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Everyday Krakow 052

EY Travel Tips: Krakow

With Copernicus

1. Walk around the Planty.

The Planty  is the park that surrounds Krakow’s Old Town. It’s a great way to get a feel for the city. You can walk around part of it and then go through St. Florian’s Gate at Ullica Florinska up into the main market square, Rynek Glowny. Also be sure to climb up in the Barbikan, one of the last remaining bits of the medieval wall. Plus, snap a picture with the statue of Copernicus at the nearby Jagellonian University. If you’re looking for a quick break from your stroll, there’s a great English language bookstore only two blocks away called Massolit. Grab a cup of their great coffee and pick up one of their ornate bookmarks as a free souvenir.

2. Try beer with juice—trust me.

In Polish, it’s “piwo z sokiem.” Memorize those three words. Be sure to get a Zywiec with cherry, or better yet, ginger. They’ll serve it to you with a straw. Stir up the juice at the bottom and you’re good to go. It might not feel like drinking a beer to purists, but it’s definitely worth a try.

3.  Don’t be afraid to be assertive.

From my experience, Poles are a no-nonsense bunch who can get frustrated with out-of-towners, especially given Krakow’s rising popularity as a tourist destination. With that in mind, don’t be afraid to assert yourself in ticket lines, at restaurant counters, and anywhere else….they’ll respect you for it and you’ll get more done. As with any foreign country, it’s useful to have your destination written down in Polish (ask for help at your hotel) so you can hand that to the person at the train station. Also, don’t forget practice saying “thank you” in Polish: It’s dzienkuje, or phonetically: jen-koo-yeh.

4. Take a ride on the Pope Train!  

Poland was home to Pope John Paul II, who is very revered as a national hero, especially given his advocacy for the Poles’ rights during the Cold War. If you fancy traveling the footsteps of the Polish pope, consider taking a ride on the bright gold papal train, which leaves from Krakow’s main train station daily. There are multiple stops on the train, including to Pope John Paul’s birthplace, the small city Wadowice. While there, try out a so-called Pope Cake, the pope’s favorite delicacy as a boy. They’re delicious, but enormous, so don’t be afraid to split one.

5. Set aside some time for day trips.

In the surrounding area near Krakow, there are a number of fascinating spots to see, including Auschwitz-Berkinau, the largest concentration camp during the Holocaust, and, for something entirely different, the Wieliczka Salt Mine. Auschwitz truly cannot be missed, even if it’s obviously a very sobering experience. The salt mine couldn’t be more opposite, and is pretty campy, but the underground chapel with its ornate salt chandeliers is a spectacular site, and the tour gives interesting insight into one of the region’s major industries. Plus, the tour guides (English speakers are readily available) wear hard hats. You can’t really ask for more than that.

6. Drink apple pie.

I’m aware this is my second alcohol tip, but you don’t want to miss out on this one. Go to any bar in the city and order a Tatanka—yes, like the word for “buffalo.” It’s made with Zubrowka vodka, a Polish specialty, and apple juice (check out their website, they even show you how to make this drink!). The combination tastes exactly like a cinnamony slice of apple pie. If you’re lucky, they’ll even put an apple slice in your drink. Classy, no?  Note: This drink is called different things in different parts of Poland, so if you’re in Warsaw, it might be called a szarlotka (apple cake). Ask the bartender.

7. Consider visiting over a major holiday.

88% of Poland’s population is Catholic. Because of this, each major Catholic holiday, the city puts on a festival in its main square, complete with local merchants hawking handmade wares and delicious food, and plenty of entertainment.  The drawback with this is that, of course, fewer businesses will be open (definitely check operating hours before you go to any major attractions), and major religious sites, especially nearby Czestochowa, a famous Catholic pilgrimage site, will be crowded. Still, if you want an authentic Polish experience, consider booking your trip in the spring, especially near Easter. Make sure to check out a holiday mass in St. Mary’s Cathedral, the spectacular church in the main market square.

8.  Eat.   All.   The.   Time.

Especially worth trying are the street vendors’ pretzels for a great breakfast snack, and the zapikeinki, a long piece of bread covered in pickles and various sauces. In the main market square, look for the guy dressed as a giant beer mug. He’ll give you a coupon for a free beer at a restaurant right near the Wawel Castle. It’s a bit more touristy than some places, but the English menu serves as a great introduction to some of the best Polish foods: perogi—delicious cheese-, meat- or even fruit-filled dumplings (try the Ruskie-style, filled with cheese and potato)—and keilbasa, a type of sausage. Warning: If you want to take a picture with our friend the beer mug, beware that you’ll have to pay a few zloty to do so.

~Megan~

For more stories from Megan’s travel in Krakow, check out:

Running Five Polish Miles 

 Afterward

Martin Examines Hops

Foraging For Hops

Sadly, I’m not a big beer drinker.  And I say sadly, because I seem to be surrounded by people who really know and love their beer.  My sister’s fiancé, Joel, is a brewer at the one and only Great Lakes Brewing Company, and my good friend, co-filmmaker, and current roommate, Alex, is experienced in the art of home brewing- he even took an online course.  So between them it is as if I’ve been adopted into beer culture.

For the most part this has worked out well enough. They’ve been able to get past my comments such as “I think my favorite beer is Coors Ice- Coors Light poured over a big glass of ice,” and I’ve been able to ignore their Indiana Jones like reactions in beer shops to a rare “one of a kind” find.  But this weekend a connection was made – I have now become a beer “forager.”

It all started a few years ago- Alex had discovered wild hops growing near Colorado Springs.  He had seen it for a few years and after many smell tests found when it would be most ripe for harvest.  It just happened to coincide with this past Saturday, so Alex, Maddy (Alex’s girlfriend), Dan (another beer advocate) and I hopped into the car.

We arrived at a familiar running spot, and started hiking up the road keeping our eyes peeled for what I perceived to be these “illusive” hops.  On the way, I found my eyes (and mind) wandering away from the task at hand, to the crags and rock walls along the path, wondering which I could climb.  I pointed an especially nasty looking one out to Dan, (an experienced climber) wondering if I’d be able to attempt the route while being securely roped up.  Reading my mind he declared: “That’s about the limit of what I’d do without a rope!”  Instantly I was in disbelief and awe for it was 100 feet of near vertical and overhanging rock. We continued on, me pondering Dan’s skill level and the rest of the group searching for the still undiscovered hops.

The trip was not without treasures. We did stumble upon a rare squirrel that looked like a cross between a bunny and the devil.  We photographed the demon and moved on.

Throughout the search, I was completely ignorant to what hops looked like and imagined us gathering long stalks of brown wispy wheat-like plants.   Our prospects weren’t looking too good until finally Alex spotted the “elusive” hop.

I could not have been more surprised.  Rather than brown, tall and thin, it grows as a vine and has little buds ranging from ½ to 1 inch long.  We smelled them and were mildly impressed but moved on to see if there were more.

BOOM- we found the bumper crop.  A small pine tree was covered in them.

This bunch smelled different and we all went back and forth, on which we liked more.  In the end we gathered half a plastic bag full of both varieties and headed to the home brew store.

 

 

And despite the excitement of our find, I was still pondering Dan’s declaration about the rock climb, so before we reached the car I convinced Dan to try and “free solo” (climb unroped) his peak, except that I was horrified when he actually took up my challenge and started up.  I thought my stupid dare was about to lead to the witness of my friend falling onto the sharp rocks below.  Luckily, fear or reality got the better of him and he decided ascending in sandals sans rope was not the best plan.

The adventure continued as we drove way out east of the mountains to the plains.  The homebrew store was a combination of a warehouse and bar.  Across the street was a strip club.  We entered the store and Alex and Dan rummaged around, selecting their special ingredients (malted barley extract, yeast) and tools (tubing, buckets). Alex and Dan already had much of the gear but after two batches of last year’s brew had resulted in explosions, Alex wanted new tubing to prevent another round of infection, which he speculated might have been caused by wild yeast entering the beer.

The owner rung us up and delighted in informing us that tax was only 4.7% – we were out of the city now where tax was 9.8%!

“Gotta love being right on the border” he joked.  “But the winter was a drag, snow plow didn’t even plow the street.”

“But you gotta love that tax,” I told him, “hell, I bet you’ll put the plow on your truck and make your own path.”

He gave a hearty laugh, it appeared I hit the nail on the head.  (I wondered if he had a deal with the strip club guy).

Fast-forward to the next day and our cottage was transformed into what could easily be mistaken for a meth lab.  Tubes, and buckets everywhere with a big vat of wort (beer before it has fermented) on the stove.

 

The smell was… interesting, but it grew on me and over all the hops smelled great.

Alex and Maddy did most of the actual brewing, while I hung around on the sidelines, watching in wonder.  Now, after all the excitement and activity, for once I can honestly say that I’ve never been so excited to crack open a beer.  I’ll let you know how it goes in 4 weeks!

~Martin~

 

800px-Strasbourg_Nasa

Never Say Never!

Running In Strasbourg

NASA Satellite View of Strasbourg

December 31, my senior year of high school, I made two resolutions. One: Take a year to travel. 2) Never run again. Weeks earlier, at the Northern California Sectional Cross Country Championship, I’d shaved my head, laced my flats, sprinted across pavement and grass, and finished sixth. The top five went to the state meet, and I’d been passed in the last twelve meters. One second ruined my four-year career.

Fast forward eight months. I’d spent the day along the banks of the River Ill in Strasbourg, enjoying Alsace’s overlap of French and German culture and eating bacon for the first time. It had been pleasant to wander around ornately shingled beerhouses, Parisian-style cafés and apartments, but I hadn’t seen much of the city I’d soon have to leave. I decided to break my resolution, just for a day.

The sun had disappeared, but my host family said I could run to Strasbourg Cathedral. It wasn’t far: just follow the tram tracks from the house to the church. September was approaching; I felt cold and ridiculous in my zip-off cargo shorts and t-shirt, but my legs felt free. My watch showed it was later than I thought, already nine o’clock. Everything looked different under the moon.

After ten-minutes steady progress the tracks split unexpectedly. There was no one on the streets to ask for directions (not that I would), but I had a fifty-fifty chance and could always retrace my steps. I headed left.

Fifteen minutes later I looked up, winded, and saw the Cathedral’s dark spire well away to my right. I didn’t backtrack, but decided to cut across through a tall row of offices, one bridge and then another and then a broad deserted street. My sweat turned cold and my knees ached. The buildings stopped looking postcard-worthy and there was no site of the Cathedral—the city’s assorted church bells struck ten o’clock.

Sounds of a highway traffic emerged and I found myself standing before an overpass. Strasbourg is a city of almost 900,000 people. I hadn’t realized that. I turned 180 degrees and tried to run back the way I came. Nothing looked familiar. At eleven o’clock I rediscovered the tram tracks, but didn’t know which way to follow them. I stopped running, rested my hands on my knees and debated the relative merits of looking for a way home versus sleeping under a bridge. My breathing came fast and shallow; my brain labored to the point where it didn’t notice a small Peugeot rolling along the tracks.

A horn honked—my host family’s car. I got in the back sheepishly. “I am so, so sorry” I said in bad French and tired English. They laughed. “It’s ok. We thought we’d never find you.”

We rode in silence for a while. My shirt and shorts stuck to the seat, as I looked out at more recognizable sights. Before he parked the father asked, “So, how was your run?”

I took a deep breath. My chest hurt like after a race.

“You know what?” I said. “It was great. I think I’ll go again tomorrow.”

~Will~

IMG_3514.compressed

TRAVEL RULES – 101

Running in China

This story was a submission to EntertainingYourself.com’s first ever “Best Running Story in a Foreign Country Writing Contest” – April 2011. Our story’s author, EY Contributor, Martin Mudry, an avid traveler and runner, is currently filming a documentary in Kenya called “Where Dreams Don’t Fade.” You can follow his latest project on a special facebook page devoted to the movie.  Or check back here for more stories to come!

Carl had just arrived in China. Wade, Megan and I picked him up at the airport in Kunming, the city he’d be spending the next 4 months in for his study abroad. While Wade, Megan and I had been traveling around China together for a few weeks, Carl should have been tired, jet lagged, and ready for bed. So what did we do? Immediately upon returning to the hostel we made him take a shot of one of the strongest and foulest drinks known to man called Baijiu. At $.50 for the equivalent of 5 shots, it also must be one of the cheapest drinks available anywhere.

The rest of the first night was pretty tame. We walked around a bit past some empty stores, through the big square where our hostel was located and then went to bed. The next morning we all went out to breakfast together before bidding Wade and Megan goodbye, as they flew back up north to the city where they are both teaching.

Once they left, Carl had quite a bit on his plate. He had just arrived at altitude, (Kunming’s altitude is 1,800 meters ~6,500ft); he was with someone who has a dairy allergy but doesn’t speak any Chinese; he was adjusting to a 13 hour time difference from where he had just come; oh yeah, and this was his first time traveling outside of the United States, EVER!

So as a good friend, what did I do to ease the transition? Take it easy for a few days? No! Carl and I immediately headed out to the city outskirts and hiked into the nearby mountains where I had previously seen a few hotels. We hiked up to an even higher elevation at which point the real fun began- watching Carl barter for a room with people in Chinese. The problem was, aside from Carl not having practiced Chinese for a few months, he also had to speak to people who barely knew Mandarin- the only dialect he had been taught.

We checked out one place, which seemed nice, but the price was a bit high, so we decided to check out another knowing we could always come back and try to drive the price down more.

At the second place, the guy showed us rooms but opened each door by sliding open the room window first and then unlocking the door from the inside with his hand. But the price seemed right after a little negotiation, so we made the decision to stay and asked for the room key.

What? The guy didn’t seem to understand. “The key to the room” Carl said again in Chinese. He seemed very confused and reluctant, but took a key off a key chain that appeared to hold only the master keys. We went back to the room, where I took a closer look at the window- thinking: “Great, no lock, so the key is useless per his little trick to get in.”

As I debated whether we should leave our stuff in the room while we went for a run, I realized that there was a key to the bathroom and if we locked our stuff in there, chances were he wouldn’t be able to get past that second door.

So with our passports and cash secured behind one door with virtually no lock and behind another door as flimsy as balsa wood, we went out for a quick walk and then a run.

As we were leaving with our backpacks to explore the area, we ran into the guy who had given us the room and key. He asked us for the keys. Carl tried to tell him that we had it, but he kept asking for it. I, of course, didn’t know what he was saying, although it was pretty clear that he was motioning for the keys. Finally Carl told him for the 4th time that we were just going for a walk; that we would be coming back; and that we were taking the key but would give it back before we checked out.

On the run we went through small villages, down single track trails and came upon some kids. They appeared utterly terrified and I’m sure the youngest thought the foreigners were going to kill her and leave her dead in the forest. We tried to tell them it was OK and the older ones actually start to laugh, but one of the youngest continued to run in terror.

We ducked by some houses and got back out onto a main road. A few more times we took trails that came to dead ends. One looked nice but quickly ended at a small temple in the hillside. Another led us down a path toward a village but soon we were surrounded by huge German shepherds, which while chained, were barking furiously, giving us the clear message about which way to go (back the way we came). We wandered through more fields, before finally coming to a trail that led down a steep path and crossed a beautiful hill of tall grass.

It reminded me a lot of the hills on the coasts of Northern California, with little halftrack trails. Carl was out running in front when all of a sudden he slipped. The image flashed before me of Carl tripping and tumbling a hundred feet down the steep slope. Luckily he caught himself.

Feeling like my mother, I warned him: “Be careful Carl.” “I know” he said. A few minutes later, he tripped again, and then again. I felt at a loss, and could picture having to call his parents to tell them how he slid down a hill in rural china. Again, with a little luck, we found a way up and over and finally were on the path heading back to the hotel.

We planned to go out to eat, but after a shower Carl was exhausted and just wanted to call it an early night. I didn’t blame him. When Wade Megan and I first arrived at altitude, we took it really easy. With Carl, I’d had him hiking, running, and translating from day one and maybe the jet lag was finally catching up with him. I read for a bit then lay down as well and we both dozed off until 9:30 pm or so.

We were both awake and talking when we heard a car pull in and the doors slam. Then, all of a sudden, loud piano music. It sounded so real – could there be a piano somewhere??

Carl and I were like what the ??, until the background music started and people started singing karaoke in Chinese for the next few hours. The music randomly went from loud to unbearable at no discernable intervals.

The absurdity of the situation – high up above Kunming, on the border of mountains and farmland – people were blasting music and singing as if their sole goal was to break glass.

Hours later the music stopped. Then we heard footsteps coming downstairs to where our room was. Then there was someone at the door trying to get in. We tried to say hello, but then the window slid open. I quickly got up to turn on the light as Carl yelled “What do you want?? We’re in here” in Chinese. As I turned on the light, whoever was there left quickly and that was the last we heard of them.

The next morning, we got up early and caught the sunrise on the hill. It was completely quiet and we were the only people. It was a complete 180 from the day I had discovered the place with Wade and Megan.  That day it was New Years and there were hundreds of Chinese people in high heels, suits, and dress shoes, miraculously scrambling over the rocks and shouting to each other across the valleys. This time we were alone and the light was perfect.

We hiked around a little more before returning to our room to gather our stuff to leave. Our friend who was so worried about our keys and maybe was the one trying to come into our room the night prior was no where to be found.  We left the keys with his wife and headed out.

We had 20 miles to hike and many more memories to be had before the day was up.  It may have only been Carl’s first few days in China, but it was important that he learn the rules to successful travel- do it while you can, push yourself, and don’t forget to go for a run.

~Martin~

800px-Obama-3d-view

The World Really Is Flat

Based on a Ritchie Family Legend…

Bob wasn’t looking forward to his doctor’s appointment. People in his family rarely went to the doctor. His mother had died of colon cancer because, by the time she’d gone to a physician, the tumors had already spread far beyond her digestive system. No, doctors were not to be trusted. They made him too uncomfortable.

Still, he trudged toward the optometrist’s office, armed with a book and his over-the-counter reading glasses, should there be a wait. He’d gone for one reason: his wife, Linda. Trained as a lawyer, she was skilled at convincing him to do things he didn’t want to do.

“It’ll be good for you,” she said, patting his knee. “Just a check-up.”

He opened the office door. Bob looked as if someone had put a thumb on top of his now-balding head, and pushed down. Two-thirds of his body was torso. Still, he wasn’t an unattractive man. His eyes had the unusual tendency to change between blue and green, depending on what he wore. This had always charmed Linda, who expressed her preference by buying him forest green sweaters for Christmas or birthdays. “I have an appointment with Dr. Graham,” Bob told the receptionist, a petite woman with lots of hair. “Okay, you just sit over there”–she motioned to two armchairs–” and Dr. Graham will call you in a moment.”

Bob steered himself into a chair and opened his book, a secondhand mystery novel. The detective, a sassy brunette, had just stumbled over a major clue, when–

“Bob?” called Dr. Graham, a younger man with slick hair. Bob followed him into the examining room.

“And how are we today?” Dr. Graham said, opening Bob’s file.

*Snellen Eye Chart

The doctor smoothed his hair and began to administer tests, pausing to record his results.

“And finally, are things clearer with lens A or B?” Dr. Graham fiddled a knob on a piece of equipment near Bob’s temple.

“Uh, B,” said Bob. “Okay. Now C or D?” “D.”

“Well, that’s interesting,” said Dr. Graham, his hand drifting toward his hair again. He paused for a moment to read over his notes.

“Interesting?” Bob asked, leaning forward in the examining chair. If they found something wrong with him, he swore right then, Linda would never get him into a doctor’s office again. Never.

“Strictly speaking, your eyes are fine. No glaucoma, no signs of cornea wear.”

Bob shifted.

“But, according to my calculations…well, Bob, you can’t see 3D.”

“What?”

“Let’s put it this way:” The doctor paused for a moment, for emphasis: “If you could see what we see, you would be amazed.”

Dr. Graham leaned back, letting his prognosis sink in. Yes, this was medicine at its finest.

“Now,” the doctor continued, “I don’t think there should be any long term effects with all of this. There haven’t been any yet, right? He chuckled.

“Problems playing tennis, perhaps? Or…?”

Bob stood up, glancing around the room. Yes, there was the doctor’s framed medical degree, hanging on the wall. But still, it was clearly time to leave.

“Well. Thank you for your time,” said Bob, gathering his coat and book.

Dr. Graham beamed.

“Not at all, Bob, not at all. You just be careful out there, alright? With your condition and all, you never can be too safe.”

Driving home, Bob called his wife. “Say, Linda,” he said. “Is that 3D movie the kids wanted to see still out?”

“I think so. Why? How did the eye appointment go?”

“Fine. It went fine.  I think I just need a second opinion.”

*Image Source                                        ~Megan~
Krakow Old Town

TIED FOR SECOND PLACE – RUNNING IN KRAKOW

Running Five Polish Miles

When I first arrived in Krakow, Poland, for my semester abroad in February 2008, I was just getting back into running after a three-year hiatus. I’d spent that January staying with a friend in her London flat and traveling some around Britain and Europe before my program in Poland started. As my bank account had dwindled over the month, I forced myself to put aside my passport and suitcase for the last week I was in London and decided to try to find cheaper ways to entertain myself (Hey! That’s the name of the site!). Running along the Thames was cheap (free!) and I got to see more of London than if I were walking, so I decided to lace up my shoes again.

At that point, running for me, after having taken so much time off, was a ridiculous effort: I’d lope along at a 10-minute mile pace for five to seven minutes, before giving myself a few minutes’ walking break to try to get my heart rate down below 150 again.

“I’ll ease into it,” I told myself, as I’d drag my body back into my friend’s flat, my cheeks siren red from my efforts.

And so I was still, a week later, during my program’s orientation to Krakow.

A brief history lesson: Krakow is one of the few Polish cities that wasn’t badly damaged during World War II. While Hitler’s army annihilated 98% of Warsaw’s buildings, the Fuhrer decided Krakow, as a city, was not of Slavic origin, and could therefore be spared. His reasoning was that the city had been under the Austrian Empire after the Partitions of Poland in 1795 (until 1918, when Poland was briefly put back on the map as a republic, before being taken over by the Germans during WWII). Even though the city has roots leading back to 966 C.E., it was really a Germanic city, through and through, Hitler decided.

Satisfied with this version of history, Hitler quickly named Krakow the capital of his Nazi Polish government.

He went on to install his new Nazi governor in Wawel Castle, a gorgeous fortress atop a hill in the center of Krakow that’s believed to be the birthplace of Poland, and a huge point of pride for Poles.

Wawel Castle (from below)

What all this history meant, for this 21st century American foreign student, was that Krakow’s Old Town, despite—and also because of—the city’s troubled history, still retains its feel from centuries ago. Each cobble-stoned street is lined with pastel-colored Baroque buildings. They all lead up to the Rynek Glowny, the largest market square in Europe, where the 15th century sunshine yellow Cloth Hall sits at its center and is home to a flower and handicrafts market that operates year-round.

RynekGlowny

My study abroad program’s guide, Anna (pronounced AHN-ya) spent the morning of my first full day in Krakow showing us around Rynek Glowny and Krakow’s Old Town. She pointed out St. Mary’s Cathedral, with its mismatched towers (so designed, or so the story goes, by two rival brother architects, one of whom killed himself in shame when his tower was shorter and less beautiful than his brother’s), and directed our attention to the Clock Tower, the only remnant of Krakow’s 14th century Town Hall.

Then, she ushered us out of the square. A few blocks’ walk and we’d reached the Barbican, a circular brick fortress with an imposing portcullis.

“This,” said Anna, “Is the only remnant of Krakow’s city wall. The wall used to surround the whole city, but the Austrians tore all of it down in the 1800s.”

She shifted on her feet.

The Planty

“They replaced it with what we call ‘The Planty.’” She motioned around her, to what I’d thought was a small, narrow park.

“The Planty,” Anna continued, “Goes around all of Krakow’s Old Town, forming a green ring around the city with a path running through it.”

I looked around more. The Planty (pronounced PLAHN-tee) was lovely, even in the early February chill. It was made up of one large pathway, and several smaller ones, all of which were lined with trees and benches. A few bundled up Poles sat along the path, reading newspapers or talking in their phones. Others were walking along it, but I didn’t see anyone running. Still…

“How long is the whole thing?” I asked Anna, very aware of the fact that I’d had to stop and walk barely 3/4s of a mile into my run the previous evening.

“Oh, it’s very big,” said Anna, avoiding answering the question, a habit I’d soon learn is common practice among her countrymen.

“Do you have a guess?” I persisted.

She considered. “I’d say five miles. Yes, at least five miles. It’s very, very big around.”

***

So now I had a goal for myself: I’d run from my dorm a mile or so out of the city center, run the whole Planty and then run—…or maybe walk, to, erm, cool down—back.

With that goal in mind, I spent the next handful of weeks working toward it, running around a huge park near my dormitory. I dodged Rottweilers and Dobermans (the Poles seemed obsessed with muscle dogs). I trotted past bronze statues of Pope John Paul II and Marie Curie, both cherished nationals. I wove through bummed soccer fans after a tough loss at a nearby arena. And on nearly every run I got heckled by the usual suspects—teenagers and construction workers—and gawked at by just about everybody. It turns out no sane person runs in Poland, least of all the way I was doing it: red-faced and puffing ten minutes in.

Spring arrived. I’d worked my way up in mileage and decided one sunny Saturday morning that today was my day to tackle the Planty. I stretched out in my dorm room and bid my roommate farewell (She, too, thought I was a bit nuts, but later admitted that she respected me for my fearlessness to wear skintight, not-hiding-anything running tights, especially in the most Catholic—and therefore fairly conservative—country in the world).

I made it to the Planty without issue and turned onto the trail. With the warmer weather, the trees lining the path had leafed out. The whole trail was green and blooming. It was lovely. And crowded. Krakowians were out en masse enjoying the weather, and I found myself dodging more than the occasional Doberman in order to make my way.

Still, the run was going smoothly, all in all. In fact, I was making really good time. To my left was the Catholic church I’d peeked into the week before, and oh—rounding the next turn—there was the English bookstore where I’d swap paperbacks, and there was that restaurant that serves great peroigi and…

I glanced at my stopwatch. Wait a second. I was making really, really good time. I’d been running on the path for maybe twelve minutes and was, as far as I could tell, already one-third of the way around the city center.

“That can’t be right,” I thought. “I must be forgetting something.”

But before I could ponder it more, I rounded another curve, this time right near the base of the Wawel Castle, and nearly took out a five-year old girl with her father. Coming up short, I realized I’d run right into what looked to be a spring carnival, being held along the banks of the Vistula River.

I was forced to slow to a walk for a moment, trying to get my bearings. There were children and their parents everywhere, all up and down the sidewalk. Popcorn and cotton candy vendors were out hocking their wares. Teenagers were lobbing softballs at milk bottles to win their sweethearts giant stuffed animals.

The popcorn smelled delicious. And—oh! Were those mini-donuts?

I had to get outta there, and quickly, before my resolve to run the Planty faded away. But I was stuck. The street fair looked like it went on for a ways. I couldn’t turn off on a side street without giving up on my goal. Plus, there weren’t any around anyway. I was pinned between the riverbanks to my left and the hill with the Wawel Castle atop it rising up beside me on my right.

I didn’t have a choice: In order to make it around the Planty, I was going to have to run through the whole carnival, Spandex pants and all.

There might have been some pointing. Perhaps some laughter. I know for certain there were mouths that fell open, many gaping at my pants, my face—which was flushed its usual deep red, as it always is when I run—and most of all, my stride.

“What is that girl doing?” they asked each other in Polish.

Eventually, after I nearly ran into a cotton candy salesman and had to duck around three or four enormous dragon stuffed animals, I made it to the other side.

There, I realized I was now halfway around the city center—so two and a half miles around, in theory—and it had only taken me fifteen minutes. I was getting in better shape, sure, but I wasn’t that good. I started to think that maybe Anna was a bit misinformed. And that maybe when I’d told one of my Polish teachers about my goal and her eyes had gotten huge, that maybe she, too, had bought into the whole “The Planty is very big” mantra.

And then I really started to think that maybe I would need to do my long run the next day.

Ten minutes later, and I’d made it. I’d run around the entire Planty, the whole thing, all “five miles” of it, in less than thirty minutes. And I have to say: Those five miles were the quickest, most popcorn- and cotton candy-filled miles I have ever run. Goal accomplished.

~Megan~

Prague

TIED FOR SECOND PLACE – RUNNING IN PRAGUE

Run for the Czech Republic. Run for Yourself. Run for Free Beer.

As I stepped off the plane in Prague, Czech Republic my buddy Max tapped my shoulder and pointed to a big billboard in the airport terminal. “RUN FOR THE CZECH REPUBLIC. RUN FOR YOURSELF. RUN FOR FREE BEER” it read in all capital letters. “We have to do that!” Max said with a smile on his face.

The advertisement was for a half marathon only three days away and it conveniently overlapped with our schedule in Prague. Why not? I thought to myself. If Max, a tubby baseball player from New York City feels confident about this, I can definitely run a half marathon. “What do you think that means when it says ‘run for free beer’?” Max asked. I shrugged in equal confusion. Having never run any more than 5-6 miles, I excitedly agreed, unaware of what we were getting ourselves into.

The following morning after leaving our hostel we ventured into downtown Prague and walked into the blow-up tent to register for the race. With the translation help of a kind Czech teenager we were able to sign up for the race smoothly. We left the tent with a t-shirt, a timer to strap around our ankles, and a number to pin onto our shirts. “Nice we’re actually going to do this!” I said to Max enthusiastically. The next two days we continued with our plans as scheduled, which included touring the magnificent cathedrals, walking down old cobbled streets, and eating kurtos kalacs (a wonderfully delicious Czech pastry).  The night before the race, I ate a big plate of pasta fettuccine as instructed by a friend who advised feasting on carbohydrates.

It was a cold morning in Prague when we woke up, so I wore a long-sleeved shirt and shorts for the run. We meandered over to the start of the race after a light breakfast and congregated by the changing room (which was in fact just a large outdoor tent with some drapes over the side). It was before the race had even begun; yet the stench of body odor could have suffocated a small child. I could not believe the smells of so many men could produce something so pungent. The “bathroom” was a line of urinals in broad daylight offering no privacy. We walked across the street passing one of Prague’s most famous landmarks, the Charles Bridge, and waited for the race to begin. A group of five men (based on our stereotypes, we could only assume were Kenyan) jogged in the middle of the street and the dense crowd parted for them just how I imagined Moses’ parting of the Red Sea.

There was an announcement that the race was starting momentarily and that everyone should get ready behind the start line. Max and I nervously looked at each other secretly hoping the other would flake out to give us an excuse not to actually follow through with this crazy idea. Neither of us wanted to bail so we did our stretches out and took off in a jog once the whistle was blown. Max pushed ahead of me within 5 minutes, and it was the last time I saw him for the whole race. Giant balloons were pinned to the jerseys of trained professionals each running at different time intervals for the benefit of the runners.

After the first few miles I started to get thirsty and saw an upcoming table with a plethora of cups, and I decided it was a good time to hydrate myself. As I approached the table, I scanned all of the cups and noticed they were each filled with a dark brown liquid that was foaming at the top. There is no way this is beer. I thought to myself. I took a sip to quench my thirst and sure enough, it was beer. Is this what it meant when the billboard said “RUN FOR FREE BEER?” Do Czechs actually like beer so much that they drink it during a half marathon? I gulped down the cup, laughing to myself as I kept running. Maybe a particular beer company is sponsoring this table? I didn’t have time to reflect for too long so I kept moving, eager for the next table to give a liquid that could actually hydrate me. Another few miles went by and a new table appeared off in the distance. As I got closer I noticed that once again all the cups were filled with the same brown liquid! Eager to drink something, I gulped down another beer. This happened three more times during the race, as each table continued to hand out beer to the runners, despite my constant hopes for a cool cup of H20.

As the race came to a close, amazed by my ability to have kept up with the red balloon runner indicating the 2-hour half marathon, I counted the number of beers I drank. It was five. In two hours, I drank five beers, all in an effort to guzzle any liquid, and truthfully to optimize on the free beer that was advertised so widely (despite that it likely slowed down my race).  When I eventually met up with Max at the end, we avoided the changing room for fear of what monstrous odor would be coming out of it after the race. We made sure to get our free 30-second massages from two chubby middle-aged Czech women who slapped our legs around (one on each leg) and we laughed at the hilarity of the day. I mocked Max for finishing thirty minutes after me, but in truth we felt accomplished for our victories. When we woke up the next morning, unable to bend our legs, go up stairs, or walk long distances, we were no longer laughing at the hilarity of the previous day.  The joke was on us. The real laughter came three days later when we could freely move again, without keeling over in leg pain.

~Eli~

This story was submitted by Eli Zach Terris.  Eli is currently a graduating senior at Brandeis University in Boston.   He tells EY: “Since I love writing stories, running (and coincidentally am in need of new running shoes!)  I decided to give it a go.  It was fun to relive these stories while writing them.”  This Czech Republic Running Story is one of two stories that Eli submitted.  Czech back – oops – we mean check back to see where else Eli has been.

Megan with Latte

The Perfect Temperature or: Cravings in a Foreign Land

When living in another country, there’s something about food that starts to get to me. I’ve always been one of those unfortunate people who gets cravings for certain foods, like appetite itches that have to be scratched. Once they are, I’m satiated and can move on to the next thing.  I’m ashamed to admit that on more than one occasion I’ve gone to get a burrito or a Dairy Queen Blizzard, ignoring a refrigerator full of post-holiday leftovers and spending Christmas money I should have saved, because I had to have it. I’ve ordered the same thing at restaurants over and over again just to make sure I don’t “waste a time” going there by trying something new—and risk not satisfying my hankering for fettuccine alfredo, say, or black bean soup. I make for an overall boring dining companion, I imagine, but I am a slave to my cravings, and it’s something I’ve attempted to come to terms with as I’ve grown up.

So, when I moved to China last fall to start a teaching contract at a college in Changzhou, a city outside Shanghai, I was excited to try all sorts of new foods, but also a bit wary. Not only am I a craving-driven eater, I’m also a fairly picky eater, especially when it comes to textures. Things can be too dry, too grainy, too crumbly, too gooey, too whatever, and I’m done—the dish is wrecked. I haven’t met too many people who seem to care about the texture of food as much as I do, so it’s with some reservation that I admit this next part. The food in China, when I first arrived here, was so overwhelmingly wet, so mushy and oozy, compared to what I was used to back in the U.S., that I found it very difficult finding things to eat. I longed for something more “edible,” under my own terms, like a taco or a piece of pizza or a fresh salad.

The cravings multiplied as the weeks went by. My initial pull for Mexican food and pizza was paired with an overpowering need for cereal—any cereal!— and cake—any cake!—divided by an incessant desire for brownies, chocolate bars, chocolate malts, chocolate chocolate chocolate…none of it readily available in Changzhou. I was doomed. I found that food began to consume (pun intended) nearly all my thoughts. I started looking at cooking  websites  online and felt my mouth watering over various dishes that I didn’t have the ingredients to recreate.

Nor the kitchen, for that matter. It’s worth noting that there are no ovens in China, something I wasn’t aware of when I moved here (had I known…well…). The Chinese simply don’t cook with ovens and, as far as I know, never have. All of their food is fried or steamed. In fact, Mandarin Chinese has at least five different words for “to fry” that differentiate between things like the amount of oil you use in the wok and whether or not you’re frying things in sauce. A few gas burners and maybe a microwave is all anyone seems to have in their kitchens here. Oh, and a rice cooker. Always a rice cooker. But never an oven. And therefore no chance for me to satisfy my craving for anything with yeast and sugar in my own apartment.

I knew I had to find other things to eat, beyond fried rice, steamed vegetables and too many containers of yogurt, or suffer the consequences of a crazed food craver. Enter Café 85°C.

Café 85°C is fondly known as “the Starbucks of Taiwan” but I have never seen baked goods like these at any Starbucks I’ve ever wandered into. The place is so named for their self-proclaimed “perfect temperature to serve coffee” (85° Celsius is 185° Fahrenheit, for those Americans in the group who don’t feel like Googling the conversion). The place is one-third coffee shop, and two-thirds bakery. Oh, the bakery.

There are actually many bakeries in China: like cupcake shops in New York, they’re something of a fad here. Low-grade sweetshops peddling Little Debbie-like wares can be found in various places around Changzhou. These bakeries all have cute English names like “Happiness” and “Christine” and “Bread Talk.” The only problem is their baked goods generally taste like greasy Twinkies, hardly worth the calories. Their bread is even worse, dry and ashy, like sawdust was baked into the loaf.  I had all but given up hope on having a delicious baked good here in the Middle Kingdom when my boyfriend and I made our first trip to Shanghai.

We had a week off for China’s National Day in early October, and we’d decided to take the high-speed train from Changzhou into Shanghai, a hair over an hour down the tracks, to explore the city for a few days.

Our first afternoon there, after we’d wandered through the People’s Park in downtown Shanghai for a few hours, we decided we needed an afternoon pick-me-up. I flipped open my guidebook and found a branch of 85°C on the map, only a few blocks from us. I read the description and a few choice words: “inexpensive but high-quality coffee” and, more importantly, “pastries,” caught my eye. Sold! We walked there immediately.

Let’s just start by saying ambiance probably isn’t the place’s strong suit—this isn’t the sort of café to while away an afternoon contemplating Hemingway. While each branch of the café is very clean and brightly lit, with white walls and lightwood throughout, it’s hard to see anything but people and pastries. The place is always packed and noisy, with people hip checking each other out of the way for the latest freshly baked roll.  And these rolls are worth a bit of physical contact. They’re puffy clouds of floury confection bigger than both of your fists, with names like “Mocha Bread” and “French Dark Chocolate Roll.” They’re put out onto shelves in the bakery right from the oven by workers in red-and-white paper hats and vanish into bags before they can fully cool.

In another area are the drinks. There are a number of options, teas, coffee and the like, but you really only need to know one: the Sea Salt Latte. It’s a fairly simple equation: a sweet, creamy latte sprinkled with salt on top. Think a sea salt caramel, but drinkable. Reader, I’m in love, and his name is Sea Salt Latte. They’re unreal.

Near the drinks, and not to be ignored, is a large display case with higher end sweets like tiramisu and cheesecake and something called a dark chocolate cherry bomb. I tend to ogle that gorgeous display case without purchasing anything, as delicious at they look, probably because I’m usually a third of the way through my roll by that point, as I stand in line waiting for my coffee to come up at the window.

But going back to Shanghai and that first trip to 85°C. The details, like which rolls we picked and what exactly we drank, have started to fade a bit. Who can say why the mind decides to remember certain things and not others when one gets that first glimpse of beauty and purity in a world of chaos? I do know we fought our way through the crowds to the rolls and pastries in their cases, pulled two out with a pair of tongs, and eventually made it up to the cash register to pay. I know by the time we found a free table in the crowded cafe, I was feeling pretty fried, and so when I bit into that first pastry, perhaps I didn’t fully realize how much my life had changed. But changed it had.

Suddenly, bread was back in the equation. And sugar. Real, honest-to-goodness sugary treats. Were. Back. My luck was on the rise!

Now, eating at that café (there’s a tiny branch in Changzhou) is like creating cravings I never knew I had. Each time I swing open the door and dive into the crowd, elbowing my way toward my favorite rolls, I feel better. This has been a hard year, living so far from home, and while biting into a mocha roll and sipping a sea salt latte doesn’t make me feel closer to my home in the states, it makes it feel like this place, where I don’t speak the language and don’t know more than a handful of people, could, just maybe, be one version of home for me.

To say I live solely on Café 85°C’s rolls and coffee here in China would be something of an exaggeration. I am now the proud eater of all sorts of Chinese food, and have found many dishes that satisfy both my hunger and my appetite, which (as you may be able to tell by now) can be a tricky combination at times.  But do I go back there more often than I probably should? From this sugar addict to you, dear reader, I’ll admit in my most jittery and buzzed voice, that yes, yes, I do.

~Megan~

Duck pic

Spring Pucker

It’s that funny month of March again where mornings are Winter and afternoons already Spring.  All batty-eyed and full of expectation, the sun – as the lark – rises earlier each morning. (So do I, by the way, though fumblingly and with decidedly less grace and panache.)   I wear my rain boots and winter coat every day – another marker of early March. Were I living in a big city where people go all ‘tall, dark and handsome’ for quirky fashions, I might get a few silent nods of approval, but here I think people are just wondering why I left my Power Ranger lunchbox and protection-tipped plastic umbrella at home. But, as previously mentioned, those high-heels make up for most of my fashion missteps in Ukraine.  So, rain boots and winter coat it is. The overnight chill leaves the road that stretches from my house to school icy until midday when the mud and green and chirp of birds reappear, reminding me that I’ve made it through the cruel months of Winter once again…

I turned onto my street just a few minutes ago satisfied that I’d managed to get off my butt and go for a run.  It rained yesterday and the road is rough and muddy terrain but, as always, quite worth it.  I saw the usual – a few kids playing by the side of the road, nibbling at the grass and following a Billy goat up and down the sidewalk and those spotted cows with horns just going about their early springtime business.

Things have quite suddenly become deathly green here.  Every tree branch hangs heavy over the sidewalk. Little streets that I walk down every day to get to school are nearly unrecognizable the growth has been so great. How this place has changed so quickly. It is beautiful and doing everything in its power to contend with the image of dark, gray Soviet concrete that seems permanently plastered in my mind.

The milder weather, though, has done little to change the dressing habits of Ukraine’s youngest generation.

Ukrainian kids are, as a rule, overdressed in Spring and Fall. The fear of catching a chill is ubiquitous and no thermometer could convince the guardians of these little stuffed starfish to let them shed even a single layer. I see one such munchkin a few hundred feet away from my front gate.  He’s standing alone, playing in a pile of sand (undoubtedly meant for some other purpose) and baking in the midday rays.  He’s bundled up like a rolled cigar; tight little layers, each adding to his girth and internal temperature.  He has a wool hat pulled down over his ears, corduroy pants (wide wales) and little yellow shoes.  The little shoes remind me of the twelve ducklings that are living in our yard.  Small gray mud stains spot the front half of each duckling.  Nearly identical spots are splattered on my neighbor boy’s shoes.  It is nothing like Pollock but it ain’t half bad.

Usually, as I walk by most kids just stare unabashedly at me until I pass.  I greet them with some inevitably accented salutation and they only gawk greater.  This little guy, however, pays me no mind.  He’s busy practicing.  I hear him before I get a good look at what he’s doing.  It sounds something like a kitchen parrot trying to get the attention of a recently arrived house guest.  Or a first grader who’s just discovered the musical instrument created after the loss of her two front teeth.

It’s the overgrowth that prevents me from seeing him right away. Unaccustomed as I am to the sounds of farm animals, I briefly consider whether or not this noise could be some other species of turkey with whom I have yet to make an acquaintance.

But no – I turn the corner and confirm – it is a little boy.

And the best kind of little boy I know – all bundled up like a late-blooming butterfly. So darling is he that for a moment, I don’t begrudge his mother for keeping him wrapped up for as long as possible in the polyester-silken safety of his chrysalis snowsuit.

The little boy stands beside his own gaggle of ducklings. He stares at them – he in his spotted yellow shoes and they in their spotted yellow down.  He puckers his lips and – loud like Gabriel – kisses the air in their direction.  It sounds like he’s participating in a candy-sucking contest – trying his damndest to finish the hard lemony rock in his mouth before the next kid.  He stares over at the fuzzy, yellow animals and then, again, sucks in his lips and smacks.  He’s improving – slow, sloppy kisses become quick, sharp ones.  And soon it seems as though he is conducting them all with his two little, puckered and pink lips.

He’s got it right – this little cigar of a Don Juan; he’s gotten right down to the business of spilling his affection out onto these first evidences of life alive again.  The objects of his love declarations are frenetic with excitement and a little muddy, too. The ducklings peep and squeak in response. I vow to be more pleasant in the mornings and enjoy the icy walk to school. I promise to take advantage of the sunshine and launder my clothes more often. I will finish that book and spend more time outside. I also consider taking up Astronomy.  I resolve to be a better American.

Some orchestra, I marvel.

And some spring.

I know it’s early yet, but I do think it’ll be a good one.  Not just because the snowdrops will start growing and the marshrutka trips will be faster and less jostling.  Or even because I’ll get to see my friends and wear more dresses.  But because it just aught to be.  After all, what manner of thing could deign to be dismal when it starts out with such an act?

~Sam~

Running Story Contest 1

EntertainingYourself.com Writing Contest

April 8, 2011 – AND THE WINNER IS…Joseph Schubert for his Kunming China Running StoryJoe wins a new pair of his favorite running shoes (Vibram Fivefingers Men’s KSO Treks) – a $150 value!

The entries were amazing and the decision was very close.  We had a tie for 2nd place:  Eli Terris for his Czech Running Story  & our own Megan Ritchie for her Poland Running StoryOur 2nd place winners have received checks for $75. 

Other notable entries included:  Tammela Platt for her Ukraine Running Story, William Kennedy for his Strasbourg Running Story, & Martin Mudry for his China Running Story.    Look for  our favorite entries to be posted on this site, then DECIDE for yourself who the winner is!

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SEEKING THE BEST RUNNING STORY IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY

EntertainingYourself.com is launching our FIRST EVER* writing contest.  It all started with a comment by Martin – an avid runner, globe trotter and EY Contributor, in response to an article written by Sam, another avid runner, globe trotter and EY Contributor (see Take the Blessing and Run).

Martin suggested a contest for Best Running Story in a Foreign Country.  We loved it and we said YES – Let’s Do It!

We’ve not only invited all of our current EntertainingYourself.com Contributors to submit, but we’ve also opened the competition to other writers/runners too.  Any takers?  If so, submit your Best Running Story in a Foreign Country (in English please) to Contactus@EntertainingYourself.com.

With your permission of course, we’ll post our favorites and select a winner.

Now – about the prize – how about a new pair of shoes? Along with your story, tell us your favorite type of running shoes** and if you are selected as the winner – you’ll be sporting them on the trail and on our Homepage!  To qualify for the shoes, submit your entry by Friday, April 1, 2011.  Assuming we receive some entries,  the winner will be announced and their article featured on our website, one week later, on Friday, April 8, 2011. Supporting pictures are welcome and may increase your chances of winning!

Any questions? Contactus@EntertainingYourself.com

Now all runners…On your marks…

*We’ll see how it goes and if it is a success, then it could be the start of a new tradition.

** 1st Prize is a pair of running shoes of your choice! Maximum prize value up to $150 retail, including taxes and the cost of shipping the shoes to you.  Include your Full Name, Address & e-mail with your entry.