Mom and Deb, meet Eastern Europe

Five years ago, the men of the Carpenter-Miller-Colegrove-Misenhimer Clan were left to their own devices for Thanksgiving, abandoned by the matriarchs that have always provided structure and discipline to Holiday meals. Forced to cope and adapt without my mom, aunt, and grandmother who were galavanting around Spain with Andrea, the fathers put together an unbelievable meal in a triumphant showcase of independence. Everyone one survived to brag about the meal, which was complete with fine China, a deep-fried turkey, and all the traditional workings. This Thanksgiving, with my mom and Deb across the pond conquering Eastern Europe, the men rose to the occasion for the second time. Riding on the confidence of 2005 and supervised by both grandmothers, the chefs (including Matt this time around, who was in appropriated the strenuous task of smoking two turkeys) prevailed once more.

Relieved to avoid the chaos and stress of Thanksgiving, my mom and Deb arrived in Prague early Saturday morning. After a taxing red-eye flight from New York, the two were less than enthused to hit the city, but, running on fumes, we did so anyways. The weary travelers were undoubtedly impressed with the city's architecture and beauty. Despite my warnings about the nature of the Czech people, Deb and my mom, self-proclaimed cultural warriors, took no time breaking down the social walls between Czechs and Americans. It only took them twelve hours of intensive language lessons to learn the Czech word for "thank you," which is "Dekuyu." In their mission to purchase half of the city's amber, a valuable stone uniquely native to this part of Europe, I overheard "Jekaryu," "Namuk-u-yuyu," and "Derka-Derka," before they finally gained command of the important phrase. I imagine Debbie's misperception of the Czechs as warm, amiable people was, in reality, a misinterpretation of their jeering at her attempts to use the language.

Keeping our foot on the proverbial pedal, we left Prague at 7:00 a.m. the following morning for Krakow, Poland. I instantly knew we were in for an adventure when I saw the Nissan Micra that we had rented. The size of a Mini Cooper, but much less attractive and powered by about a third of the horsepower, it was essentially a tuna can with wheels. Any trace of moisture, let alone precipitation or strong winds could have turned the windy Czech countryside into a roller coaster of death.

And so, the three left for Poland. They were never heard from or seen again. All that was found was their vehicle, parked in a bus lane, and four pounds of amber...

After rising Monday morning with a very successful day behind us, our spirits were challenged when we discovered our matchbox rental car had a parking boot on it. But after a few minutes of conversation, it turns out that a church friend of Debbie's, a Pole and St. Lawrence alum, lived in the same town as the police officer's sister's hairdresser, who knew Ned's college roommate's father-and he let us off the hook for not having an international driver's license. Small world...

The Czech countryside hides innumerable villages and majestic castles whose silent, moss-covered walls are now tacit reminders of distant conquest and war. The region's history, smothered by the sheer scope of centuries of conflict and battle is still alive in such places, but it took some exploring to discover. We used the freedom of our rented car blaze our own trail and, uninhibited by it's two-wheeled drive or golf cart-sized wheels, we stopped at several towns and mountaintop fortresses to experience a Czech culture very different from that of Prague's constant urban bustle.

A small town in the Polish mountains that, with a few hockey rinks and cheesy motels, could have been Lake Placid.

Krakow was an astonishing city, whose lack of popularity as a tourist destination for Americans concealed a grandiosity that truly rivaled Prague's. Unlike the Czech Republic, whose experience with communism largely stripped the population of its religious identity (only 25% actively practice any faith), the Poles vigorously protected their commitment to Catholicism throughout the latter half of the 20th Century. The inability for the Communist ideology to strip the Polish people of their faith and instill conformity through blind allegiance to the state and larger community is reflected in the city's 120 Roman Catholic Churches, most of which are still active today. The architectural contributions of such a phenomenon make Krakow, the previous capitol of Poland, one of the prettiest cities in Central and Eastern Europe. Because our travel expeditions put us behind schedule, we only had a few hours to see the city, not nearly enough time to absorb its 1,400 years of history and development. The following morning we drove an hour to Oswiecim, a Polish town emotionally encumbered by its German name, Auschwitz.

Despite the gloomy weather, Krakow's Old Town Square was still very impressive. 

The ladies haggling with a typical Polish Babicka for a few dollars off the price of the hand made socks they were interested in. The poor old woman was no match for two cut throat American business women.

Comprehending the Holocaust with its unparalleled level of state, bureaucratic, and technological involvement is a daunting philosophical endeavor. Attempting to rationalize, or even just salvage some humanity from the depths of our species’ darkest chapters seems to defy humanity itself, but walking amidst the physical remanence of such unfathomable suffering and death added a new dimension to such a task. To describe our experience at Aushwitz-Birkenau as eerie or emotionally exhausting doesn't come close to conveying the incomprehensibility of the Holocaust. Having studied genocide in high school, at St. Lawrence, and now in Prague through a course specifically about the Nazi Holocaust, I've had the opportunity to analyze such crimes against humanity in the context of different academic fields, among them psychology, sociology, history, political science, and theology. Approaching such a topic from an academic standpoint can diminish the emotional weight of genocide, a weight only truly asserted with such a visit. The philosophical, existential questions evoked by the Holocaust and our visit to the camp could make for a lengthy, depressing post, but I don't want to shroud my mom and Deb's visit with the sentiments of such a heavy experience.

On the left: the famous gates to Auschwitz I, which read "Arbiet Macht Fret," or "Work shall set you free." What the world knows as Auschwizt was actually a series of camps, the most infamous and symbolic of which is Birkenau. Although concrete numbers remain lost in the darkness of World War II, it is estimated that 1.2 Million people were systematically murdered at Birkenau, which is more than twenty times the size of Auschwitz. The picture on the right is of the main gates at Birkenau, now a universal symbol of the human capacity to hate.

A shot from outside the barbed wire perimeter at Birkenau which circumscribes hundreds of acres. The remains of the four gas chambers, destroyed in 1945 when Nazi defeat on the Eastern front by the advancing Russian army was imminent, were on these grounds. The brick foundations and chimneys that extend like gravestones to the horizon are all that is left of the hundreds of crude barracks used to house the small percentage of victims that were selected for manual labor.

On a lighter note, more sightseeing and shopping was in store upon our arrival back in Prague on Monday night. Debbie,  abiding by her rigorous personal standards for safety and a few important Frommer's Travel Tips, kept her important belongings and money in a secret pouch strapped to her ankle. She replaced the .40 caliber revolver and handcuffs she usually carries around Altamont with her passport and list of important contacts. And I thought a fanny pack would be embarrassing...

Her history with the NSA really rubbing off in civilian life.

Blending in on Old Town Square.

My time in Europe has been such a busy, rewarding experience, but I still miss my family and friends from home and St. Lawrence. It was great to see my mom and Deb and whether we were exploring Prague, having a beer in a pub, stopping in the ninth consecutive jewelry store, or lost in the Polish highlands, I really enjoyed their company. After five fun days together, they flew on to Stockholm where they spent several days with our good friends, the Mickos. More shopping inevitably ensued and the last I knew, they were being tried in a Swedish court for smuggling  three suitcases of Czech and Swedish trinkets, among other "cute" things, into the States...


Sorry it has taken me so long to catch up on posts; finals and term papers have all been compounding lately. More to come!

Verwelkom aar Amsterdam

The simplest description I can give of Amsterdam to visually illustrate its physical appearance is a comparison to Prague one of my friends made: Prague is to Cinderella what Amsterdam is to Hansel and Gretel. I wish I could claim responsibility for such an inventive simile, but I have neither the creativity nor the knowledge of Disney animated films. Nevertheless, it really does capture the physical differences between two stunning cities. Amsterdam has the beauty and architecture of Prague, but on a less grandiose scale; what Amsterdam's buildings lack in vertical height and size, they make up for in charm. The city is organized around a number of canals that extend away from the main train station in a series of concentric semi circles, dissecting the streets with their gentle currents. Although we were right in the heart of city, the average street had a quiet, relaxed, almost serene feel about it. For lack of a better, more masculine word, the city was cute. Take the center of Nantucket, the most popular streets of Burlington, or the most attractive area of Northampton, MA, multiply it by fifty and you have a loose representation of Amsterdam. The quaint atmosphere of the city was a clear reflection of its inhabitants who were the warmest, most personable people, collectively, that I have encountered so far in my travels. Random people would go far out of their way to help us with directions or orientation, often summoning friends, phone books, or maps in our inquiries. At the very least, they'd offer a few words of good luck and a smile, which was such a pleasant contrast to the grumbling, shy people you might encounter on the streets of Prague.

The Andrews excited to hit the pavement on their new cruisers. Surprisingly, there was only one casualty: Eddie took a dive one of the nights. We tried to take his key but he was persistent. 

The map on the right does a good job illustrating the canal system on which the city is built. Every street corner and city block looks like the image on the left. Cobble stone streets, colorful buildings, and stone bridges are the city's true trademark.

Everyone together on Saturday night and although it was Big TD's 21st birthday, everyone survived. Turning 21 in a country that has legalized most drugs and has a drinking age loosely set at 16 didn't quite hold the prestige of such an event observed in the States, but we had a great night.

The pace of life in the Netherlands (and the Scandinavian countries as well) is considerably slower than the rest of the world. The competition and work ethic that propel the perpetually turning machinery that is American capitalism and our way of life really distinguish our culture from most others. Motivation, drive, and the relentless pursuit of the next step, whatever that may be, defines us as a country. The Dutch, on the other hand, seem far more carefree and tranquil. Briefly caught in the fairy tale of that lifestyle, I thought about finding a Dutch wife (sorry Molly!) and spending the rest of my life hand painting wooden clogs in a small workshop. No one seemed rushed, irritable, or worried about anything. 

For part of our cultural immersion, we rented bicycles for the weekend, which proved to be a wise investment. The bikes of course were the basket wielding, single gear, backwards-pedal brake cruisers that would have gotten even the coolest kids picked on in middle school. Mountain or racing bikes were probably way too complicated and would have been blatant challenges to the Dutch pace of life. So, we floated around the city on our leisure mobiles feeling like middle-aged Swedish women on their way to pick flowers or something. Because a huge proportion of the city's population uses bikes as their primary mode of transportation, the streets have almost as many lanes devoted to cyclists as cars and trams. The Dutch cyclists had no time for meandering tourists, and although amiable in person, they became dangerous behind the handles. It only took us a few hours to realize the grave implications of breaching the bike lanes on foot and after a few near brushes with death, we found a new appreciation for Dutch biker road rage. Once in the saddle ourselves, our biker gang adopted the same life or death attitude towards naive pedestrians who made the fatal error of crossing the line into the bike lane. The pleasant, little bells each bike was equipped with to warn walkers became the harbinger of death and destruction. 

Our biker gang on patrol in Vondel Park, an extensive maze of paths, ponds, and scenery. We called ourselves the "Misdadigers," which loosely translates to "Bonethugs" in English.

Matt and I cruising at nighttime. Lights on. No helmets. Badass.

The country is, of course, famous for its policies (or lack thereof) regarding drugs and prostitution and although the majority of Dutch people don't exploit either, the city is constantly invaded by armies of rowdy tourists. I won't elaborate too extensively on this subject, as this is a child-friendly blog. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." Right? It's more like, "When in Amsterdam, do as the obnoxious American and English tourists do." The Red Light District and the several blocks dotted with "coffee shops" that are infamous for such absurd behavior don't represent the city or its people, but were an interesting experience nonetheless. Tucker, Matt, Paul, Eddie, the two Andrews, and I all had a fun time experiencing what is essentially a city without rules, but were all content with our short three day visit. The Red Light District was actually pretty sad and clashed with most American values and views towards sex and gender. We redeemed ourselves with subsequent visits to the Van Gogh Museum and Anne Frank House.

Paul's family friends live right in the center of the city and their twin sons, age 21, showed us around the first night. Marius and Jasper are teen stars on a popular TV in Holland. Although there weren't many 9-13 year-old girls (the target demographic of their show) out at that time of night, they were recognized several times as the heart-throb boy toys they play in Spangas, the Dutch equivalent to a Disney Channel hit. The picture on the left is a photograph of a movie poster I took in Amsterdam and the one on the right is a Dutch Red Carpet shot from the internet. It would be like getting a personal tour from the cast of High School Musical; we were instant celebrities by association.

Friday afternoon we took a train forty kilometers to Utrecht, a smaller city of about 300,000, where we met Tucker's friend, Hugo, a Dutch university student he met this summer while studying in London. We had an awesome time with Hugo and his fraternity brothers whose college experience closely mirrored that of any typical American student. Spending a day and a night far from the clutches of the tourist industry with normal Dutch kids and seeing how they lived and operated was really interesting. Abandoning the beaten path to uncover the local flavor and life is always the best way to truly experience a culture and city. Utrecht, which is dominated by a student population of 60,000 (almost the size of ASU), was a beautiful city that closely resembled Amsterdam, but was free of the tourists. Hugo and his friends had heard of Spangas and the twins.

Tucker, Hugo, and Rick at Hugo's apartment. It was a clash of college cultures as we each battled with our respective drinking games. I forget where the large serrated knife in front of Hugo came into play, but it was important. I do, however, know that the blue lighter was used to sterilize it. Those crazy Dutch...

I'm excited for Saturday and the arrival of my Mom and Aunt who will come bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and Kraft Shapes Macaroni and Cheese (the one American food I've been craving). I get the vibe in our extensive email forum that they are enthusiastic, yet nervous for traveling. Little do they know that, with the advent of the internet, cell phone technology, and ATMs, traveling abroad is much simpler. I don't even know what a Traveler's Check is...