Europe for a month!
Remember, links to many of the things I mention are in the links section at the END!
Gear and Go
I ran around town like mad for a few days, getting everything I needed. I decided to buy a new backpack and carry everything on my back, rather than trundle a wheeled suitcase around behind me. I knew I would be arriving in various cities and using public transportation to get around and find a hotel, often without a reservation ahead of time. I wanted to be able to wander on cobblestone streets easily, not needing a taxi.
You won’t be surprised to learn that I bought about the most expensive backpack on the market, the Arcteryx Bora 95 – the largest pack they make. I love this Canadian company’s stuff and have quite a bit of it. It’s outrageously well built and makes you feel like Reinhold Messner.
If you’re looking for an extremely versatile jacket, get the Arcteryx Sigma SV windproof fleece. I wear this more than any other jacket I own. My winter parka is an Arcteryx Alpha SV, and it’s really the right tool for the job when the temperature is 20 – 40 degrees F.
On July 30th, I filled my new pack with 50 pounds worth of gear (including a small day-pack full of books, computer, and other on-plane necessities) and walked out the front door of my building, down the street to the metro station, and took the subway to JFK airport. It went so smoothly I don’t think I could have arrived any sooner had I taken a cab.
Click on the image above and it will pop up the photo album in a new window so you can see both side-by-side.
Paris
I spent three days in Paris, mostly laying down shoe leather, walking places I know and love, taking the metro, going to museums and galleries, hanging out in parks, reading Harry Potter in French, eating a falafel at the Place des Vosges. I stayed with friends and had nice meals getting caught up with people.
As usual, I stayed with Cory and Sophie. One night, Cory came home completely rattled, scared, and full of energy. Here’s his story:
“I was walking home from work at 9:30pm on Rue Turbigo, with my bag over one shoulder. My bag had everything I needed for my two-week trip to Viet Nam the next day: laptop, passport, credit cards, cash, etc. Suddenly, two teenagers came up from behind: one knocked me hard to put me off balance, while the other grabbed my bag and then started running. I picked my phone up off the ground, and, thanks to my brand new Nike running shoes, I ran after the thieves, screaming at the top of my lungs. After one block, I started gaining ground on them. They turned left down a small side street. I chased, and within one more block was able to lunge and snag the foot of the one who had my bag. He went smashing down on his face, split his lip open, blood all over the place. My bag flew apart, spreading my stuff all over the sidewalk. His friend was long gone, and I had to choose between retaining him or gathering my stuff. I was furious. We exchanged a look that said we were both going to kill each other. He picked himself up and ran off, my heart pounding out of my chest. I gathered my stuff and went back to the apartment, thinking of all the possible things that could have gone worse or could possibly happen in the future. Thanks to my Nikes and adrenalin, I was able to leave the next morning for our trip to Vietnam (where, it turns out, my shoes were made).
“Over the past 15 years, NY has become more safe, while Paris has become more dangerous. This year in Paris my apartment was broken into and I was mugged in my neighborhood. Colleagues of mine regularly have cell phones ripped from their hand while they're talking. I know a French publisher who spent a week in the hospital after he was yanked out of his Jaguar at a red light and brutally attacked.”
Amsterdam
I took a train to Amsterdam, always an easy experience from Paris. Soon, I was walking with my pack on my back down the Haarlemerstraat, which I know well, and turned left onto LangeStraat, which I also know well. I noticed the “for sale” sign still up on the apartments I wanted to buy two years ago, so that gave me a project. I spent a couple of days reviewing the idea of buying them (the price had come down but the euro had gone up), and in the end it was the same – I couldn’t make it work. Some day I will.
I stayed on a boat on the Prinzengracht canal, which turned out to be perfect -- that weekend there was a huge gay-pride parade that took place on the canal right in front of the boat. Something like 400,000 people show up in town to watch this boat parade, and I had a front-row seat, as you can see from the photos. (Did you click on the photo at the top and are you going through the photos in a separate browser window as you read the text? Good! I knew you were.)
I spent a day in Leiden, where I saw a great interactive exhibit on Herge, the author of the Tin Tin series of Belgian comic books I love so much. It was great to see many of his original drawings and learn about his methods. Herge did a tremendous amount of research on all his subject matter, and he is practically the only comic-strip artist to draw humans and animals with the correct number of fingers and thumbs. Even though they’re terribly politically incorrect, environmentally unsustainable, and fashionably out of date, the nostalgia factor is very high and the stories still engaging. I have an almost complete collection of the Tin Tin comic books in French. I hope when I have kids one day they will read them.
I love Amsterdam. I ran, I walked, I hung out at the canal-side cafes. I explored the parks thoroughly. I smelled the tulips. I wanted to get email a few times a day, so I started going to Internet cafes, but they usually smelled like pot. You can buy a small bag of pot pretty much anywhere in Holland, and you can smoke it anywhere you like. But you aren’t allowed to be caught with a large amount, like a kilo. Somehow, that’s illegal. If you think about it, all the retailers need distributors who distribute larger amounts, which are then broken into smaller bags to sell. The larger bags are illegal for anyone to have, so I guess it just gets there by magic.
I found a cheaper way to get online. I just wandered the canals with my laptop open, looking for any free wi-fi signal I could get. I spent a lot of time on people’s stoops sending emails, reading the New York Times, and doing online research for the next leg of my trip. Almost invariably, a seat at an outdoor restaurant had no decent signal nearby, but then a short walk away, a stoop or gutter offered perfect reception. I just had to watch for passing motorists whizzing around corners while sitting in the gutter in the perfect spot to catch the best signal.
As a nation, the Dutch are the world’s tallest people (they average 184cm, 7 cm taller than I am). In many bathrooms, the men’s urinals are mounted so high that I feel like I’m 12 years old. I have to stand on my tip-toes to pee, which can make for some interesting experiences. Okay, not quite, but let’s say the urinals are “uncomfortably” high.
I love the bicycle culture in Amsterdam. You really don’t notice the cars much. You see two people on a bicycle all the time, especially with small children riding in special handlebar baskets, bumping along as the father or mother talks on the cell phone while riding with the groceries in the back. About half the people you see riding by are talking on cell phones. You often see someone riding sidesaddle on the rear rack. A common move is that when they get to the hump leading to the bridge over a canal (which occurs at the end of every block), the rear person will get off and trot up the little hill, then get back on at the top and they glide off together down the other side. Another thing you see is a guy riding his bike while pulling a second bike alongside, making it look easy. You might want to try this sometime if you think it is. One day I saw a couple riding along next to each other, talking, and just as naturally as breathing he had his hand on the small of her back and was gently guiding her along so she didn’t have to pedal. It’s little things like that that remind me why I like to spend so much time in Europe.
Poland
Time for my 51st country. I wanted to take the train to Warsaw from Amsterdam, but that requires an overnight stay in Berlin. So I put my pack on and took the train to the airport, where I was told to go to gate 59A. I went to the gate with 20 minutes to spare, only to see that no one was there and the gate wasn’t active. I had to backtrack the entire length of the “A” concourse to learn on a screen that my flight had been changed to 43D. When I got to the gate, I told the Polish Airlines representative that I had gone to gate 59A and there was no sign saying to come here. They told me that was because there had been a gate change. Thanks, I said.
I felt like I was in Poland already.
I took the public bus to the train station in Warsaw and took the express train to Krakow. The minute you arrive in Krakow you are greeted by a phalanx of friendly young greeters who hand you maps that show you the way to the various youth hostels scattered around town. I declined and found a lovely but expensive hotel right in the center of town, just a few steps from the central square.
Krakow
Unlike the rest of Poland, Krakow was not bombed during the War. There are still several medieval churches, statues, etc. The center is a tourist area with a huge square (largest medieval square in Europe!), terrible restaurants, and plenty of locals passing through. It’s a tourist destination with plenty of Americans in attendance.
First things, first. The people here all look the same. They look like Lech Walesa, only the women’s moustaches aren’t as prominent. Even the teenagers look like they’re about to turn into Lech Walesa any minute. In Krakow, the women make an attempt at being stylish, but it reminds me of the British attempt to cook good food. The footwear here is as bad as the haircuts in Bolzano (you may remember from my previous journal that the people there had universally bad haircuts). I spent a few hours in the square trying to take some clandestine photos of the women’s terrible shoes “on the hoof,” but all I got was a lot of blurs.
One afternoon, I was hungry so I ducked into a middle-easterrn fast-food place that had falafels on the menu, but they were out of them. Even though a large percentage of their tourists are American, very few people speak English. The guy offered me a “Wegeteriasky kebob,” and I nodded, expecting some veggies on a stick coated with lamb residue. Instead, he gave me some shredded cabbage, both purple and white, in a pita pocket. Mmmmm.
I managed to find two vegetarian restaurants. The first night, I walked into one of these places, which looks more or less like a student café. I saw a few people at tables and a young woman sitting by herself having a bowl of borsht. I looked at her and thought I would order and then offer to join her and see if she wanted company. I ordered my mushroom barley soup and mushroom piroshkis and some potatoes, and when I turned around to walk toward her she had left, leaving her soup and food half eaten. I really think she got the idea that I was going to go say hi, and she was too frightened to deal with it. I felt sorry I had somehow chased her out of the restaurant. Was it that I was twirling my moustache or licking my eyebrows too much? I really don’t know.
Oh, one of the greatest things about Poland is that the word Alcohol is spelled ALKOHOLE, and you see this on signs all over the place. I think there’s a world of possibility here, but I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader to explore.
One of the churches, the Basilica of St Francis, was truly memorable. I’ve been to a lot of cities and seen enough churches to make Mother Theresa smile in her grave. And I can tell you the naves and transepts tend to blur together. Sure, there’s Saint Peter’s in Rome (built for giants), and the Koln Cathedral (tallest structure in the world at one time), and St Vitus Cathedral in the Prague Castle (silver casket), Siena’s amazing duomo (decorations and illustrated books), the church dedicated to sailors in Marseille (hand-written notes all over the walls), the Church of Spilled Blood in Saint Petersburg (onion-shaped spires), and of course Westminster Abbey (everyone is buried there), Notre Dame (watch your wallet), and Sacre Coeur (hang on the steps and sing Simon and Garfunkel tunes). I see about 20 cookie-cutter cathedrals for every one that really catches my eye.
And the Basilica of St Francis in Krakow caught my eye. It has some of the most amazing stained-glass windows in the world. (See photos and links.)
I’m a fairly keen student of semiotics – signs and their meanings. One thing I found amazing was the signs for male and female that mark the doors of the bathrooms. One is an equilateral triangle, the other is a circle. Can you guess which is which? The triangle is for men, and the circle is for women. Where did this come from? I’ve been to 50 other countries and never seen it. Does anyone know about this? Please tell me if you have any information.
Back to the Salt Mines
Many tourists are here to see Auschwitz, which I decided not to see this trip. Instead, I went to the Wieliczka Salt Mines. For some reason, I manage to find the Unesco World Heritage sites all on my own, without having to consult the Unesco Map of World Heritage Sites.
The salt mine has been in operation for the last 900 years. It has over 200 kilometers of passages, over 2,000 caverns, 40 chapels, and several chambers carved to give good acoustical properties for concerts. We started by going down 64 meters of steps. I got stuck behind an elderly American couple that was really having trouble on the steps. The wife, apparently, had very limited vision and was having difficulty seeing where the steps stopped and she should turn around for the next set. So her husband would wait at the bottom and tell her when she was on the last step. This really didn’t work, because by the time he said anything she was already down, so she got more and more tentative. So finally, I said “There are seven steps,” and she started counting. He kept telling her what to do, but she got faster and faster, going down seven steps at a time. Soon, she told him she didn’t need him anymore, and the pace picked up quite a bit. I’ve since noticed that on most fire stairs the standard is seven steps per turn, 14 steps per flight.
I enjoyed the tour of the salt mine, learning about mining techniques and seeing all the sculptures carved out of pink rock salt. I saw tons of wood in the mine, holding up all the passages, caverns, and stairs. Some of the caverns are set up for large social events, with statues and staircases all made of salt; even the "tiles" in the floor are simply carved and polished salt. I asked if there were ever any fires, and our guide said there were always fires, some that lasted for months, killing hundreds of men at a time.
A Brief History of Poland
The Slavic groups that occupied the area of present-day Poland were first Christianized and began Poland under the Piast dynasty in 996. The crown eventually passed to the Jagiello dynasty (r.1386-1572), under whom Poland enjoyed its golden age. The arts and sciences flourished, and a Polish-Lithuanian state, created in 1569, maintained an empire that reached from the Baltic to the Black Sea. From 1609 to 1618 the Poles invaded and occupied Russia, including the Kremlin in Moscow. Probably bit off more than they could chew, because it was all downhill from 1618. The Swedes and Russians promptly pushed them back until the empire was no longer. In the 18th Century, Poland was divided and occupied by Sweden, Prussia, Austria, and Russia until Poland as a country disappeared from the map of Europe. Napoleon occupied the region until the Russians kicked him out. Following World War I, after 300 years of occupation, in 1918 an independent Poland was proclaimed, with Joseph Pilsudski as chief of state. The Treaty of Versailles (1919) redrew Poland's boundaries, but a dispute over the eastern border led to war with Russia (1920-21). A Polish constitution was adopted in 1921, and Poles were free for five short years. In 1926 Pilsudski assumed dictatorial power, which passed to a military junta after his death (1935), and then came the Nazis, and then again came the Russians. People in Poland thought the Russians were better than the Nazis, but not by much. After having been occupied for most of the last 400 years, Poland finally got its freedom in 1989.
Warsaw
Soon I was in Warsaw, a city that has come a long way since Independence. Now it looks like many other European cities, with glass office towers and people talking on cell phones everywhere. I spent quite a bit of time in the “Old town,” which I found interesting. I know enough about construction to know that everything there is fake. The medieval town center was completely destroyed during the war, and the Soviets rebuilt it to look approximately the way it did before the war. They did a decent job; the tourists think they’re in an old town, but to me it feels like Disneyland. Same stucco on every building, but different color paint. Same windows, but in different places. I’m told the Soviets relieved several nearby towns of all their remaining bricks and trucked them to Warsaw to rebuild the Old Town.
For me, it was hard to walk through the town without hearing gunshots, imagining people trudging through trenches, Nazis shooting into buildings, bombs exploding, people hiding, fires burning, bodies piled up in the streets. For me, it’s a surreal experience. I faded in and out of past and present. I went to the art galleries and ate in the restaurants, but ghosts kept running by, emaciated, desperate.
Almost the entire city of Warsaw was rebuilt. You see a lot of gray concrete everywhere. In the neighborhood that used to be the Jewish Ghetto, there are now rows and rows of concrete housing projects with children playing in the street. All the homes are identical. Sixty years ago, 300,000 Jews were packed into the Ghetto and sent off to camps. The only thing left to remember the ghetto now is the memorial to Pawiak.
Pawiak – a name that hangs over the neighborhood like a dark cloud. Built by the Russians in the 1830s, Pawiak Prison became Warsaw’s death camp. Over 30,000 Jews were killed here, many were tortured. It was completely destroyed in the War, except for a single tree that still stands outside. Now there’s an underground museum that recreates several of the cells and has photos from the Ghetto.
This year marked the 60th anniversary of the Ghetto Uprising, so there are many events, artworks, and celebrations. The sign of the Uprising is everywhere in town, painted on buildings, on sidewalks. Many exhibits show photos and tell stories. There are many names, names of Jews who didn’t survive the War.
Wisnia
One name I was looking for was Wiesha Paryzenberg, my mother, who was born in 1939 and was a survivor of the Warsaw Ghetto. My mother had always told me that there would be nothing left if I ever went back to look for information on her. She said everything was destroyed. I went to an office that collects information about survivors and found her name on a list of surviving children in 1946. They also had an ID card on her, with the name Wisnia, which was probably a misspelling of Wiesha, which means “Cherry” – a child’s nickname. My mother’s real name was Wislawa (sounds like “Viswava”). I found her mother on another list, and I learned that my mother’s birth certificate may still be on record there. A friend from Warsaw said she would help me file the proper requests and keep looking for information. I’m particularly interested in learning about my grandfather, Rudolph Paryzenberg, who was supposed to be a well known inventor and engineer in the 30s.
Conflict
In Warsaw, you see lots of young people with plenty of energy. There are lots of new bistros, cafes, restaurants, and shopping malls. I found two vegetarian restaurants in Warsaw, one of which was a nice cheap little cafeteria, the other of which was a dining room with no one in it. I went in one evening, hungry, and asked to look at the menu. EVERYTHING was either deep fried or tried to be fake meat. I looked at the 40-some tables and the fish in the fish tank and the waiters standing by. I observed to the pretty young hostess: “Nobody is here,” and she replied, sadly, “We are here.” I felt sorry for them. I like to support vegetarian restaurants, but I had to pass that one up in favor of a cheeseless pizza.
One night, I was walking down the street when a young man ran right toward me, full speed, carrying a bag. Another guy was running behind him, yelling in Polish. I stepped aside as the first guy ran past, then I realized that he had just ripped off a woman’s purse and was running with it. He darted into traffic, across the street, and out of sight before I put it all together. I thought about Cory - I had my running shoes on and could have done something, but it all happened so quickly that there was nothing I could do. I felt bad for the American woman, who came along crying and saying everything was in her purse.
In general, Warsaw is safe, but the bag-snatching is legendary, so you have to keep your eyes open.
Why do we live in a world where people do mean things to each other? Why is my country waging a war and occupying another country that doesn’t want us there? Why does our government put so many people in jail for having drugs, while 25,000 people die every year from alcohol-related causes? Why does so much of our tax money go to defense ($400B) and only a tiny amount to help people in other countries ($8B)? Why do we spend so much on health care (15% of US income) and yet 62% of Americans are obese, the US is 42nd among industrialized nations in infant mortality, and 100,000 people die from medical errors every year? Why do people who promise to make government smaller actually end up … oh, sorry. This is my travel journal. On to Norway.
Oslo
I spent a week in Oslo (had never been to Norway, so this is my 52nd country), and I can’t say it did much for me. It was the third week in August, and already it was getting chilly. It’s probably tied with London for most expensive city in Europe. I asked for a Laundromat, so I could do a large load of laundry, and I was told there was no laundry (wash-and-fold) service in the city. I didn’t believe it. I went to a few dry cleaners and they told me they can get my laundry done for about $100 and it would take 10 days. I asked about a Laundromat, where I could do my own. As it turns out, there was one. Exactly one. It was about a 25-minute hike from my hotel. I found it and did my laundry, and people I met there confirmed that this, indeed, is the only laundromat in the city. Someone said the same was true in Sweden. Why is this? It must be the serious focus on white goods in Scandinavia. Everyone, I suppose, has a washer and dryer. What a contrast from New York, where few people do.
I’d like to go back to Norway someday and explore the fjords and the countryside, but Oslo didn’t feel like home the way Zurich does. Because it was chilly, I bought an Arcteryx Sigma SL waterproof jacket that I absolutely love and that I needed for what would come next.
Verbier
I spent a week in Verbier with my friend John, who is always great to reconnect with. We were high up in the Alps and spent several days hiking and exploring. It was already starting to get chilly, but the afternoons were sunny and warm. I think the part I liked the best was hiking and discovering tiny wild strawberries that are 100 times more flavorful than any strawberries you can buy. They were the size of raisins. We hiked slowly, watching for them and snatching them up as we went.
One day we took a nice hike above the tree line (see photos) and then decided to take these two-wheeled mountain scooters down the hill. They just had a platform to stand on, handlebars, two wheels, and two brakes. Whoosh! We went flying down the mountain! John was out of sight before I could get going. It went quickly, but we had a blast.
I decided I want to go back to Verbier and learn to paraglide. They were doing it all day from the top of the mountain and it looked like a blast. They have a one-day course where you can learn in the morning and solo in the afternoon.
I spent a day in Geneva looking at watches, as is my custom. I spent two hours at the Patek Philippe Museum and a very informative hour talking with my friend Denis Asch. Denis has a very special little watch boutique in Geneva. Whenever I’m in town, I drop in and we discuss the latest in escapements, tourbillions, hairsprings, dials, and gear trains. He’s great. One day, we want to put together a “Watch Tasting” tour of the Jura region, taking rich people from watch factory to watch factory and giving them imaginary “watch bucks” to spend on their dream watches. I guess there are more important things to do in the world, but a day in Geneva thinking about nothing but watches is one of life’s little pleasures.
That was my month backpacking around Europe. I didn’t meet my future European wife, but I did have a great time. Now I have 52 countries down and 48 (at least) to go. Stay tuned.
Links
ArcTeryx – the world’s best outdoor gear
Awesome landscape-format Paris Metro photos
Wireless Leiden – a cool project to make an entire village wireless
A good web site to learn about Tin Tin
St Joseph’s Basilica in Krakow
The Warsaw Uprising in words and pictures
