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Beet Week – Day 2 “Salat” Recipes

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The BEET goes on in Tammela’s Ukraine kitchen…

As you all may know by now, I’ve been living in Ukraine as a Peace Corps Volunteer since September 2010 and thus have had plenty of time to taste – and sometimes cook – many traditional Ukrainian dishes. A lot of these dishes include the staple (mainly root) vegetables that grow so easily and abundantly here in eastern Europe: potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbage, and beets. It is amazing how many different combinations and variations one can create from just these five vegetables.

Most people are quite familiar and comfortable with cooking and eating potatoes, carrots, onions and even cabbage. But I have found that beets challenge and puzzle many cooks. They are a funny shape, have a thicker skin than potatoes or carrots, and are (usually) a deep red-purple color that stains almost everything it touches.

How the heck does one cook and eat a beet?

That is what I am here to tell you!

I developed a passion for beets several summers ago while shopping at farmer’s markets in the States. That first summer I experimented with beet preparation: I roasted, boiled, and sautéed beets, sometimes alone and sometimes with other root vegetables. Some dishes turned out well and some failed. Living in Ukraine for the past year and a half has expanded my how-to-prepare-beets horizons.  Following your introduction to Borscht, I shall now introduce you to some other classic Ukrainian dishes that feature beets.

These beet-sporting Ukrainian dishes, which are often made for holiday meals but are equally as good for regular consumption include salat vinehret (салат вінегрет), one of my favorite salads; and salat shuba (салат шуба; shuba means “fur coat”), which is a bit of an acquired taste.

Hope you enjoy!

Tammela

 салат вінегрет (salat vinehret) 

The vegetable proportions are generally about equal, but feel free to add more or less of anything, to your taste.

Ingredients

  • 1-3 small-medium potatoes, peeled
  • 1-2 medium beets
  • 1-2 medium carrots
  • 1-2 medium dill pickles (preferable homemade ones), diced
  • 1 medium onion, diced
  • Oil, to taste
  • Salt and pepper, to taste

Procedure

  • Boil whole potatoes, beets, and carrots until cooked through. The beets will take the longest to cook – 45-60 minutes – so put them in first.
  • Meanwhile, dice the pickles and onion and put them in a big bowl.
  • When the root vegetables are cooked, peel the beets and carrots and let cool. When they are cool enough, dice the potatoes, beets, and carrots.
  • Add diced root vegetables to the bowl and season with your preferred amount of oil, salt, and pepper. Mix, and enjoy!

 

салат шуба (salat shuba)

If you are a mayonnaise lover, you can add it in between every layer. But if you’re like me and are slightly mayo-averse, feel free to only add it to the top layer.

Ingredients

  • 1-3 small-medium potatoes, peeled
  • 1-2 medium beets
  • 1-3 medium carrots
  • 1-2 cups pickled herring, diced
  • Mayonnaise, to taste

Procedure

  • Boil whole potatoes, beets, and carrots until cooked through. The beets will take the longest to cook – 45-60 minutes – so put them in first.
  • Meanwhile, dice the herring and spread it out on a large shallow platter.
  • When the root vegetables are cooked, peel the beets and carrots and let cool. When they are cool enough, grate the potatoes, beets, and carrots but keep them separate.
  • Spread the grated potatoes over the herring, smoothing them into a nice, flat layer.
  • Spread the grated carrots over the potato layer.
  • Spread the grated beets on top of the carrots. Add a couple of tablespoons of mayonnaise and spread it around evenly, letting it mix a little with the beets.
  • This salad looks beautiful when served in clean-cut slices that reveal the colorful layers.
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Road Trip West: The Wildfire (Part 4 of 4)

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(Part 4 in a 4 part series)-

 

WILDFIRE!!!

By Megan Ritchie

…continuing on our journey out of  the Grand Canyon…we crossed the border into California just as the sun set.

The next day dawned bright and clear as I stepped out into the parking lot for my first view of California in the daylight.

There was desert. Everywhere. Palm trees, desert, and—there she was—the good old Ford Focus with the trusty U-haul trailer still attached. We packed up our bags and hit the road for our final day in the car.

At about 1 o’clock that afternoon, Chris and I pulled off for what was to be our final gas stop. He’d driven the whole morning, in preparation for our last few hours, when I would take the wheel in order to brave the big bad Los Angeles freeway system with a slow-moving trailer.

The saddest room in a gas station in CA

We fueled up, and then I swung into the driver’s seat and pulled out onto I-45.  About 45 minutes later we started to see smoke. As we got closer, we began making guesses at what it could be.  A house? Eh, who could say; it was too far away to tell. Bored, Chris went back to his book and I fiddled with the radio.

Then we hit traffic. Now, according to my handy-dandy smartphone (that I made Chris check, responsible driver that I am) we were about an hour, hour and a half outside of L.A., and part of me (the scared, “What if I hate this city? Can I actually do this?” part of me) was afraid that this was the edge of the fabled Los Angeles traffic. What if we were in this for the next couple hours? What if, for the rest of my existence, I find myself sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic? What if–Alright, alright, calm down, it’s stop-and-go, at least we’re moving.

And then we stopped moving entirely. The smoke was right near us now, billowing in big brown plumes.  Hauling that trailer, we were in the far right lane, the truck and trailer lane, and we weren’t moving at all. Suddenly, we heard sirens. Out my side mirror I saw them: fire truck upon fire truck upon fire truck, racing past us on the shoulder. There were your standard red engines, but also larger ones, with “Wildfire Control” printed on the side.

“Uh, Chris?” I said.

He looked up from his book.

“What?”

“I think this fire is sort of big.”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

Back down to the page.

Then, above: thwup-thwup-thwup-thwup….! I ducked down to see the sky through the windshield. Above us was a helicopter, dumping liquid on the fire.

We still weren’t moving. The smoke was getting thicker and thicker. While it had started on the right of the car, suddenly there was smoke billowing on both sides. I looked around. On the opposite side of the highway, four lanes across, cars were starting to turn around, using the shoulder to drive the wrong way down the freeway, away from the fire.

“Chris? It looks, um, really big.”

He finally looked up from his book. To our right was an entrance ramp. We looked to see cars driving the wrong way up the ramp, fleeing the flames ahead of us. There was a huge semi in front of us; our view was blocked from how close we were to the fire and then suddenly: to our left, it breached the hill.

We watched in horror as a shed not a half a mile away from us was consumed by flames in milliseconds. The fire enveloped a flagpole and burned through an American flag as fast as we registered what it was doing.

“Oh. My. God,” I breathed. “What do I do? What do I do??”

I struggled not to panic. The flames were close, much closer than anyone would like, but I couldn’t see any fire trucks nearby… I kept looking for a cop or a firefighter or some kind of authority figure to tell us what to do and where to go. But there was no one. Everyone was too busy fighting the fire, and no one was there thinking about the bystanders just trying to get out of the way. No one.

But there was Chris sitting in the passenger seat, his book long abandoned, telling me in the calmest tones possible, “Megan, we have to wait for the truck ahead of us to turn onto the entrance ramp before we can go. We just have to wait for the truck to move and then it’s our turn.” I looked over: there was still a big line of cars driving up the ramp, fleeing the flames.  We had to wait for the truck to move or we could get stuck. The only way around the truck was on the shoulder to our right.  But the truck wasn’t moving at all.

I inched forward, very aware that I had not been at all trained in the art of backing up a car with a trailer attached. I heard my dad’s voice ringing through my head: “You could jackknife that thing, easy. Just make sure you never get into a situation where you need to back it up. Just always pull through.” The truck in front of us wasn’t moving and there was at least a truck’s length in front of it. In fact, the truck in front of us wasn’t even running.

“Oh my god,” I said, as it dawned on me. “The trucker—he abandoned his truck! He just abandoned it. He’s not there anymore! He just left! He left it!”

I couldn’t stop talking. Chris was stunned. In my rising panic, I briefly toyed with the idea of doing the same thing as the trucker, leaving all of my prized and not-so-prized possessions in the car to be consumed by the flames. Everything would be lost: my passport, my books, my clothes and camera and computer; even old love letters, tax returns, photographs. But we’d be safe. We’d run through the tall grass on the side of the road until we weren’t breathing smoke anymore. Then some weatherworn trucker would pick us up and drop us in the parking lot of the nearest hotel or gas station with a “Just be happy you got alive, kids,” before he cruised away. It’d be like straight out of an action movie.

With the smoke getting thicker around us, it felt like straight out of an action movie.

“What do we do? What do we do??” I repeated, feeling my hands start to shake.

At about that moment, we started to see even more cars driving up the shoulder, on both sides of the road now. If we decided to zip out on the right-hand shoulder to get around the abandoned truck, we’d risk a head-on collision with someone coming from farther down the freeway.  In fact, these cars were definitely from the frontlines because they were covered in bright orange anti-flame retardant, the stuff the helicopter–no, now three helicopters–were dumping on the wildfire all around us.

I looked around, and made an executive decision.

“I’m going to try to turn around,” I said. “We can’t go around that truck and so we have to get on the shoulder on the other side of the road.”

“But you can’t back up the trailer.”

“I’m going to turn around,” I repeated. “We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here.”

The smoke was billowing even thicker now, blotting out the sun. It reminded me of a solar eclipse I once watched through a tiny hole in a piece of paper in 3rd grade. I wondered, briefly, if I should be looking at the smoke through a hole in a piece of paper too.

Gripping the wheel hard, I turned on my signal and put the car in drive. Thankfully, we’d waited so long that the traffic had cleared out more: so many people had already pulled their cars around on the shoulder and fled before us that the lanes were more open.

We must have looked panicked, two kids with very out-of-state plates hauling a little U-haul trailer behind us, flushed in terror, because someone let us in immediately. I craaaaaanked the wheel and we held on as I started the turn. And then, at last, I exhaled: we’d made it, a full U-turn across four lanes of freeway, and clunked out onto the shoulder of I-45, heading the wrong way down the freeway. With traffic, much of it splattered in orange, but going the decidedly wrong direction down the road.

“We’re okay! We’re okay!!” we shouted and pumped our fists, like so many action stars before us.

After we made it off the freeway at last, I’d like to say we found an easy route around the wildfire and made it to L.A. without any further incident. I’d like to say it was the breeziest part of the trip. I’d like to say we spent the rest of our hour to hour-thirty minute trip marveling at the wildfire and our superhero brush with death.

None of this happened, of course. Instead, after we made it off the freeway at last, we pulled out a road atlas and picked out a new route along a nice county road. It seemed like a pleasant enough journey at first, until the mountains starting rising up in front of us in a sheer wall.

“That’s…that’s not our road, right, Chris?” I said, very aware that the car groaned with effort at even the slightest change in incline.

He re-consulted the map.

“Nah…”

We kept driving, heading closer and closer to the mountains.

“Chris…”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Let me look at this…wait. What are these green dots on the road?”

“Green dots? What green dots??”

“Oh. Uhhh…the green dots mean ‘scenic route.’”

“WHAT!” I almost lost it.  “We do not want a scenic route! We want a decidedly UNpretty, UNeventful, UNscenic route! Pick another way! Find us another way!”

Chris held the map closer, squinting at the tiny roads.

“Hold on. Hold on. Uh. Megan? We might be in trouble…”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re trying to get through a national forest and I-45 was kinda are only main way, but that way is obviously, um, burning. But there are other roads!”

“So pick another road!”

“But here’s the thing: They’re…they’re all scenic routes!”

 

Nearly three hours later, after the car began to bottom out at literally 10 miles per hour, and after an old lady gave us the finger as she passed us in sheer frustration going the wrong way on a blind curve up a mountain, and after I thoroughly sweat through all of my clothes, we made it through the very narrow, very steep and very scenic mountain pass.

And then, after about an hour of that good old L.A. rush hour traffic, we made it to Los Angeles and my new home,  after a full five days of driving and nearly 2200 miles. We were nearly five hours later than we’d anticipated. Exhausted, we piled out of the car. And as we opened up the Uhaul trailer and began unloading my possessions into my new room, I couldn’t help but think, “Well, no matter what happens, no matter if I make it as a screenwriter here in Hollywood or go home crying and defeated, there is 100% no way L.A. can be as intense as that afternoon.”

And you know what, dear reader? On that, at least, I’ve been right.

~Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West Introduction

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

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Road Trip West: The Grand Canyon (Part 3 of 4)

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(Part 3 in a 4 part series)

Onward…

By Megan Ritchie

The next day, Day 4 for those counting, Chris and I awoke, sore from our wigwam slumber and hit the road once again. It’s at about this time in a road trip, I think we can all agree, when real life starts to feel like a foreign thing, and all you have is a car, a radio, and, inevitably, an interesting collection of empty fast food containers crammed in various recesses throughout the vehicle. Yep, we were feeling the miles.

Thankfully, we were just in time for a detour of grand proportions. Now, when Chris and I were originally planning the trip’s route we were all, “Rockies! Rockies!” and my dad was all, “You’re insane and will kill yourselves/the car!” so, as I mentioned before, we chose the southern route. As a compromise of sorts we decided we would take a detour of about 100 miles, give or take, to see the Grand Canyon because, after living abroad for a year, all I wanted was some good old American splendor. And Chris and I, Midwesterners that we are, had never been to the Grand Canyon. And it’ the Grand Canyon, you guys. 100 miles ain’t nothin’ for something that awesome.

 So, over the river and through the woods, to the Canyon we went. When we arrived and hoisted our creaking bodies out of the car, the sun was blistering hot. Armed with sunscreen, sunglasses and some stylish hats, we made our way into the park office. After a few hasty conversations with people giving us impressively mismatched directions (“Isn’t this one of the biggest tourist destinations in the country? Shouldn’t this be more straightforward?” we asked ourselves), we managed to find our way onto a shuttle that would take us into the Grand Canyon National Park.

The bus ride was rather pleasant, mostly because we weren’t the ones responsible for driving. I kept craning to see the canyon, but it was shy and kept itself hidden from the road the entire time. In fact, it wasn’t until we were dropped off that I got my very first view of the canyon. We scuttled up a trail and spread out in front of us, stretching as far as we could see in both directions, was the Grand Canyon.

It was utterly breathtaking. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it is truly one of those places that photographs do no justice. In fact, trying to flatten out something so dimensional, so expansive, so rich in color and shadow and texture, seems borderline insulting. Not that I didn’t try. But after a few pictures, including one on my horrible camera phone for the fans back home (“Hi Mom!”), Chris grew a little antsy and so we headed down the trail.

It seemed the deeper and deeper we got in the canyon, the more beautiful it became. I was snapping pictures left and right, some of the canyon itself, but many of us with the canyon: Chris in an arch, me near the edge, Chris gazing out over the canyon; just call me Annie Leibovitz guys, ‘cause it was a regular Vanity Fair cover shoot.

I clicked on and on and–wait a second: Life was (somehow) continuing on the trail beyond our photo-shoot. In fact, the more we tuned in to our fellow National Park trail enthusiasts, the more we realized that everyone seemed to be from out-of-town. And, while we (obviously) were too, everyone around us seemed to be from a bit farther out-of-town…as in, out-of-country. Nearly everyone on the trail around us were speaking various European languages, and striding purposefully up and down the trail. The Americans, large and in charge, were up above on the shuttle buses, breathing heavily behind their digital cameras, while down here, svelte and workin’ it, Europeans were showing us who was boss. Chris and I decided we were done with the photo-shoot—we needed to pick up the pace…for America! We cruised down the trail a handful of miles to our turn-around point, a sturdy-looking outhouse with a water-pump nearby. It seemed to be a popular spot to stop and find some shade, no matter your country of origin.

After a quick bathroom break and a few swigs of water we looked around, glanced at our watches and decided it was probably time to head back up—we still had over 200 miles to drive before our stop for the night in scenic Needles, CA and the road was calling our names. So, up we went.

The hike down was easy-peasy, but the hike up, well, it. was. hot. Chris quickly ditched his shirt, and I just as quickly regretted having brought my stupid, heavy digital camera along (call me Annie Leibovitz, guys, but only if she comes with a camera caddy who carries all of her equipment for her). Cheeks blazing red, we strode along, and in a competitive push, passed a group of German tourists and an elderly French couple with walking sticks in one sweep, before collapsing in a heap on the side of the trail.

The Europeans quickly re-passed us.

Yet, after a few moments, or perhaps more than a few, we dusted ourselves off, took a final sip of water, and climbed back up.

The trail winded far more than I recalled it doing as we’d walked down, let’s put it that way. Finally, mercifully, at last I began to recognize some arches and vistas from our descending photo-shoot from what seemed like so long before (It had really only been about 90 minutes). We paused a moment to “take in the view” (ahem, for a breather) but were brought out of our reverie by voices behind us. Was that Italian? Without looking back, we quickly scrambled up the rest of the way to the edge of the canyon before enjoying a lazy, air-conditioned shuttle bus ride back to the car.

~ Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 4 – The Wildfire

 

See also:

In Defense of the Family Road Trip

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Filmmakers’ Dreams Come True

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Filmmakers Martin Mudry and Alex Nichols’ Dream of Festival Screening  was realized this month.  On the heels of the documentary’s World Premier at the LUMS International Film Festival in Lahore, Pakistan held February 10 – 12, the filmmakers received more big news this week: Where Dreams Don’t Fade will be screening at the 36th Cleveland International Film Festival in March.

Martin Mudry in Hollywood

This is big news for EntertainingYourself.com because Martin is also one of our beloved contributors!

We would like to extend our Congratulations to both of these filmmakers, along with its stars, Robert Kigen, Alexander Mneria and Virginia Rono, on this major milestone!

Read on to see the announcement  in the Cleveland International Film Festival Program:

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Where Dreams Don’t Fade

Director:
Martin Mudry
Alex Nichols
Run Time: 76 minutes

Country: USA, KENYA

Year: 2012

Since 1968 Kenya has won 21 Olympic gold medals in long distance running compared to the U.S.’s three medals. While the rest of the world knows the African region gives birth to some of the best long distance runners on the planet, the true story of how each person gets to the big stage remains hidden. WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE is an intimate portrait into the trials and tribulations of the men and women who dream of a better life through running. Following three runners, this documentary provides insight into a part of the world where everyone shares the same dream, but the only escape is through hard work, determination, and a little bit of luck. Virginia is relatively new to running and she trains as she searches for a job; Alex was recruited into the army that trained him; and Robert is battling back from injuries hoping to hang on to the last chance he may have. The amount of perseverance, dedication, and discipline is inspiring and one can’t help but root for these runners as they chase their dreams in a place where dreams are all they have. (In English, Swahili, and Kalenjin with subtitles) –T.W.

 

tickets and showtimes

Tuesday, March 27 separator 8:45 PM
Wednesday, March 28 separator 5:45 PM
Thursday, March 29 separator 12:05 PM
Sidebars Standing Up Competition, Pan-African Images, Local Heroes
Producer Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Screenplay Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Cinematography Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Editing Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Principal Cast Alexander Mneria, Robert Kigen, Virginia Rono
Director Bio Alex Nichols is a Minnesota native who studied English and film studies before graduating from Colorado College in Colorado Springs in 2007. While there he ran varsity cross country and track, wherein he met fellow filmmaker and runner Martin Mudry.A native of Cleveland Heights, Martin Mudry studied at University School in Shaker Heights and Colorado College in Colorado Springs before finishing his tenure at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he studied filmmaking and graduated with a degree in Psychology.
Select Filmography WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE (2012)
Print Source Where Dreams Don’t Fade
Martin Mudry
m.j.mudry@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/wheredreamsdontfade
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Road Trip West: The Wigwam Motel (Part 2 of 4)

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(Part 1 in a 4 part series)

The Wigwam Motel and other Southwest Adventures (Continued from Part 1 – Road Trip West: Introduction)

By Megan Ritchie 

 

After Americana bliss in Emporia, Kansas, Chris and I continued south for our second day on the road, skirting through Oklahoma along with David Sedaris (Me-Talk-Pretty-One-Day), and resting at last in scenic Amarillo, Texas. Amarillo was, as far as we could tell, simply a freeway lined with chain restaurants, a few strip clubs, and an impressive amount of abandoned fake hair.

Amarillo, TX

We tiredly checked into our hotel, the Super 8, and both quickly realized we’d hit the jackpot: It was, hands-down, the nicest Super 8 either of us had ever had the privilege of staying in. Truly. They gave us a suite for no reason. There was a mini-fridge. There were free cookies. Okay, our standards might be low, but it was still fantastic.

Next on the agenda was dinner. Now, Chris had lived in Texas for a year serving with Americorps and had one requirement for the night: Bar-b-que. We settled on a place a few storefronts down and wandered over. I’d never had real, authentic Texan BBQ before, and went for the pork sandwich. And it was de-licious. Maybe not delicious enough to move to Amarillo, Texas, but darn near close.

The next morning, we regretfully left Super 8 heaven and were up and at ‘em again.

The day passed fairly uneventfully as we made our way across New Mexico…

…and into Arizona.

I’d never been to the Southwest before, or not to that extent, anyway, and fell in love with the blues and reds of the place. Simply gorgeous. That night, we made it to lovely Holbrook, Arizona, where we checked into  what is quite possibly the coolest motel of all time.

Now, when mapping out our route the previous week, we’d booked hotels based on ease and reliability—chains, we decided, would work for our purposes, since they’re generally clean, inexpensive, and just off the freeway. There are, however, some spots where the chain hotels don’t roam—and one such spot is smack dab in the middle of Arizona. Not to be deterred, I poked around for a while online, and stumbled across the historical Wigwam Motel. One look at the pictures, plus the motel’s signature catchphrase (“Have YOU slept in a wigwam lately?”) and Chris and I were on board.

As we pulled in to the Wigwam Motel’s parking lot, we struggled with where to park the Focus and trailer combination.

Each wigwam also features its own vintage car, which, as far as we could tell, didn’t work, didn’t unlock and, generally, didn’t serve any purpose whatsoever. I generally love cars-as-decorations, so I was sold instantly.

We found a spot and, stretching our stiff legs from another eleven hours in the car, trudged into the motel’s office to check in.

The office turned out to be part gift shop (all the t-shirts were double-XL though, much to my sincere disappointment) and part museum. It featured displays on the motel itself (it’s listed in the National Register of Historic Places!), but also on the nearby Petrified Forest.  Since Chris and I hadn’t been able to stop at the national park earlier that day, we found it pretty thoughtful of them to have arranged a private viewing of some of the rocks from there for us. We got our key and made our way to our wigwam, which is perhaps the most fun word to say ever.

Suitcase in hand, I swung open the door to our ‘wam excitedly and saw: Two slightly stained beds, an old TV, a nightstand with a burned-out lamp, some tacky art hanging on one wall. Oh.

Okay, so it might not have been the nicest motel on the inside.  We might have discovered over the course of the night that the air conditioner sounded like it was going to take off,  and that the shower tiles were in need of a good scrub, and that the doorknob jiggled a bit more than we would’ve liked, but it was a wigwam, okay? A circular, cement, stand-alone motel room in the shape of a teepee, with a dead blue vintage car parked out front, and for that night only, it was ours. All ours. It doesn’t get any better than that, you guys.

 ~Megan~

  Ready for More?

  Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

  Part 4 – The Wildfire

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Road Trip West – Introduction (Part 1 of 4)

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(Part 1 in a 4 part series)

By Megan Ritchie

I recently moved from my hometown of Minneapolis allll the way out to Los Angeles, some 2000-plus miles away. Here are a few tales of the drive across.

First, let’s lay out our cast of characters: We have me, Megan, age 23, and the one theoretically “in charge,” and Chris, my younger brother, newly 21.

 

We’re driving across the country in a red Ford Focus, character #3, and finally, our star to fill out the quartet, the whiney one, the high maintenance one, the one who weighs us all down: the 5’x8’ U-haul trailer packed full to the ceiling with all of my possessions, being pulled behind the car.

We left on a Monday morning at 6 am. My dad and I had been pouring over Google Maps stuff trying to decide the best route. We’d gotten in an argument, as young adult children are apt to do with their parents at times, especially when they’re being overly protective and you’re super strong and brave (and have lived in a foreign country…okay, Dad? I got this one.). I wanted to take the shortest—and therefore cheapest, as far as hotel stops and gas—route, right through Denver, where I could stay with a friend, and on through the Rockies, Vegas and finally to L.A. This idea nearly gave my dad a heart attack. “Driving through the Rockies? With a trailer behind a Ford Focus? Megan, are you insane?”

I relented, after looking at the elevation map and throwing a fairly unusual money temper tantrum (emotions were running high, okay?). So, our route was decided: Take Interstate 35 down to Oklahoma City, take a right, and take Interstate 40 to Los Angeles. That’s it. One turn. Thrilling, right? It was.

Now, Chris and I quickly discovered that driving a well-packed trailer behind a sedan was an interesting challenge. The U-haul folks in Minneapolis had warned me not to take the trailer above 55 miles per hour. I’d nodded along with them, but secretly scoffed at this at the time, thinking I’d be pushing at least sixty-five the whole way…I mean, I had 2100 miles to cover.But as we quickly discovered on the barely rolling hills of Iowa, the car couldn’t get to sixty-five with the trailer. The car couldn’t even get to sixty. And so we inched along at a (super pathetic) fifty-four miles an hour…for five days straight.  Any change in elevation and the car would scream in protest.

Wind Turbine Blows By Us on the Freeway

As it was, the car was going through gas at an impressive rate. Binge drinking, really. Instead of averaging about 300 miles per tank, we were checking in at around 180. Still, despite the gas and the speed, Chris and I were having a grand old time, mostly because of books on tape…which I guess we call audiobooks now because no one uses tapes anymore…or CDs, for that matter. Okay, fine, I just dated myself.

Time for another drink - Somewhere in Iowa

Anyway, on our first day, we listened to all of Tina Fey’s memoir, Bossypants.  If you haven’t had the privilege of hearing it, I’d highly recommend doing so. Fey herself reads the book and does all sorts of voices for her characters. Plus they use the actual Saturday Night Live clips that she discusses, which was extra fun.

That night, high on giggling along with Tina, we stopped in scenic Emporia, Kansas. We were, I admit, feeling quite proud of ourselves for having made it through three whole states (MN, IA and MO, for those keeping track) in one day.

Sunset in Emporia, Kansas

After checking into the hotel, I was quickly reintroduced to any Americana I may have missed in a dining experience in China by our nearby restaurant selections: Applebee’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King and Wal-Mart (does that count?). We were no fools; we chose Applebee’s and man, did we eat good in the neighborhood. Chris got a burger approximately the size of his head; I went a little less risqué and ordered the Southwest chicken salad because I’m trying to watch my figure. As it was, it was covered in tortilla strips, cheese, and creamy dressing. And was delicious. While we ate, someone across the restaurant had a birthday so the whole restaurant got to sing; I ordered about three Coke refills (for free!); and the waitress tried to get us to sign up for the Applebee’s reward program. Can you get any more American than that? No, no, you can’t. It was glorious.

Megan Richie

I couldn’t wait for the next day…

 

 

~Megan~

…And neither can we.  Coming Soon (we hope!)

The Next installments:

Part 2 – The Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

Part 4 – The Wildfire

In the meantime, enjoy a few other stories by Megan Ritchie:

The World Really Is Flat

Running Five Polish Miles

Afterward

grand_canyon

In defense of the family road trip:

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Like many moody teenagers, I dreamt of suing my parents, but never more than after our first family road trip. I imagined bringing my mom and dad to the courthouse of public opinion in my mind, but I thought, why stop there? Why not sue my two sisters and make it a clean sweep? Maybe, just maybe, I could prevent these people from ruining any more lives.

This is my story. The story of the worst, most humiliating two weeks of my life. I’d change the names, but it would only protect the guilty.

***

William Kennedy: Your honor, I present the ladies and gentlemen of the jury evidence that, following a game of highway bingo on August 15, 2001, my sister did punch me in the left side of the head. This unjustified and unladylike assault occurred at Deadman’s Summit on Route 395, so named because of a corpse found there in the 1860s. (See, I still have a bruise.) I also submit that this corpse, though dead and headless, was far luckier than myself because it never met the aforementioned sister.

Furthermore, I contend that I did win the game of highway bingo, that the bird observed on the roadside was in fact a crow, not a raven, and that this sister, one Jane, was entirely unfounded in her refusal to accept defeat and proclaim me champion of the family van.

Judge: Mr. Kennedy, I can’t see any possible relevance in these remarks.

WK: Your honor, if you will indulge me, the above incident served merely as a jumpstart to the injustice and downright terribleness to come on this family road trip—a trip that had just begun when the punching took place, one that still had one week and 1,750 miles to go. From my experiences I have no doubt the jury can only conclude that all future family road trips must be postponed indefinitely or canceled outright, while awarding me a settlement of $50,000 for emotional and physical trauma.

Judge: Well, it’s highly unorthodox, but I’ll allow it.

WK: Thank you, your honor. I call my first witness, Robert Kennedy.

Robert Kennedy takes the stand.

Isn’t it true, Dad, that not once, not twice, but thrice you crashed the brand-new family van, and that on the third instance the door jammed, setting off the ‘door-ajar’ alarm, so that everyone in the parking lot stared at us?

Robert Kennedy: Yes, but…

WK: No further questions. Let me remind the court that sitting in a hot parking lot inside a beeping white van with a broken door is incredibly uncool. Next, I call Jane Kennedy to the stand.

Jane Kennedy takes the stand.

WK: Tell me, Jane “Worst Sister in the Universe” Kennedy—where were you on the evening of August 15 at 4 p.m.?

Jane Kennedy: I’m not talking to you.

WK: Answer the question, please.

JK: Nope.

WK: Your honor, permission to treat the witness as hostile, annoying and spoiled.

Judge: Granted.

WK: I’ll tell you then. You were running away! That’s what you were doing, further wrecking an already hopelessly bad vacation.

JK: Yeah, ‘cause you were a jerk.

WK: Am not!

JK: Are too! You called me fat.

WK: Well, I…

JK: And you threw up on me.

WK: That was an accident.

JK: And it was a raven!!!

WK: For the zillionth time, it was a CROW and I won! You’re such a… Ahem, pardon me your honor, no further questions. For my penultimate witness, I call Helen “Second Worst Sister in the Galaxy” Kennedy.

Helen, you’re probably too young to fully comprehend the psychological damage caused by our road trip, but please tell the good people of the jury…”

HK: It was fun.

WK: What?

HK: Yeah. Except you were in a bad mood. Maybe because you didn’t eat anything.

WK: Helen, be quiet.

HK: And then we finally found organic avocados and bread that you would eat, but when we sat under that big tree by the Native American museum, it shed fur all over your sandwich, and then you looked at us and said: “I hate this family.”

WK: But what about all the hours in the car? When Dad wouldn’t stop to let you use the restroom? Those Utah people thinking Jane and I were your parents?

HK: That was funny.

WK: What about when you made us get out in Yosemite because you saw snow for the first time? And then, when you wouldn’t leave after two hours, we dragged you away screaming and crying, and people thought we were kidnapping you?

HK: I like snow.

WK: Grrrrr. No further questions. For the final witness, I call Maria Kennedy.

Maria Kennedy takes the stand.

WK: Mom, I’d like to take a minute…

MK: Actually, I wanted to take a minute to show you something.

WK: Mom! I’m supposed to be asking the questions.

MK: What’s this in my hand?

WK: Mom, please, you’re really embarrassing me right now!

MK: What is it?

WK: It’s a photo of me, Jane and Helen laughing … under some really cool rock formations near in Zion National Park.

MK: And what’s this?

WK: It’s me pretending to throw Helen in the Grand Canyon.

MK: And how ‘bout this one?

WK: That’s you and Jane helping me write a letter … to my girlfriend. But Mom, pictures don’t tell the whole story!

MK: What about the time you hiked with your dad to the top of Angel’s Landing? Or your bike ride in Moab? Or when we all went river rafting with the guide who loved the A-Team almost as much as you.

WK: OK MOM! No further questions. Your honor, I’d like to request a brief recess before my closing remarks.

***

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I came before you today originally to sue my family and argue for the dissolution of the institution of family road trips, but I can no longer in good conscience continue. The testimony we’ve heard reminded me that yes, much, and possibly most of what goes on during a family road trip is awful and humiliating, but there are also wonderful moments.

It’s a right of passage, especially for teenagers, to go to a place, be really embarrassed by family members, and promise never to return. And it’s a source for stories that the family will find funny at some point in the very, very, very distant future.

I hereby formally submit to end the proceedings, but leave you with this final insight. Go on that road trip with the whole family, but just the once; it’ll be more than enough.

~Will~

 

Shanghai's Pudong Skyline at night, including the pink Oriental Pearl Tower

EY Travel Tips: Shanghai

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1.  Get off Nanjing Lu.

One of the main drags through downtown Shanghai is Nanjing Lu. It’s a crowded pedestrian-only area packed with international stores and locals hawking their wares (and potentially trying to scam you—see #3). It can be overwhelming, to say the least, but is also a good way to get from the People’s Park to the Bund. Once you’ve had your fill, duck off to a side street and discover the real Shanghai. Yes, it’s grittier and dirtier (as an aside, avoid wearing sandals or open-toed shoes while traveling in China, as your feet well get absolutely filthy) but you can get a feel for what it’s really like to live in Shanghai. Plus, the street food is to die for. As long as it’s cooked nice and hot in front of you, you shouldn’t have any problems eating the pan-fresh fried rice or steamed buns (called baozi. They’re delicious.) you’ll find on every corner. Unless you know Chinese, be prepared to point as it’s most likely no one will speak English. On that note, picking up a phrasebook with a good dictionary as an appendix before your trip will definitely be worth it, especially if you’re a picky or particular eater.

The delicious jien bing

2.  Get up early.

Shanghai is a city that stays up late but gets up early. Morning is another great time to pick up some delicious street food, especially my absolute favorite, the savory large pancakes called jien bing, which the vendor will roll up for you like a burrito. Be sure you don’t miss the early morning markets where you can find locals buying their fruit, vegetables and meat for the day. There will be at least one market in every neighborhood. One quick tip: If you want to pick up some fruit, make sure you can peel it or bring along a peeler to get rid of the skin. Chinese people abide by this rule too, so don’t worry about offending anyone—you’ll horrify them much more if you just bite into that apple, instead of peeling its skin off first.

3. Beware of scam artists.

It often goes like this: You, an excited foreigner in China, stop to snap a few photos along the Bund. Two young, friendly Chinese women come up to you and in pitch-perfect English, ask if they can take a picture with you. Flattered, you say okay. You strike up a conversation. They’re from an inland city, also visiting Shanghai and wow, you’re an American! They love America! And you love China? That’s great! Would you like to go to see a traditional Chinese tea ceremony as we talk about our cultures? Sounds interesting, you say, and away you all go. Then, twenty minutes later, after you’ve tried a few teas, you’re presented with a bill for hundreds upon hundreds of yuan. And that’s when it sets in: You’ve just been scammed. Unfortunately, this happens again and again in any major tourist area of Shanghai and Beijing, and goes virtually unchecked by the government, at least at this time. This means as a visitor, you have to be on your guard, which can make for some unfortunately suspicious interactions with locals. Don’t agree to go anywhere with anyone, no matter how charming they are or how great their English is. If you meet a local you get along with, I’d suggest you pick the place to eat or drink the first time.

Having said all that and as an aside: Shanghai’s violent crime rate is extremely low, especially given the Chinese government’s strict gun restriction laws. Still, it never hurts to use caution, particularly if you’re clearly a foreigner, traveling on your own, as you’ll stick out more in some parts of the city.

4. Be prepared for everything you’ve read on the city to be out-of-date.

Shanghai is constantly changing, and not just in small ways. Restaurants you’ll find reviewed online the year before may be gone. The subway line will suddenly have a half a dozen more stops. Or that museum you were looking forward to from your 2-year old guidebook will have long since closed. It’s part of the feel of the city, but it can get frustrating. One way to combat it is to check on Shanghai’s WikiTravel page before you go out of your way for anything but a major site, as users tend to keep the website up-to-date. Or, when you finally make it to the address of the bike rental shop and it’s now a chocolatier (to use a real-life example), shrug and head on in for a sample; it’s all part of China’s charm.

5. To get to and from the Pudong Airport, take the elevated train.

Called the Maglev, it’ll get you from the airport into the city in fewer than 12 minutes, and is a fun introduction to China’s growing fast train system. It’s a little steep, but worth the money. Yes, the subway’s Line 2 goes all the way out to Pudong these days and rings in at only 2 yuan per ride, but it’s at least a 90-minute journey, which no jet-lagged traveler wants to stomach. Cabs from Pudong into the city can cost over 200 yuan and will take even longer than the Maglev, even if you don’t hit traffic. If you’re concerned about finding your hotel once you’ve made it into the city, grab a cab at the end of line. Just make sure you have the name of your hotel written down in Chinese characters to give to the cab driver (also see #6).

6. Be sure to grab a business card from your hotel.

Any hotel, even smaller ones, should have a business card with their name and address on it both in English and Chinese. Make sure you have a couple of those handy to give to cab drivers. Since virtually no cabbies know English, also have your hotel write down any major locations you want to see that day on a cheat sheet. Otherwise, try out Shanghai’s excellent subway system, but be aware that it shuts down around midnight each night.

7. Check out the Shanghai History Museum.

Located in the base of the famous Oriental Pearl Tower, the Shanghai History Museum is a ton of fun. It’s full of dioramas and mannequins that explain Shanghai’s history from ancient times to now. Plus, the captions provide an interesting, albeit sometimes grammatically clunky, perspective about the Chinese views on western imperialism. Check hours as they may vary, especially on holidays, and lines can get long on weekends. I’d recommend shooting for evenings, as the crowds will thin out after about 6 pm. Plus then you can see the pink Pearl Tower lit up from below as you exit the museum that evening.

Shanghai's Pudong Skyline at night, including the pink Oriental Pearl Tower

8. Set aside at least a few days for brief overnight trips.

Suzhou's Garden of the Master of Nets

Hangzhou, with its gorgeous West Lake, and Suzhou, with its multiple UNESCO World Heritage Site traditional gardens, are not to be missed. Both are accessible by fast train from Shanghai’s main train station. While they’re easy to get to and not too far from Shanghai, I’d still recommend spending at least one night in each city to be able to get yourself oriented. Both cities suffer from a lack of foreign-accessible transportation (the bus systems are tricky at best to figure out if you don’t read Chinese characters, unlike Shanghai’s subway system). Also, during rush hour, cab drivers, who don’t work for tips in China, will avoid foreigners for an easier native speaker fare, so getting around either city can be a challenge. Still, once you’re sitting in one of the ancient pavilions in Suzhou’s Garden of the Master of Nets or enjoying a cup of longjing tea, the local specialty, at a West Lake teahouse in Hangzhou, you’ll be happy you made the trek.

~Megan~

 

 

028

I survived Dog Sledding in Mongolia

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~ OR ~

…How to put what’s left of a good face on travel adversity

“So I went to the doctors,” Bijani said.

“Oh good, what did they say?” The phone-line went quiet for a few seconds.

“Well, that I’d probably lose my big toe and parts of both ears.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they’re pretty black and peely right now. You know marshmallows, after they’ve been on fire? Kinda like that.”

“Oh—that’s bad! Did you get a second opinion?”

“I think it’ll be ok,” Bijani laughed. “They found a doctor who’d lived in Alaska, and he says as long as everything stays warm I get to keep my nose, earlobes—all that good stuff.”

“… Does your mom know?”

“No—but she’ll kill you when she finds out.”

***

I’m a thoughtful dude: I do dishes; I put the toilet seat down at night; onetime I read the Little Prince and told people I liked it. So, never, in a million years, did I imagine this could happen to me.

Even Bijani’s mom’s parting words didn’t offer a hint. “Mongolia’s not the world’s safest place,” she said. “Don’t let ANYTHING happen to my beautiful daughter.” Frostbite would surely count as a kind of “anything”—and on her second-to-last-day, all because I’d agreed to have “fun” against my better judgment.

Oh, we’d had fun before—my kind of fun—the kind that involves working long hours at a newspaper office and watching Singapore-based sports TV in an apartment. But given her imminent return to California, I couldn’t say no. For our last, most memorable adventure in the land of Genghis Khan, Bijani chose dog sledding.

***

“At least the dogs were cute,” Bijani said.

“Oh yeah, great.”

“And I liked Noel.”

“That crazy French guy? He’s insane—case of permanent brain freeze.”

“Look on the bright side…”

“Easy for you to say. You just got frostbite. I’m going to be murdered by your mother.”

“Well…”

“Aghhhhh. How did this happen?”

***

It started with us setting off for sledding on one of those unusually mild, Mongolian January days. It was zero degrees. For the first time in three months I felt overdressed in long underwear, snowpants, gloves, and two jackets. One small victory in the battle of Man vs. cold.

The Silver Storm company van drove us out of Ulaanbaatar city northeast toward Terelj National Park, while I sweated past wrecked cars that served as “don’t drink and drive” reminders, through stiff yellow hills and finally the famous rock that looks like a turtle happily sunning itself.

We arrived and I couldn’t help feeling a little optimistic about the expedition. Three felt tents beside a log shed made up the camp, where lean, eager huskies and the bemused voice of Noel, our energetic guide, greeted us.

“Is zees all you brought?” he prodded our clothes dubiously and left, returning a few moments later with massive, traditionally-pattered wool jackets and pants.

“Now you will not freeze,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was colder by the banks of Terelj River than in the city, but I felt impenetrable in my woolen armor. Noel wore a jacket, ski-pants and a fleecy headband. I figured we were being treated with big, woolen, kiddie mittens.

We met Black and White, the skinny lead dogs, and learned the essentials—hold on, lean left to turn left, right to turn right. And that was it—we mounted our wooden sleds and plunged down a powdered ice ramp onto the hard river.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The stony riverside and lines of crisp alpines whipped by at seven miles per hour. Black looked over his shoulder as if to say: “Isn’t this fun?” It was fun, for five minutes.

Then I felt something else. Pain.

Freezing pain.

***

“Remember how the wind cut through seams in your clothes and your boots?” Bijani asked?

“Oh yeah, but how’d it get through both pairs of socks?”

“Weird, huh?”

“You should’ve said something; we’d have gone back.”

“I just couldn’t make myself do it, but I wanted to turn around so badly,” she said.

“I wanted to cry, but my tear ducts froze.”

***

At some point, we stopped for a third time. Bijani started with a neat fur hat and scarf wrapped around her face. Now frost caked her eyebrows and yellowing scarf; the hat was long gone, blown off and replaced by my lopsided wool cap. She looked like the disconsolate runner up of Miss Abominable Snowwoman 2008.

I should have given her my balaclava, but it was too cold to really be considerate.

“Should we keep going?” I asked.

I wanted her to say no. She opened her mouth and nothing came of it, just a headshake. (Later she’d tell me her brain had lobbied for a nod, but some frozen synapses misfired).

“Only 15 kilometers to go!” Noel said.

I knew we would die. Black glanced over his shoulder again, and I saw resignation on his face. “Yes, you are going to die,” his look said. “And if no one’s looking, I’ll probably eat you. No hard feelings, though.”

The wind howled. We crossed more frozen water. Sometimes it made cracking noises and we could see the water running under our feet. Sometimes rocks or debris formed a line across the icy track and we had to get off and run behind the sleds. I cursed nature. Bijani fell. She fell again.

She looked at me and I’ve never seen a face I know registering that much pain.

At last we reached the halfway point, a river bend that provided some shelter from the wind. Noel lit a fire and heated mutton dumplings and tea. I thought it was the best meal I’d ever eaten.

“At least we won’t die hungry,” Bijani said.

Miraculously, the wind at our back made the homeward journey easy. Bijani got a lift in Noel’s sled. I laughed the whole way to camp, partly from relief, partly from borderline hysteria that made me careless with the reins a few times. Black peeked at me, looking concerned and a little disappointed. He licked his lips.

Once inside a safe felt tent with a dung fire going, we took off our huge coats and pants and took stock of our situation. Bijani removed her hat.

“Uh oh,” I said.

“My ears feel funny,” she said.

They were humongous. The backs had bubbled into deep purple blisters.

“Is this going to be ok?” I asked Noel.

“Oh that,’ he laughed. “That iz just from the cold. The elephant ears. You feel just like an elephant because ze are so…”

“Floppy?” Bijani offered

“Floppy!” He made wiggly elephant ear motions with his hands.

“Will she be ok?”

“But it iz nuffing. It’s happened to me at least five times.”

Noel’s headband remained conspicuously over his ears for our entire visit. We drove back in the dusk. Against the frozen brown backdrop that signature rock looked like a turtle trying to squeeze out of its shell and run, run for the hills, far away from its angry, future mother-in-law.

Things looked even worse when we got home and Bijani took her shoes off. The big toe on her right foot was black. I spent the evening breathing on her feet trying to keep them warm.

“This is just the romantic last evening I wanted,” Bijani said.

We got advice ranging from ‘put the affected areas in snow’ to ‘pray,’ to ‘everything will be fine.’ The next day, Bijani left for California with burn traces clearly showing on her face. She called me 20 hours later.

***

“So you’ll really be ok,” I asked.

“I think so.”

“I am so sorry. What a perfect end to a perfect stay, huh?”

“You know, I actually had a lot of fun.”

“Really?”

“Ha ha ha. Of course, didn’t you?”

“Except that it was the most awful, difficult, painful experience of my life, yeah, I guess I did.”

“Good. Plus we have a great story and I’ll have cool scars to prove it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It won’t be so bad. They won’t last more than a few months. Speaking of which, when are you coming home?”

“Dunno, after your mom has cooled down for a year or two… “ There was another silence on the line. “So, where to next? Somewhere really nice like Iceland, Antarctica, the frozen void of space …?

“Don’t get any ideas, buddy. I’m taking you somewhere warm.”

 ~Will~

For more on Will’s escapades in Mongolia, check out these additional EY articles:

Second Chances: UB Mongolia

EY Travel Tips: MONGOLIA

and coming soon:  TAJ MONGOLIA

Some say adversity is the fuel on which true love feeds…it certainly seems true for Will & Bijani who continue to surprise, delight & inspire us at every turn!  Read more about their engaging love story here.

 

Everyday Krakow 052

EY Travel Tips: Krakow

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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