unexpected.

Only a few saw the sunset today in Prague.
The storm kept the rest safe inside.

It was our secret sunset,
For just five moments did the sun mask the gray with rose.

It was a different sunset,
The sun was missing, we only knew it by the westward glow.

But it was a beautiful sunset,
And for a moment, we forgot about the rain on our backs.

And I would show you a picture,
but cameraless, I was left with just my eyes.

A complicated prejudice.

A few weeks ago I mentioned my presentation on the Roma (or Gypsy) people in the Czech Republic.

In brief, the Roma people are found throughout central and eastern European countries. They have a unique culture and language that are often misunderstood. Strongly rooted in family life, they usually have large and extensive broods and have a deep catholic tradition that is coupled with various rituals and superstitions. They used to live a primarily nomadic life, from which the term Gypsy originated.

They are often very poor, and caught in a vicious cycle of prejudice and discrimination that limits their education and job opportunities. Petty crimes such as robbery are often attached to the word Gypsy. They live 10-15 years less than average, sometimes are ten times poorer than the majority, many live on under $5.00 a day. Discrimination against these people is historic dating back to the 15th century. The most recent large scale atrocity being their treatment in the Holocaust--where nearly a half million were killed in concentration camps. Since then, the Roma people experience systematic discrimination in the education system, the workforce, the police system, and even in medical care. Systematic abuse of these sorts stems from something much more deeply rooted: the individual prejudices of people.



After doing this presentation, (which I would gladly show to any of you who are interested) our teaching assistant made a long commentary on how our work affected him. As a Czech person, a Czech person with preconceptions, experiences, and assumptions--his opinion of Gypsies has long been formed and reinforced. But our presentation only could convey the views of an outsider who has done research. Meaning, we actually gathered facts, looked at the Roma side of things, and made a technical analysis. Our perspective made him consider the other side of the issue, the side of the Roma.
(see this video: http://web.worldbank.org/WBSITE/EXTERNAL/COUNTRIES/ECAEXT/EXTROMA/0,,contentMDK:20333806~menuPK:615999~pagePK:64168445~piPK:64168309~theSitePK:615987,00.html
(it is in the About the Roma section called: Film: Roma Voices))

But at the same time, the outside perspective really isn't right either. The interactions with modern day Roma on some regular basis stands for something. And if that interaction involves a stolen wallet--one can imagine that a prejudice might form. And further caution would be taken when you see the darker skin or hear the unfamiliar tongue at a train station. The clutching tighter of your purse, might lead to you talking openly about your conception. These conceptions couple with others--and precautions and discriminations are made on a mass scale. But they are based on something---right?

Both causes are rooted in something. Unfortunately, at the center lies a vicious cycle when these two meet. A cycle of misunderstanding, of crime, and of oppression and discrimination. You need an education to get a job--yet many Gypsy children are sent to schools for the disabled because of stereotypes and language differences. You need a job to buy a house--but hirers won't hire gypsies and many residences won't let you in without a job. To eat, you need a job that you weren't allowed to have. So you steal. You steal some money to buy some bread, and perhaps pick up some drugs to numb the pain. At the same time, you have a large extended family that is depending on you. And now? You have just reaffirmed somebody's stereotype of your culture. It is endless.

Yet, just after the presentation--I had my own run in with a gypsy. Walking with some other girls out of the station, a darker-skinned man with typical Roma features began following us and blabbering. We sped up. He sped up. We crossed the street. He was right on our tail. Mumbling even louder, he followed our every turn even as we sped up and zig-zagged. We clutched our purses and ducked into a restaurant to loose him...he still pursued. As we went out and down the street, he finally lost interest. A situation that could happen in any city--but it happened here...in Prague...by a Roma man. It was an assurance that nearly all crimes committed by the Roma are petty thefts, but it was still scary. And now? Now I stepped a bit into the insider view. The view shared by many Czech people.

Now, I am stuck in the middle as I fear the Roma people are as well. In the middle of a cycle that will be hard to escape. But at least I got a glimpse into their realities.





(all pictures are slides from the presentation)

Communism and banana splits.

I could go on for hours on Communism. I think I have refrained from endless entries dedicated to the subject because well, that is all we talk about. It is fascinating. Scary, absurd, and pervasive, it ravages countries socially, economically, and politically. Although its original intention was good, it is a prime example of an idea that should stay on paper. But, it didn't. It spanned throughout all of Russia and reached its ugly arm into Central and Eastern Europe. It even split Germany in two. Living in a post communist country is an interesting experience. I am just going to give a small list of facts, highlights, and experiences that I have had. It will be expanded upon more when I have more time, and definitely after I visit the communist museum this Thursday.

1. In Prague, the largest statue of Stalin was built atop a hill looking over the city from the North. A monument erected in 1955 watched the people of Prague's every move. It was obscenely large (and expensive). The Stalin regime denounced by Kruschev, the statue just had to go. After seven years, it finally did--but not without a fight. Packed with explosives, it was detonated, but merely jumped a little into the air. It took several tries and eventually the monstrosity was destroyed and its pieces scattered in forests throughout the countryside. Imagine being watched by Stalin wherever you went. Creepy.



2. Another communist statue was built atop Zizcov Hill. Behind the equestrian statue, there stood a mausoleum where many prominent communists were buried. To attempt to create a facade of eternal life and thus the eternal strength of communism--several prominent leaders were mummified and put on display for people to visit and pay tribute to. The communists always with their big plans and even bigger failures...The guys started to decay a bit and emergency reparations were done and visiting times limited. This continued till they came to terms with impermanence and cremated the poor guys...ridiculous.

3. Prague looks beautiful from above. The deep terracotta rooftops, green spires of churches, pastel faces of buildings, large metal tower...oh wait...NO. Communism has a great way of ruining everything--even photo ops. Along the Prague skyline you eye draws to the ridiculous large tv tower in the distance that is metallic and has strange boxes attached to its side. It really matches the whole architectural style of the city. It was one of many tv towers built throughout the soviet bloc countries to remind people, without any stylistic substance, of the power of communism.



4. Here is a hotel. A wretchedly ugly one, in regular communist fashion. If having a view of the site of Stalin's statue wasn't enough, it was later found out that this upscale hotel was bugged. Communism knew all.



5. During communism, bananas weren't allowed to be imported into the country. They were only brought in by the regime on days of festival--a little treat for the poor proletariat. Like a caged monkey. It must be hard to undergo such oppression with a potassium deficiency.

Burning for something.

"Find something you will burn for. find something that you can sit, cold and calculating while flames blister and melt your flesh from the bone. find something you love so much that you will feel your life melt off your bones and sit, content, hoping people notice how important it is to you. find it and find it quick. life is short."

This is an excerpt from a post a friend made about four years ago when he was remarking on the self-immolation protest of a monk and relating it to passion and the power of teaching. We don't talk any more, and he doesn't know that I keep a copy of his entry taped to my desk wherever I go. Reading on it now in Prague, I am reminded of the flaming martyrdom of Jan Hus in the 15th century and the self-immolation protests of students Jan Palach and Jan Zajic in the late 60s.

Jan Hus, a philosopher, reformer, and theologian in the 15th century, was like an early and more Slavic Martin Luther. He had aims of reforming the Catholic church and his views were seen as heretical and therefore threatening. He was tried and burned at the stake in 1415. To this day, the Czech people, though not religious, commemorate the anniversary of his execution on July 6th.



Flash forward to Prague Spring in 1968. The Soviets invaded Prague, filling it with tanks, to help end the liberalization of the communist country. It was a decade of the Cold War where communism seemed to take a breath and a step back, loosening the reigns on censorship--and the intellectual community flourished. Jan Palach, a student in the 60s, made a revolutionary stand against the Soviets and lit himself aflame in Wenceslas Square. It stunned many. And a second, Jan Zajic, followed the next month, to ensure that the cause was not forgotten.





Talking with the film teacher over wine, we asked what she thought of these burnings. What impact it had on people. A student at the time as well, she shared classes with Palach and remembered his passion. Palach's act had the most impact on the students of the time. It was a mixed feeling of horror, admiration, and regret. Many wondered why he would do it, how it was not necessary to make such a sacrifice. Many others seemed to revere his dedication.

Self-sacrifice (especially by immolation) and martyrdom, are such fragile topics. Though Praguers commemorate these days of revolution and loss, what is their opinion of the act? It must be something fierce, as a country that barely sets foot in a church building still celebrates the sacrifice of Jan Hus every year. And Palach and Zajics dual monuments in Wenceslas still perpetually are graced with a wreath of flowers.

The jury is out with me. On one hand, I appreciate their passion--really, I am awed by their conviction. But at the same time, I am stunned. How could you set yourself aflame? What is worth burning for? Jan Hus at least had no choice. But these students, and several mock immolation suicides after--why? On one level, you can question the sacrifice itself: to die or not to die. On a second level, we look at the method of sacrifice: to burn or not to burn? What is it about fire that speaks so much louder than a gunshot, pills, or bloodshed?


At this point, I can only burn for my passions figuratively.


What do you think? Is there anything you would burn for?

July 19: Terezin (pictures to come)

My first Terezin entry was deleted.
It was nearly a thousand words long...
But I shall lament no more.
Onward...

---------------------------------
The last, the very last,
so richly, brightly, dazzling yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears sing
against a white stone . . .

Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly `way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it
wished to kiss the world goodbye.

For seven weeks I've lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto,
but I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me,
And the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live here in the ghetto.

Pavel Friedman (1921-1944), June 1942

-----------------------------------
Going to Terezin, being exposed to museums, and learning more of the realities of the Holocaust is heart breaking. In classes throughout my life, we have learned the numbers, the dates, the places...we grasp at comprehending its magnitude. We grapple at how it could even be possible, how it is possible that genocide even happens today. Our hearts ache, feel guilty, get mad, get sad, turn numb--and start to break. And that is what genocide is. Breaking. It is about breaking bodies. It is about breaking their spirits. It is about breaking a people.

Terezin is an interesting place. Once a military town, its fortified walls and neat little packaging made it attractive to the Gestapo to help solve the "Jewish problem." But it played a very unique role. It wasn't really camp. It wasn't a typical ghetto. There were no gas chambers and limited outright killings. Its purpose was to be a model camp. A small little town for Jewish people to live together under the control of the Nazis--a perfectly passable place to the foreign eye. But model didn't mean liveable conditions. It created a very unique place where, in the midst of tragedy, a culture flickered. This paradoxical situation was a product of deception.

In the early years, Terezin was a ghetto to which all of the Jews in the German protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia were shipped via train. In this model camp, they were given a bit of leniency. They were allowed to form a small government-like organization to help organize the town to some extent. The collective feeling was to work as hard as possible, cause little problems, keep the town as clean as possible to impress the Nazis to allow them to stay. Because of good behavior and the Gestapo's intention to impress outsiders with the little Jewish colony--they allowed some organized forms of cultural expression.

Jewish composers and musicians collaborated to create beautiful concerts with original scores. Former Jewish directors and actors wrote and performed elaborate plays. Children were also gathered to be in their own plays. This creation made people's stomachs seem not as empty, the streets not so dirty, the world not so dark.

Although these forms of expression were also abused. Former artists became propaganda artists--but at least they were working. One director was promised protection in exchange for the creation of a propaganda window for the outside world to see. We watched his piece, making the town seem like a harmonious Jewish community full of people who worked hard, ate well, and enjoyed life made me want to vomit. The charade was absurd, and helped prolong the outsider's thoughts that it couldn't be so bad.

However, the allowance for culture set apart Terezin. What people are most familar with now is the role of expression amongst Terezin's many, ill-fated children. Many dedicated teachers risked punishment in the camps providing the children with tools to express themselves through art and writing. In the early years, Terezin's children created paintings of their dreams and of their realities. We saw a few of young drawings when we were exploring the Jewish museums in Prague, but here we got to see so much more. Poems and paintings flourished in the early days when paper was much more available and rules not so harsh. Several boys and girls units created homemade newspapers and magazines. I put two poems in this entry. After I catch my breath from reading them, what I notice most are the dates.

This nearly passable ghetto couldn't last forever....

In came the people. With more people came more rules, more deaths, more crowding, more deaths, more disease, more deaths, more suffering, more deaths...less space, less time, less energy, less food, less culture. Terezin was teeming with people, and more arriving everyday from all over Europe. People were crammed into every spare space, and the living space reduced to a cramped one square meter per person. Not even enough to stand. There was no time for expression, and rules banished it now anyway. People were told they could only write 50 words a month. Pregnancy was not allowed, and those who were either were forced to have an abortion or the baby was killed upon birth. People were sleeping in their own feces. The elderly were given nearly nothing to eat. The dead lay amoung the living for days, perishing from stress, starvation, disease.

Leaving the ghettos in truckloads, the fate of bodies was an example of one way the Jewish culture was broken. Death and burial ceremonies are very specific in the Jewish faith. Rituals and requirements for the body have great cultural and historical significance. But with the flux of mortality in the Ghetto, bodies could no longer be buried intact. A crematorium was built. And it was staffed with the Jewish people. In strict contridiction with the Jewish traditions, the Jews cremated their dead and placed their ashes in paper urns. Comforted by the fact they would be buried, at the end of the war, Germans threw the ashes in to the water and hid them the town.

Though the death tolls mounted, there was still not enough room in Terezin. It turned from a ghetto, to just another stop on the way to Auschwitz. Whereas a person had a fairly significant chance of survival in the original Terezin, when deported...their chances fell to less than 25%. Every day, people lived with the fear of being handed a deportation slip. Out of the 88,000 people who were sent to Auschwitz...17,000 survived.

A glimpse into Terezin from 65 years away. Abandoned after the war, Terezin slowly became occupied with citizens living in the same streets of the ghetto. You can still see the faded street signs from the ghetto, stand amongst the same buildings, and see the cemetaries and memorials--but other than that and the museum...it is trying to maintain a quiet existence. What would it be like to live in a place where thousands upon thousands died, and even more were on their way to death? They can't just bulldoze it over. They can't paralyze it into a permanent ghetto. But how can you live like that. In some way, they have to move on. There are discussions of making a university nearby and creating a university town....but it is endlessly controversial. On one hand, we can't just make every place where something treachorous happens into a museum. Hell...what happened to the settlements of all of the Native Americans we murdered? It is a complicated issue. I am not sure how I feel about it.

All I know, is that Terezin and the Holocaust should never be forgotten.

Lest it happen again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Our relationship to the Holocaust in the US is so much different then it is in central Europe. In Europe, there are actual places to see and it is more likely to have intimate connections with those who were directly impacted by the Holocaust. In central Europe, there were citizens on the outside that deal with the pain of not stopping it. People who had to participate in some indirect way or another. It is true, that some of these people have spilled over to the United States...but the countries that were in the heart of it all are here. It is a matter of perspective. I would like to speak with somebody who grew up in a town near Terezin or who had to witnessed their towns becoming smaller, as the Jewish people disappeared into the night.
I wonder...


----------------------------------
A little garden,
Fragant and full of roses.
The path is narrow
and a little boy walks along it.

A little boy, a sweet boy,
Like that growing blossom.
When the blossom comes to bloom.
The little boy will be no more.
--Franta Bass (1930-1944)

July 15 & 16: Southern Moravia (more pictures coming)

After our weekend in Southern Bohemia, we went to the other region of the Czech Republic I mentioned. Moravia. Before I begin, I think I need to vent. I didn't want to, but it has been nagging on me for a while now.

Sometimes, people really bother me.

The people who, the moment we leave Prague, ask when we will be returning before we even find out our itinerary. The people who refuse to go to a bar outside of a two block radius. The people who don't even consider the opportunity to explore and find out new things. The people who 95 percent of the time completely refuse to listen or appreciate learning about what is around them. The people who sleep all day, and never really see the city. The people who disrespectfully talk over teachers or guides who are doing their job to tell us something. The people who refuse to travel in groups smaller than 10---It really bothers me. And, unfortunately, happens a bit too frequently. Everybody has lapses of laziness or daziness --but come on.

Anywho. I guess that just happened a few times on this trip--whew.

Southern Moravia was a highly anticipated weekend. Its main attraction? Wine tasting. But first, we had a few lazy towns to explore. My friend, Elizabeth Goossen (aka: Goose, Goosey, Tatty Goose) who is studying in Krakow came to visit and ended up taking the trip with us. She was lucky to be able to see Prague and the countryside and I was lucky to spend time with her.

The Goose.


First, we stopped in Telc to explore its gorgeous castle. The only time we were able to enjoy a royal interior--it was quite an experience. Ball rooms, armor rooms, large game rooms (gross), dining rooms, sanctuaries, sitting rooms...they just went on and on down winding staircases and through stone hallways. Unfortunately, we weren't allowed to take any pictures. But the opulence was enough to last in memory form. It really makes me wonder what it must have been like not only to live in such wealth, but what it was like to live among such wealth. Such prosperity always makes me think of what is on the other side of the coin--of the backs and sweat those riches rest upon. Though I enjoyed the castle and its interior...I found myself drifting to the mines, farms, and markets which made it all possible.

Next, we made our way to something I had been looking forward to since I found out the name behind those beautiful art nouveau posters. Alofons Mucha (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mucha), a Czech born artist, made his name as a stand-in poster artist for a play with Sarah Bernhardt. Enamored with his style (and his portrayal of her), his posters of her shows became a foundation for his style. Well, anyway....we stopped in a town called Moravsky Krumlov to see his magnum opus--the Slav Epic. A project he was determined to finish to honor the Slavic and Czech people.
When Robin and I went to the Mucha museum, we learned all about the piece only to find that it was nowhere in Prague. But then again, how could it? Comprised of twenty 15-18 feet canvases, it is nearly impossible to find a venue suitable for its magnitude....and believe me, the museum was nowhere near adequate. So the canvases were sent to the forgotten town of Moravsky Krumlov, where they stand magnificently in too-tight quarters to be vaguely understood by their visitors. Mucha had a way of interpreting and collaging together many times, places, people, and events that comes across as very dense--however, they are simply awe inspiring.
Taking it all in can be overwheming, but with Mucha, what is so entrancing to me is the way he paints human eyes. In the crowds of people filling the space, the eyes of his subjects are piercing. They seem to reach out to you without raising a finger, and say everything they need to without a word. In some of the more desolate scenes, they cry out through shrouds of clothing, through the snow, through the darkness--it really is the most powerful aspect of this work on a whole. He does a unique job of conveying the collective Slav feeling, but it is the emotion of each individual Slav that captivated me most.

A busy day, our third stop was Mikulov to visit a veryyyyyyyy sleepy town just moments from the Austrian border. Offered to either eat a dinner or to climb to the top of a beautiful hill--I was a part of the small faction that took door number two. We spent plenty of times in small no-name restaurants in plenty of small no-name towns, why not try something new? It was a beautiful view. You could nearly through a stone into Austria and we were able to see a storm brew over a mountain--getting nicked a little by the rain on our way down.

Goose and Me, so happy together.


Strolling down the hill.


A storm brewing in the distance.


Our professor, Petr...nearly falling off.


And finally...the wine cellar. Girls immediately put on sundresses and boys...well, boys will be boys. We trooped down the dirt road to the cellar past the hen and chicks in the front yard of our hotel. The tables were laid out with cheeses, breads, meats and veggies to munch on as the first bottle was opened. We consumed several pitchers of house wine and then retreated to the lower cellar for nuts, cheeses, and...of course...vino.

Girls all prettied up.


Sunset walking to tasting.


Baby chicks huddling under their momma.


I welcomed the fact that this winery specialized in white...because...yes, delicious. We took several rounds of tasting, yet the names of the wines flew by too quickly to remember. My favorite was near the end, and had a hint of something vaguely tropical. Though I am really not sure how they manage that in the Czech "realllllllllly freakin landlocked" Republic. After we nibbled on our cheese and nuts and sipped our wine with some semblance of class, we went back upstairs to find fresh food platters and lots...of pitchers. Let's just say, everybody enjoyed themselves.
My favorite part of the evening was the wine-induced conversations with professors. A group of us hung out with the film professor as she reflected on communism and her views as a student during the time. It was amazing to get a face to put on the history and poli sci lectures---to know the events so well and finally put something behind them. I have gone to faculty cocktail parties before, but add more wine and communism and the fun really never stops.
In the we hours of the night, we stumbled, sauntered, or skipped home according to our vino levels and enjoyed a good night's sleep.

History boys and Petr.


The tasting.




When we woke up, we drove to the Lednice-Valtice area and saw the fairy-tale castle and took a boat ride around the grounds. We climbed yet another thigh burning tower, and stared at the still-beautiful vistas. We were looking forward to our lunch in Brno, when the bus broke down. Even those hours weren't enough to allow for the time necessary to get service at the local pub. The hour hand went around nearly twice before I got my paltry salad. Pissed, I ate bitterly, wishing I knew a few choice words in Czech. At that moment, the film teacher came in to be my voice. Ripping the waiter apart in Czech, she hurried things up a bit at the end and may or may not of said the service was what it was like in communist times. That is not a compliment.

We boarded our rickety coach, resigning to skip Brno and head straight to Prague. It was nice to leave the country side with few towns and even more vino under my belt. It made me happy and exhausted enough to sleep through the rocky ride that was punctuated by countless, unexplained pulling over. In a bus--that is more than a little unnerving.

July 7 & 8: Southern Bohemia

The weekend of July 7 & 8 we spent in several towns of southern Bohemia. Before you go humming Puccini's La Boheme or belting out the title song to RENT--let me clarify a bit about the geography of the Czech Republic. Bohemia is not made up. Bohemia is not a country. And Bohemia is not a city somewhere tucked away in central Europe. It's one of two main regions that comprise the Czech Republic. Bohemia, often referenced in tragically artisic stories (ala La Boheme or RENT) is in the Western half of the Czech Republic with Prague at its heart. The other is Moravia, a generally more religious and argicultural region in the East of which Brno is the capital city. We were in the Bohemia region, in the southern half.

We spent the first half of Friday afternoon in the main town of the southern region, Ceske Budejovice. It was a very quaint town, as most are. It played a large role as a trading town and a burgeoning urban center in the 14th century and became crucial to mining and currency production later in the 16th century. To be honest, our time here was quite brief and not terribly exciting. I feel awful saying that, as I, in my dorkish ways, find almost everything fascinating. However, I did enjoy the town tower: both its views and quad-building spiral staircase. Built in 1553, it towered (hah) over the town and countryside allowing you to see the entire village and out for several miles into the rolling hills. I nearly lost my hearing on the trip down, as an ancient bell decided to ring for what seemed like eternity. Novel? Yes of course. But also quite painful.

Ceske Budejovice:




After one of our infamously long lunches, we made our way to one of the most picturesque and memorable small towns we would go to the whole trip.

Wedged in the middle of the mountains and overlooked by a beautiful castle--Cesky Krumlov was something out of a storybook. The Vlatava River, its larger leg running through Prague, laced through the town making it possible to canoe, raft, and kayak in its babbling waters. Every little cobbled-stoned street seemed to hold another little nook to explore with cute shops or a cozy restaurant. I think the whole group fell collectively in love with it the moment we entered its square.

Beautiful little town.






When we arrived in this Uneseco World Heritige site, it was obvious that it was a popular small town. And for good reason. My favorite was our trip up to the castle, its theatre, and beautiful gardens. The castle was built in the 18th century and was home to the Lords of Krumlov and later the prominent Rosenberg family. Three centuries later, the Habsbursgs became the new royal family. With all of these family changes came also significant changes in style throughout the castle's existence--from gothic, to reniassance, to baroque. The most interesting to me is the shift from the plain gothic exteriors to the muraled walls of the reniassance. Instead of rebuilding a new and more decorative facade, painters were hired to create an exterior that looked 3-d. Instead of making a small alcove for a statue--it was painted on. Don't waste all that money making a symmetrical window--just grab a sharpie. Who needs bricks when you have a can of paint and a ruler? These elaborate murals were quite unique and fully restored. A reniassance exterior overlaying a gothic core--it was amazing.

A realistic reniassance mural.


A cute Krumlov house. (I think my mom would like it)


But my absolute favorite? The baroque theatre. It was stunning and its historical value was remarkable. As one of the oldest and most preserved barque theatres in the world (second only to one in Sweden), it had an impressive collection of props, scenes, costumes, and machinery to put on some very posh royal productions. The stage and scenery that was up resembled a large palace hallway--the optical illusion that was created using angles, light, and various spacing and sizing of stage pieces made it seem like the hallway went for about 40 meters. But in actuality, the stage was more like 10-15 deep with a sloping ceiling and narrowing walls. The time spent to create such manipulations is really awe-inspiring. Theatre performances went on for 6 hours and more, with an ever-changing backdrop and props of all sizes controlled in its pulley-filled underbelly. Live music and sound effects accompanied the performances and made them even more life-like. It took weeks of painstaking work to put on a performance, and if the king didn't like it--he'd leave mid-way. Back to the drawing board, as actors, musicians, technicians and costumers prepared another elaborate play. And we thought high school musicals were difficult!

The stage, before we were told photography was banned--better pictures online.


Beyond that, this was a day when women weren't allowed to grace the stage. Men played the female roles and the most prestigious and respected actors were often the castrati. Castrated as young boys, these men trained rigourously to perfect their abilities to play women on stage. Their voices were praised as angelic and pure--and these act of dropping the ball(s) (I had to...) continued on to some early boys choirs. Now it is definitely illegal--and as you can see--women can do their own acting, thank you very much.

If you are interested in this baroque theatre and want to waste some time (in an educational fashion)--go to this website. It is fascinating. In particular, check out the machinery, costume, and scenes sections. http://www.ckrumlov.cz/uk/zamek/5nadvori/i_bd.htm

After a some shopping, Robin and I split off from the group to have vegetarian food. Our carnivore friends weren't as excited by the promise of hommus in a dimly lit, stone cafe. We loved it. As I have been on a constant quest for hommus since I have been in the Czech Republic (don't even try the grocery stores...it is hopeless), I was really excited. We stuffed our faces with lentils, hommus, and blueberry and yogurt dumplings on handmade ceramic dishes. On top of our little table sat a bunch of wildflowers and beneath crawled a small dog. Possibly one of my favorite dining experiences to date.



After a few bars to protect ourselves from the rain, we went back to the hotel to sleep before our last town--Trebon.

Trebon is a cute little town, but our primary interest was its brewery. We took a tour of the Regent factory led by a cute old man plagued by a bit of timidity when it came to English. I couldn't help but admire him as he explained to us the interworkings of the factory, weaving us through the pipes and basins, showing us their prized hops. Smelling much like a frat house that was allowed to fester after a kegger, we eventually made it to the most anticipated part--the tasting. Plastic cups were passed, and we lined up in the cold basement of the factory. We had about three different types of beer--including their most alcholic. Some stealthily snuck for a second serving, and others sipped slowly. All and all, it was a blast, besides the singing drunk girl in the back of the bus.





The only lowpoint was the loss of a dear friend, Grasshopper (the Giraffe). He was left, unfortunately, at our hotel. On the upside, he will be returned before the end of the trip. A gift from Jeffrey, I do miss him a little and he does make an excellent pillow friend. However, I have faith he will return. I just fear his emotional trauma...being abandoned in a foreign country and having a built-in identity crisis (Grasshopper or Giraffe?) is a situation just begging for therapy. Hopefully they won't call social services. At least I felt just as ridiculous as a twenty-year old woman asking my director to find my lost stuffed giraffe--karma's a bitch.



Ah...C'est la vie.
And..La vie Boheme.

Shhhhhh...they're sleeping...

The Czech Republic is filled with sleepy little towns. Places where the pace barely qualifies as walking and it seems if nobody has anywhere to go. The residue of this lazy...errr...leisurely atmosphere is most obvious to outsiders when it comes time to eat. Apparently, there isn't a true Czech equivalent to "fast food" out in the country. Without any elaborate ordering, I've managed to be in a group that has held up our tour bus twice due to slow service. Maybe it is due to the remenants of communism, lack of staffing, or unprioritization of foreigners, it is hard to say. Anywho, you can count on a tour hour lunch in most places--even if you did just order the soup of the day.

Though these towns take their time at most everything, there are other similarities--A central town square for meeting and markets, a towering statue whose meaning has faded with time, a large tower for surveying and protecting the land, a church that in modern times sees little use, and several blocks of houses and shops on the perimeter fading into the countryside. Each one following the same general structure, with just a slightly different flavor. This divergence is usually because of some unique claim to fame such as a theatre, castle, or mine--but these are mostly relics of the past.

Perhaps these towns seem to have nothing but time, because it is the passing of time that they depend on.

Their main attraction is their history, therefore they never seem in a rush to get anywhere new. After their town's heyday, they never really fully recovered. Instead, they resign to a slower pace, slower economy, and slower attitude--merely maintaining the past for people to peer into. It is quaint, yet subtly a bit sad. Usually without a modern-day industry, they host tourists and remain somewhat stagnant in present times because their existence seems dependent on the past.

It is probably much more complicated than that, but it is so surprising to me that a place's purpose two, three, seven hundred years ago still affects so intimately their present state. It is fascinating. While in America we slap a placard onto any house built before 1940, here every building seems to date before the 1800s. Beneath many of the baroque facades, are other Renaissance or Gothic faces from even earlier.

I wonder what it would be like to live in such a town. Would I go to college? What would my parents do? How much money would I have? What would my opportunities be? Who would I marry?

I guess I'll never know.

Mega update.

Due to spotty internet coverage, weekend trips, academic nonsense, and mere drafts of entries--there is a clog in the works of my blog. This clog will be removed and a glut of entries will flow out at a startling pace. Be prepared.

It might make sense to scroll down and read an entry or two at a time and work your way up to the most present work. I am beginning with an excursion update and then going on to some commentary that has be brewing in my head and jotted in a paper journal.

This blog, which as you read earlier, serves many purposes. It began as an independent personal project and has expanded to fufill academic requirements as well. It also will live on when I come back for Europe as I begin to write some travel tips and must-dos and I am sure when a dull ache in my heart develops from missing this gorgeous city---it will be opened again and filled with memories.

So, read on, my friends. Enjoy.

Ah, Prague.

I know I just wrote volumes on my experience in Budapest. I needed to get it out. And though it was beautiful...my true love is Prague. Running up Petrin hill the other day through the gardens, past the waterfall, and looking out over the city--I realized that even more.

I am really going to miss it here.

Budapest: Exploration Highlights

I have regaled you with probably too many tales of Hungarian spas. Cross my heart, I swear I spent quite a lot of time in Budapest exploring other than in my bathing suit. It was a beautiful city and here are some highlights.

A little overview, to start. In my mind, Budapest has a somewhat similar layout to Prague. Divided in half by a river (Danube river--two sides: Buda and Pest), huge castle on the west side, a large hill just south of it with a lookout, a main drag bridge, Jewish quarter, etc. However, it is much less concentrated than Prague in the central area—making it easier to avoid tourists. Also, the buildings are beautiful, but not as bright as the deep peach roofs of Prague. Brief and oversimplified, that is my impression of the city.

The Castle:
We went exploring in the castle district and enjoyed the beautiful vistas and quaint cafes and shops. The Mathias of the Budapest castle is different than St. Vitus in Prague. It is decorated with a Turkish influence (back from their occupation) and has strange frescos of bold reds, blues, greens and golds combined with Gothic influences. Whereas St. Vitus is a prime example of gothic architecture and the stone walls are adorned with color from the stained glass windows.

Here are some pictures of this castle district. It made me want to bring my Disney-princess crazed little neighbors and show them that there were real castles. Enjoy.

The exterior of the castle.






Mathias Church Inside…








Gorgeous views.




The Parliament:
Touring Parliament was a hell of an experience.
It all began when we casually began walking in the parking lot haphazardly enclosed with a few feeble chains. Not even thinking it was not permitted; when the Hungarian guard approached us we were in disbelief. Even more so when he began to grab his gun. He had a complex.

Then the ticket fiasco. Just having missed the English tour, we split into our respective second languages: Russian, Spanish, and German. Luckily an on-demand English tour group was formed. With sticks up their butts, they only let one ambassador go buy tickets for the group accompanied by a guard. The man behind poor Robin impatiently yelled at her, and she came scurrying back.

Finally inside, we were glad to be marveling at the red-carpeted building that spanned a sizable chunk of the riverside. Careful to obey the no-flash rule, I documented the architecture. Until my photography faux pas near the 10TH CENTURY ROYAL CROWN!! It was all fine and flashless until I poised my camera confidently on the pride of Hungary—FLASH. With stern eyes and a sharp tone, I was alerted of my mistake and cowered for a while. When the ceremonial guards came, I was certain I would become a prisoner of the Hungarian government.





The beloved crown that my flash damaged.



Cigar holders numbered for the representative outside of the meeting hall. Isn’t that convenient? Men.



Beautiful session room.





Vaci Street:
Here is the very European main drag of shops and cafes. Adorable.




Not on Vaci street, but the beautiful tile roof of the Museum for Decorative Arts. Too bad the sun wasn't out.



Budapest Club:
A few of us went to a fun open-air club at the end of one of the bridges. It was fun and swanky. A few friends we met at our hostel hung out with us – and it was a blast.



The Synagogue:
Robin’s main objective for the trip and one of the most memorable highlights was visiting the Dohány Street Synagogue—second largest in the world. Besides being a breathtaking building and having a touching weeping willow Holocaust memorial, what was best was the personal touch from our tour guide.

A lady I would never dare to mess with, she was the Hungarian version of a weathered New Yorker. Just like any tour, we battled off eavesdroppers and learned interesting facts. But for a moment she softened and revealed to us a very personal fact as we passed the cemetery where many of those who died in the treacherous Budapest Jewish ghetto. Her father, a Christian, had saved several hundred Jews from the Ghetto and deportation during the Holocaust. During which, he met her Jewish mother, and married her after the war. His name was carved into the marble memorial of those who saved many Hungarian Jews. My whole body tingled as it filled with goose bumps as she told us.

Inside.



Her father’s name: Marton Istvan.



The weeping willow memorial with the names of people who perished in the senseless Holocaust. Some have listed where they were killed.





As that Sunday afternoon came to a close, Robin and I boarded the bus feeling accomplished. We drove through Hungary on our way back to what seems more and more like our home abroad, Prague. As we drove through the Slovakian countryside, we watched the sun set over the mountains.