figure out what kind of tickets to buy since we couldn’t get the ones we came for, a large, oafish Polish man said horrible things about Meghann in Polish thinking we wouldn’t understand. Meghann slunk away, and I got in his grill, saying, “PROSZĘ! PROSZĘ!” – which means, “PLEASE! PLEASE!” I may have even pushed him. I don’t actually remember. I was very angry. He turned greasy and sycophantic and said, in Polish, “Okay, it’s good, everything’s good.” C--- bought our tickets, and a pani, who until now hadn’t been particularly helpful, or nice, went to Meghann and said, in Polish, “Oh, you speak Polish,” and then was nice. Nicer, anyway. So that was fun.

We turned the castle with Germans who complained about how there was no furniture and everything was sort of ruined. I don’t know who stole the furniture or ruined the castle in the 1940s. (Kitten aside: Such a mystery!) Though, to be fair, the castle could be turned into a better tourist attraction, by, say, allowing us to see what we came to see, not insulting us, and, yes, not having halls literally full of empty hooks where paintings were. (Kitten aside: It was unfortunate.) This castle, which had a Nazi slave camp underneath it in a series of tunnels, was far creepier than the Skull Chapel. It felt haunted. It felt unhappy. The people working there were unhappy. The old, blind cat staring at the door we opened to the outside, was unhappy. (Kitten aside: It was truly a house of horrors.) The best part was the grilled sausage, and then we got the hell out of Wałbrzych. I had memorized the taxi phone number when we got in it at the train station figuring this would come in handy. And it did. (Kitten aside: Proof! The lamb when properly motivated has a memory.) We got to the train station and, in a spectacular European cliché ran for the train and got on it just before it pulled out. (Kitten aside: Thank God! The sun did not set on us in Wałbrzych!) The train, it turned out, was going to Poznań. Slowly, cautiously, stopping at every haystack, but it got us home. C—stayed a few more days, we saw oaks from which the brothers Lech, Rus, and Czech founded the Slavic states, we ate, we went outside the city and took a hike on a trail of wooden churches, and then C— left. But not before making us a delightful tort. Yum. French cooking!

Frog Death March and More Dirty Water

Kitten has found the happiest place on earth, and it has nothing to do with a Browar. Instead, the key word is Zdrój. Kudowa Zdrój. The land of Skull Chapels, alpine trails, and mineral water that bubbles from the ground (Lamb aside: In an Art Nouveau building, no less. Eat your heart out, Kansans!) (Kitten aside: To incur more Kansan jealousy, parts of Prince Caspian were filmed in the town.)

Our story really begins back in Poznań where our friend C--- from France visited. She came and walked us mightily. We spent a brief period in Poznań before heading to Kudowa Zdój. There, after a train, a train, and a bus, we stayed in a charming, almost fake-looking, “cute” spa-town, with a long, winding main street, called Kudowa Zdrój. C--- found a hostel on top of a very high hill (that will be relevant later) were we had a 3-bed room to ourselves, a shared kitchen, and balcony with a sweeping view of town and the tree-covered hill opposite. It was stunning. And cheap. (Kitten aside: So was the smell. Stunning, that is.) The smell to which the Kitten refers was the smell of the bakery housed in the house below us. The owner ran the town’s best bakery and did the baking in the house in an industrial kitchen that lived basically exactly under our room. This meant we were woken to the smell of freshly-baked pączki daily. In fact, the smell almost never stopped. It seemed like they were baking 24-hours a day, but that’s hardly likely, isn’t it? But there it is. Perhaps it was Narnia. (Kitten aside: Aslan’s Country.)

So the first day in Aslan’s Country we failed to find breakfast. Instead, we were reduced to walking and walking and eating small pastries – though yummy! – with our tea/coffee. Which is all C—wanted anyway. Now. We were preparing for a hike. We knew the Skull Chapel was closed, but we were headed in that direction to check out the route and go from there. Meghann decided we needed pre-made sandwiches from the Żapka for provisions. Lukcily, there was one right across the street. Which was closed. But we had seen one coming into town the night before – Oh! Trout!

So the night before, we had dinner at this place called um the Old Mill (check out the link; the film is worth watching, even if you don’t understand Polish), but in Polish, and it had fish that lived in a pond under the restaurant that they caught and, well, killed before serving. That was some fresh fish. It was awesome. Great restaurant. But far far from our hostel. That will be relevant later.

Okay, so first Żapka (which means little froggy, and our French guest… Okay, look, there’s gonna puns here about frogs and such, so, just pay attention. Look at the title.) was closed. But we knew there was another back towards the far, far away restaurant. So we walked all the way there. And. It. Was. Closed. Meghann almost died. I took a picture of her! It’s in the new pictures. It’s the one where she’s standing by a green door, looking sad. (Kitten aside: Despairing.)

So we’ve already probably walked a km or 2. Hard to say. Long street. But we walk back after going to the worst grocery store possible, and we head towards the closed Skull Chapel. (Kitten aside: You are very cruel to the Biedronka.) (Lamb aside: In my last class, one of my students said there was a study done in Poland about the sociology of where people shop. People who shopped at the Biedronka were, quote, “From slums.”) (Kitten asdie: i.e., Biedny?) (Lamb aside: How should I know? I shop at the “rich person’s” Alma.) To get to the Skull Chapel, we took a very indirect route, summitting the hill across from our hostel’s balcony. Lovely walk. I frolicked in wildflowers. Good stuff. So we walk down, say hi to some cows, get to the closed Skull Chapel, and decide to hike the Pope Trail. This was the beginning of the end.

Okay, so, the sign says, the Pope Trail, clearly marked with these yellow-cross deals, and only 3.5 km. No big thing. It’s early in the day. We have salami. We have water. C--- brought some cookies. Because she lives on pastry. It’s amazing. The energy she had from just pastry. (Kitten aside: Makes me wish I was French.) So we start hiking the Pope Trail which first winds its way through people’s yards, essentially, with free range chickens. (Kitten aside: I don’t want any of you to think that the Pope of this Pope Trail was the Pope of 2002. This was the Pope of 1957.) (Lamb aside: For you non-catholics, that’s the same dude, only younger. And not the current Evil Emperor. Come on. Look at Return of the Jedi. It’s the same dude. You know it is. She won’t respond.)

So we walk on this trail, we eventually get out into the hills, uphill to be precise, quite uphill, to be more precise. Sometimes, I think, pretty close to 45 degree slopes. Anyway. This goes on. And on. And on. And it’s very pretty. Creeks. Waterfalls. Trees. Very few people. Sometimes we’re on a road for a bit and might see the random houses, or dudes fixing their motorcycles, whatever. But mainly in the forest, alone, with the C--- running up ahead, sometimes literally bounding up ahead, and then waiting. It was very reminiscent of hiking with Daniel, actually. And then the critical juncture. (Kitten aside: My partner voted against me. He will never live it down.)

We’ve reached a cross roads. (Kitten aside: Trout City, my friends, Trout City.) To our left: some buildings, a slope downwards. To our right, the barren wilderness and a slope upwards. Also the Pope Trail markings. (Kitten aside: Those who had voted against me also read the maps incorrectly. The Pope Trail continues on for at least 100 km more. Don’t take those signs of Pope Trail with comfort.) Meghann unfolds her large, trusty map, which we’re basically off of. (Kitten aside: A clue?) She wants to head down, into what she thinks must be Trout City, where we can follow the road home, get some trout, catch a bus, all sorts of options. C--- wants to head “onwards and upwards” (we are in Aslan’s Country, after all), to complete the Pope Trail. What would you do, humble reader? Don’t despair, we did the same as you, and decided to go up, away from civilization, though we were running out of provisions and water.

Oh! Water! The most important thing! Though we couldn’t find breakfast, Meghann found something far more important: dirty water. She sighs in longing just hearing me type this. Well. Narrate this as I type this. (Kitten aside: This blog post is very meandering, much like the Pope Trail.) Okay, so, dirty water.

Remember the Art Nouveau? Well, here it is. A spa building from I don’t know when. 19^th century sometime. But that’s too old for art nouveau. Redone? I don’t know. Doesn’ts matter. It had a pijalnia and CO2 baths, whatever that is. So the pijalnia is essentially ground water, unfiltered, full of minerals, bubbling out of an art nouveau-like fountain made of cut glass and marble. For a small fee, given to a small pani, you can drink of it. Like water, in Aslan’s Country. Remember the sweet water in Aslan’s Country? Well, this is nothing like it. (Kitten aside: no! No! No! lies!) The mineral water was biting, strong flavored, and, at least the first one, fortifying. The second one tasted strongly of sulfur, to the point that C--- could not drink it. M--- loved both. Loved both. Still talks about them. In fact, at another juncture in this trip, we found water bubbling out of an old, old looking statuary faucet thing and she drank it. And she liked it. Every morning we had to get her more water. But back to the Pope Trail.

So we pick the upwards path which, long trail short, leads us steeply up a 800m summit. By the time we get to the top, we have no idea where we are, but there’s a random house with people in the yard, so we hike on in, sweating, gross, me carring a backpack, and ask that question of hikers everywhere: Excuse me? Can you tell us where we are? They did. We were very far away. They told us how to get home. To simply follow a road down the mountain. Instead, we continued hiking up to see a monument and, we hoped, the end of the Pope Trail. Which, yes, we now know didn’t end for 100s of km. (Kitten aside: It was clearly marked at the beginning that it didn’t.) (Lamb aside: Again, the kitten can’t take personal responsibility for not telling us no. These liberals. No sense of self-responsibility. That’s why they want socialized health care you know.) (Kitten aside: I do.)

So back to the blog, we completely ignore the advice of the inhabitants who literally tell us we don’t want to go to the monument, and head towards the monument. Though, in the process, we come across a nice gazebo with an incredible view of what must have been the Czech mountains. In fact, we may have been in the Czech Republic. (Kitten aside: We were allowed to sit there for 15 minutes.) Then it was up, up, up a wall of rock made into “stairs” that went up to Meghann’s thighs. C--- bounded up them, like a tall, French gazelle; I huffed up them, like a slowly moving land mammal; and Meghann climbed up them, hand over feet, like a hobbit. But we knew at the top of this difficult climb, it would be worth it. There would be a rock formation. There would be the holiness of Jon Paul II. It would sing to our souls. Instead, there was a parking lot, busses, teenagers, a vending van, and a kasa demanding money to see the monument. We did not pay. (Kitten aside: Den of thieves!) Instead, we got water and szmalec. I’m not even going to say what szmalec is because I believe my mom reads this blog. Don’t look it up, Mom, and don’t think about me eating it whenever I get the chance. Just don’t.

Then, after the concession stand closed, the children had left, and we were refueled, we started down the mountain. This is probably about six hours after we left. And, recall, that doesn’t even include the walk down from our hostel, then up and down the street looking for little froggy shops. So, all told, probably at least 7 hours of walking? (Kitten aside: Fear not, dear reader, 2 hours more await, at least.)

We’re walking down the road, into hour 8ish, when Meghann falls apart. Her feet literally fell off her body. Luckily, I had a spare. I put her up on the jack, put on a new foot, but it wasn’t a full foot, just one of those donut feet that’s only designed to get you to the gas station where you can buy a real foot. Now, unfortunately, there were another couple hours of hiking on that fake foot. (Kitten aside: I was very, very bitter.) (Kitten aside again: This is how people die on mountains.) So Meghann’s in lots of pain, C—is bounding ahead, I am supporting much of Meghann’s weight, and then she decides the next rational thing to do is jog. So Meghann starts jogging ahead of C--, who is still bounding, and then M—waits for C—who’s ahead of J—and it’s all a mess. (Kitten aside: This is just descended into a bad logic problem.)

We do make it down the mountain. We do all survive. Our friendship is even intact. Mainly because Meghann remembers so little of what occurred due to her pain. We had dinner. We felt better. Oh. Remember how our hostel is on the top of a huge hill? Up we go.

That should be enough hiking, right? Maybe check out the Skull Chapel and read on our beautiful balcony the next day? Well. We did check out the Skull Chapel.

But as it’s now 1:20am Polish Standard Time, I must stop writing. The Skull Chapel will have to wait. Don’t let it invade your dreams!

Bawdy Jokes and Polish Blokes

So we’ve been watching Polish X-Factor, which is basically American Idol. On it, one of the judges, Czesław Śpiewa (see video in previous post), rocks Meghann’s world. In fact, he is her Polish boyfriend. Turns out, I like him, too. Um. Anyway. He’s revived accordion, cabaret, punk music in the Krakówian fashion, and, to my unrefined eye, has a rather Kantor-like aesthetic in his music videos. (Lamb aside: I can’t believe I’ve gone this long with no Kitten aside). (Kitten aside: I call it klezmer-punk.) (Lamb aside: There you go.)

Anyway, on our 6^th month anniversary, which I mistook on our 5^th month anniversary, I bought Meghann Czesław’s two CDs, and I listen to them more than her. Typical gift from a lamb. In exploring Czesław’s website, we discovered he was coming to Poznań! (Kitten aside: I was supposed to originally see him in Bydgoszcz for my birthday.) (Lamb aside: Just be glad you got a dinner.) So. The Lamb figured out, all on his own, that we could buy tickets for his Poznań concert at the happiest place on Earth! Stary Browar! So off to the mall we went. A very minor adventure getting the tickets, not worth detailing (Kitten aside: It’s the first time I bought concert tickets all by myself!) (Lamb aside: I was standing right there.) (Kitten aside: All by myself!) More notable than buying the tickets were the tickets themselves. (Kitten aside: Not the amount of communist stamps we needed in order to verify our purchase?) The tickets are about 6”x4” with a lovely picture of claymation Czesław and the inhabitants of his most recent album. They are lovely, and, while Meghann’s was torn severely by the bouncer upon entering the concert, mine survived more or less intact, and we have a souvenir suitable for framing.

Okay, but the concert. We had to get out to some cinema complex. Yes, a cinema complex. So Meghann works her magic, we board a tram, we decide it’s the wrong tram, we alight the tram, get on another tram, take said tram to communist blocki, and get off where we clearly don’t fit in. (Kitten aside: I think the Lamb has messed up his verbs of motion. I think alight means “get on,” not “disembark.” (Lamb aside: She may blame me, but she’s the one that suggested the word. She just can’t take responsibility. That liberal fault, unable to assume personal responsibility for her verbs.)

So we’re in this blocki neighborhood, and Meghann decides to get out a big map and unfold it brazenly on the corner where everyone is walking by either to catch a tram, disembark from a tram, or simply walk by us carrying liquor. (Kitten aside: Most of the inhabitants look like they remembered the Wehrmacht.) (Lamb aside: What about that big party of hoodies and wolves where the hoodies were dressed in pastel-colored shirts under their ridiculously narrow-shouldered suits carrying liquor on their way somewhere?) (Kitten aside: The key in that description: pastels.) (Lamb aside: Having studied hoodie masculinity from a sometimes unfortunate proximity this trip, pastels mean nothing good.) So Meghann’s got this map, we decide we need to walk along this busy road, we do, we come to a field into which Poles are just sort of ambling, we amble behind, we have to cross a freeway onramp, but, hey, the Poles are doing it! (Kitten aside: And might I note, all the Poles were dressed very well. I.E. NOT SKETCHY!) (Lamb aside: True! True! I assumed we were all going to the same concert.) So we walk under a freeway overpass, through this field, across an onramp, through a warehouse district, and, yes, all the while following well-heeled Poles, until we see, rising in the distance, like a megastore in California, the grey, featureless, parking-lot surrounded, Cinemaplex. (Kinopolis, in Polish, that is, City of the Kino.)

There’s a huge line outside, but, for some bizarre reason, I think it might be for Kung Fu Panda 2. So we go inside and, no, it’s not for Kung Fu Panda 2, it’s for Czesław. (Kitten aside: at least I got a bathroom out of the deal.) (Lamb aside: Oh my God, yes, if we hadn’t had those bathrooms before the concert all would have been lost. As you will see, dear reader. Read on! Read on!) (Kitten aside: Or you just could have peed on the side of the building.) (Lamb aside: You think once we were inside?) (Kitten aside: Eh.)

Okay, so we pee, we get in line, the herd begins to move! To stampede! Sorry friendly local Poles, but it’s just a fact, Polish people do not, cannot, will not, queue. I imagine this is true in many post-Communist countries were waiting in line could mean not getting food. However, we were all going to get into Czesław. We had tickets. Then again, one time I had tickets for an airplane and I couldn’t get in because, I did not queue in time. I guess if LOT oversold an airplane, Czesław could have oversold a concert.

Regardless! The line was crazed! A mass of people! And, dear reader, wolves were fighting in their high heels, and we cut around them. Yes, we cut. So sue us. But eventually we got into… the cinema! It was a movie theatre, with popcorn, where else would you have a concert? (Kitten aside: It was really more of a lobby. There was no screen.) (Lamb aside: Okay, a movie lobby.) But the location didn’t matter when Czesław came out. It was brilliant. Wonderful. Obscene. Vulgar. Accordion. Hot. Sweaty. No AC. Lots of bodies. From children under 10, to babcie. The three-piece band sounded incredibly full; the accordion was like a synthesizer in its range of electronic ability; the guy who played bass/guitar similarly could make that bass sound like I’ve never heard a bass sound, and the drummer had all sorts of fun things to hit. Czesław mostly sung, though did play the accordion in the encore. Meghann has a video. Perhaps she’ll post it.

Afterwards, we took a taxi home, and the nice man driving had to shoo another taxi out of the way to take us. Riding home, we crossed the Warta River, I saw the towers of the Rynek, and I thought: “I’m in Europe.” It was lovely. I held Kitten’s hand. We got off at the happiest place on Earth, Stary Browar, and walked home.

But oh! It continues! Shortly after, I wrote to Bill, the DJ at Radio Paradise, my online radio station, telling him of Czesław’s glory. To my surprise, Bill wrote back, asking how to pronounce Czesław’s name. Now Czesław regularly plays on Radio Paradise. If this is not my contribution to Polish/American relations, as was entrusted upon me by the Fulbright Commission, I don’t know what is. (Kitten aside: America, that’s your tax payer money, hard at work.)

(Kitten PS: Sigh. Verbs of motion struck again. Without taking responsibility, “alight” means to dismount.)

Lots of new pictures and upcoming Finland travel!

I will arrive in Finland for the first time on 16 June 2011. I just learned my great-grandfather from Finland arrived in the U.S. for the first time on 16 June 1911, exactly 100 years to the day. This is a truly mystical coincidence or a bit of providence.

For new pictures, go to:

http://community.webshots.com/user/meghannpytka

Oaks!

A real post soon, I promise.

But today we went out to see the Oaks of Rogalin where brothers Lech, Czech and Rus walked in separate directions to found their countries.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lech,_%C4%8Cech,_and_Rus

Dog #2

I got to pet a dog today for only the second time since 17 February. I held out my hand, politely, for him to smell, and he rubbed his head encouragingly against my palm. His owner, a polite pani, seemed amused when I said, "Dziękuję pies."

I imagine we'll have another blog post soon about our trip out to the Skull Chapel: http://en.poland.gov.pl/Skull,Chapel,8372.html