I opened the refrigerator in my house the other morning and was greeted by three neon-colored bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 (oh, how I miss my old roommate Ricky who sure loved him some MD) and three bottles - one a toxic blue color - of Boons Farm wine.
Now, we all have our MD 20/20 and Boons Farm memories. If you're not overflowing with stories of those sordid nights, then perhaps you were too inebriated to remember. Just the mere sight of the screw-top, white-labeled, fruity Boons Farm bottles brings me right back to high school, schwilling from the bottle with my girlfriends atop Winn-Dixie Hill (a.k.a. Make-out Hill) on the golf course (sorry, Dad). Boons Farm was the only booze we could stomach, and as I got older, I found maybe 85 percent of the women I met got drunk for the first time on BF.
And MD 20/20 made frequent appearances at my college house, though I am proud (and honest) in saying I never partook. Ricky loved it and shamelessly toted the bright bottles to parties. And I think he did it mainly as a joke, a party trick, a novelty kind of like the Alize poster we had taped up in the living room. We only wish we had street cred.
Herein lies my point. I am no longer in college and high school is a distant (OK not that distant) memory. And those two beverages had been so far from my beverage repertoire - until now.
Excuse me while I climb up on my high horse.
Really, I just saw the bottles, asked one of my roommates if I was seeing things, and laughed out loud at the absurdity that is my living situation. Enter my sense of humor.
I live with five other people, most of them only a little younger than myself, but it is very much a group house. Grimy countertops, garbage piling up in the kitchen next to a cooler of warm beer from beach trip two weeks ago, six jugs of milk in the fridge (three of them expired) and a random pile of white sheets near the washer that no one will claim.
For a while, every other day I would come home to a new roommate. Justin (the roommate I really like) called it the revolving door apartment. He's funny - drinks a lot of coffee, is always high and giggling after work, loves karaoke. Then there is a girl who is always - and I mean always - in her housepants and has two caged birds in her room (don't even get me started). Some other dude who doesn't say much. Ever. Then the dude who owns the house, who seems to have a horror movie obsession with African art. Seriously, we have 17 carved wood salad spoons with giraffes on the handles, maybe 43 masks and safari animal statues all laid obsessively on the tables of every room. I think he did a semester at sea. He, the 23-year-old kid who just bought a 5-bedroom house in Washington - again, don't even get me started.
This place is awesome.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
adventures in reporting
Yesterday I was writing a story on the Central American Free Trade Agreement for the three Alabama newspapers I write for.
The challenge was to make a convoluted and excrutiatingly boring issue interesting to my readers, many of whom live in small, rural towns. And I would say that when reporters are writing national stories for a local audience, all we want is a good anecdote to lead with. Why should people in West Alabama care about CAFTA.
Enter Betty Sparks. One local judge gave me her name and number (after my colorful, ultra-quoteworthy conversation with him) saying she worked in a local cotton mill most of her life but was laid off two years ago thanks to NAFTA (and CAFTA would have the same affect, he said... Stay with me here).
Here's how the call went:
Me: Hi Ms. Sparks? This is Sara, I am with the Tuscaloosa News.
Betty: Oh now I don't need to by the paper, hon, I don't even have a job!
Me: Oh no ma'am I am not calling to sell you the paper. I am a reporter and I want to talk to you about the old cotton mill.
After about three minutes of me trying to explain why I was calling (without getting mired in words like CAFTA and trade agreement and global competition) and dropping the judge's name, she finally decided to talk with me. I think it was that I talked to the judge, because when she realized that she eased up and chatted. I got my lede for the story and a great quote about how her town now is a "tumbleweed town."
Writing for Alabama papers, I have some of the most interesting sources. They say colorful things and they are so kind (or at least they sound nice with the thick Southern drawl). One woman's name was Twinkle - and she was the state GOP chair! No kidding.
The challenge was to make a convoluted and excrutiatingly boring issue interesting to my readers, many of whom live in small, rural towns. And I would say that when reporters are writing national stories for a local audience, all we want is a good anecdote to lead with. Why should people in West Alabama care about CAFTA.
Enter Betty Sparks. One local judge gave me her name and number (after my colorful, ultra-quoteworthy conversation with him) saying she worked in a local cotton mill most of her life but was laid off two years ago thanks to NAFTA (and CAFTA would have the same affect, he said... Stay with me here).
Here's how the call went:
Me: Hi Ms. Sparks? This is Sara, I am with the Tuscaloosa News.
Betty: Oh now I don't need to by the paper, hon, I don't even have a job!
Me: Oh no ma'am I am not calling to sell you the paper. I am a reporter and I want to talk to you about the old cotton mill.
After about three minutes of me trying to explain why I was calling (without getting mired in words like CAFTA and trade agreement and global competition) and dropping the judge's name, she finally decided to talk with me. I think it was that I talked to the judge, because when she realized that she eased up and chatted. I got my lede for the story and a great quote about how her town now is a "tumbleweed town."
Writing for Alabama papers, I have some of the most interesting sources. They say colorful things and they are so kind (or at least they sound nice with the thick Southern drawl). One woman's name was Twinkle - and she was the state GOP chair! No kidding.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
please tell me those were fireworks
Last night at about 1 a.m., I was awoken by a series of loud bangs. It shook me out of sleep and before I even sat up I knew it must have been gun shots.
I appreciate that I tend to think every loud pop in our neighborhood is a gun firing, but this sound - followed my that of a car speeding away - was definitely gun shots.
I peaked out the window and saw nothing, and laid back in bed, thinking surely it was nothing. A few minutes later, I see the reflection of police car headlights blinking on my ceiling and I can hear the characteristic police issued car engine pull up the street and stop. Spitting distance from my window.
For the next few minutes I watched as several cops patted down two young men, who clearly were just walking by and had nothing to do with the shooting minutes before. After a while, the police let them go, peering around the street with a flashlight, and eventually driving off.
I guess I will never know what happened. Instead I went back to sleep asking myself, do I really live here? Sure, that scene could have played out on any other block in Washington, DC, but there is something extra shady about this neighborhood. The potential for crime - or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time - is palpable.
I appreciate that I tend to think every loud pop in our neighborhood is a gun firing, but this sound - followed my that of a car speeding away - was definitely gun shots.
I peaked out the window and saw nothing, and laid back in bed, thinking surely it was nothing. A few minutes later, I see the reflection of police car headlights blinking on my ceiling and I can hear the characteristic police issued car engine pull up the street and stop. Spitting distance from my window.
For the next few minutes I watched as several cops patted down two young men, who clearly were just walking by and had nothing to do with the shooting minutes before. After a while, the police let them go, peering around the street with a flashlight, and eventually driving off.
I guess I will never know what happened. Instead I went back to sleep asking myself, do I really live here? Sure, that scene could have played out on any other block in Washington, DC, but there is something extra shady about this neighborhood. The potential for crime - or for being in the wrong place at the wrong time - is palpable.
Monday, July 25, 2005
women journalist bad asses
This weekend, I went to a party for the Journalism and Women Symposium, a.k.a. JAWS, and I have never seen a such a large collection of bad asses in one place.
JAWS is basically a group for women journalists to come together and support each other, offer job advice and guidance, discuss the journalism issue d'jour, and just generally be total bad asses. At this party, I was in total awe of these women from some of the most respected media outlets in the country. I met women whose bylines I recognized, and was impressed by their humility, generosity and openness.
One woman in particular, a Washington Post reporter named Jackie Spinner, spoke to the group. She is one book leave from the paper to write about her time in Iraq. She looked my age (but was clearly older, since she said she was at the Post for ten years before heading to Iraq), and had started as a financial reporter before being at the right time in the right place. If my memory serves me correctly, she broke a story about the prison abuse at Abu Graib and lobbied her editors to send her to Baghdad.
They finally did and she spent about a year there. Three days before she left, one of their informants who was basically being paid to make sure none of the reporters got killed told her that he had been offered $5,000 to tell the insurgents where she was. She knew then it was time to leave.
The book she is writing is a joint venture with her twin sister, who is an essayist, called "Tell them I didn't cry." It refers to the time she was almost kidnapped. One day she was approached by these men who started yelling at her in Arabic. When she didn't respond immediately, they grabbed at her, tearing her scarf and dress away to see she was wearing a Kevlar vest. They then tried to abduct her, until she was saved by several Marines. She was shaking and crazed, but she didn't cry - a point she urged the Marines to back her up on when they returned to the office.
One of the other things she said that stuck with me was the fact that she never identified herself as an American - always Canadian or Ukrainian - and she never reported directly - always working through a translator, which meant her standing by as he conducted the interviews, trusting that what he relays is the truth. Also, if they did say they were reporters, they always identified themselves as being from some fake Iraqi newspaper, never the Washington Post. When asked if that made her uncomfortable, considering the shaky state of journalism ethics these days, she said of course it makes her uncomfortable, but that basically she is more effective alive.
Good point. After all that, she is returning in September. What a bad ass.
JAWS is basically a group for women journalists to come together and support each other, offer job advice and guidance, discuss the journalism issue d'jour, and just generally be total bad asses. At this party, I was in total awe of these women from some of the most respected media outlets in the country. I met women whose bylines I recognized, and was impressed by their humility, generosity and openness.
One woman in particular, a Washington Post reporter named Jackie Spinner, spoke to the group. She is one book leave from the paper to write about her time in Iraq. She looked my age (but was clearly older, since she said she was at the Post for ten years before heading to Iraq), and had started as a financial reporter before being at the right time in the right place. If my memory serves me correctly, she broke a story about the prison abuse at Abu Graib and lobbied her editors to send her to Baghdad.
They finally did and she spent about a year there. Three days before she left, one of their informants who was basically being paid to make sure none of the reporters got killed told her that he had been offered $5,000 to tell the insurgents where she was. She knew then it was time to leave.
The book she is writing is a joint venture with her twin sister, who is an essayist, called "Tell them I didn't cry." It refers to the time she was almost kidnapped. One day she was approached by these men who started yelling at her in Arabic. When she didn't respond immediately, they grabbed at her, tearing her scarf and dress away to see she was wearing a Kevlar vest. They then tried to abduct her, until she was saved by several Marines. She was shaking and crazed, but she didn't cry - a point she urged the Marines to back her up on when they returned to the office.
One of the other things she said that stuck with me was the fact that she never identified herself as an American - always Canadian or Ukrainian - and she never reported directly - always working through a translator, which meant her standing by as he conducted the interviews, trusting that what he relays is the truth. Also, if they did say they were reporters, they always identified themselves as being from some fake Iraqi newspaper, never the Washington Post. When asked if that made her uncomfortable, considering the shaky state of journalism ethics these days, she said of course it makes her uncomfortable, but that basically she is more effective alive.
Good point. After all that, she is returning in September. What a bad ass.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
right when you thought all cops were jerks
Walking home tonight from Capitol Hill, I stumbled upon a handful of cops pulling cars over about a block from my house. Now cops in this area aren't a common site, unless they are cruising H Street, which seems to be the dividing line between the nicer area and the, well, less nice area (my neighborhood). South of H Street is newly paved roads, renovated row houses, playgrounds. H Street is run-down strip malls and liquor stores and on the way to my lovely abode is a somewhat shadier scene that posh Capitol Hill.
Anyway, being the sharp reporter I am, I asked one of the cops what they were up to. He (kindly - rare for Metro cops) said they were doing safety checks to make sure people had driver's licenses, buckled seatbelts and insurance. Surely this neighborhood has bigger fish to fry, but I guess showing some kind of police presence counts, and perhaps they knew that.
So the officer was very nice, and he asked me what I thought of the neighborhood. I told him my assessment of the H Street division, and how when I first moved here I was nervous. But less and less do I feel like a total outsider. Save for the occasional incidents that make me want to crawl into a hole, apologizing profusely on the way down for being white, I am beginning to feel more a part of this neighborhood. I am less afraid of walking home from the bust stop at night. I see the same women standing with me at the corner in the morning, the same young men wheeling around on Schwinn 10-speeds or hanging out on the corner in their white T-shirts. The same group of old men is always sitting in fold out chairs and on steps near H Street. And the same woman - thought mean as fire - is walking her tiny puppy each morning.
I just make a point of looking people in the eye and saying hello, and I feel like once the shady folks see that I am unfazed by them and that I live here too, the tension is diffused. And almost every time they are kind back to me.
After chatting with the cop for a few minutes, I thanked him and told him I appreciated seeing them out on the streets. In a city like DC, it shouldn't be so rare.
In other news, I went to a Congressman's home for some Northwestern dinner party thing (free food) and the highlight - besides the gorgeous home with original floors and window shutters that folded into the wall - was him running out before the party was over. After answering the phone, he came lumbering down the stairs, suit jacket in hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. He said he had to run out for a vote. And he was gone. Now that's exciting - democracy in action, folks.
Anyway, being the sharp reporter I am, I asked one of the cops what they were up to. He (kindly - rare for Metro cops) said they were doing safety checks to make sure people had driver's licenses, buckled seatbelts and insurance. Surely this neighborhood has bigger fish to fry, but I guess showing some kind of police presence counts, and perhaps they knew that.
So the officer was very nice, and he asked me what I thought of the neighborhood. I told him my assessment of the H Street division, and how when I first moved here I was nervous. But less and less do I feel like a total outsider. Save for the occasional incidents that make me want to crawl into a hole, apologizing profusely on the way down for being white, I am beginning to feel more a part of this neighborhood. I am less afraid of walking home from the bust stop at night. I see the same women standing with me at the corner in the morning, the same young men wheeling around on Schwinn 10-speeds or hanging out on the corner in their white T-shirts. The same group of old men is always sitting in fold out chairs and on steps near H Street. And the same woman - thought mean as fire - is walking her tiny puppy each morning.
I just make a point of looking people in the eye and saying hello, and I feel like once the shady folks see that I am unfazed by them and that I live here too, the tension is diffused. And almost every time they are kind back to me.
After chatting with the cop for a few minutes, I thanked him and told him I appreciated seeing them out on the streets. In a city like DC, it shouldn't be so rare.
In other news, I went to a Congressman's home for some Northwestern dinner party thing (free food) and the highlight - besides the gorgeous home with original floors and window shutters that folded into the wall - was him running out before the party was over. After answering the phone, he came lumbering down the stairs, suit jacket in hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. He said he had to run out for a vote. And he was gone. Now that's exciting - democracy in action, folks.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
my gripes on cell phone users
I think people with cell phone headsets that plug invisibly into their ears, save for a thin black wire draped down their shoulders, look ridiculous.
You see them walking down the street, wandering in the airport, waiting for the bus. They are talking out loud into thin air. And right when you either think the person is telling you about taking the chicken out of the freezer or telling Jim about rescheduling the meeting - or right as you are convinced said person has entirely lost his mind talking loud and clear to himself - you spot the earpiece. And if on the off chance they are addressing you, that is inevitably the one time you assume they are on the phone and you stare at them blankly.
But these hands-free phone folks are never using their hands. They are not typing or making dinner or fixing the carburetor. They are not even driving - which if you ask me is the only time the hands-free accessory is acceptable. So why, if both hands are free, are you using this ear plug? Do you really think at any given moment you might have to catch a football? Maybe you'll suddenly need to bend down and tie your shoe? Chances are that's not the case, you're hands are free and will stay free and all you are doing is looking ridiculous.
Even more ridiculous are the people who have an ear piece in, but are HOLDING the damn cell phone in their hand, often right out in front of their face like a baby in need of a diaper change or a lit match. Or there are those who hold just the wire, where there is positioned a tiny microphone, gingerly between two fingers inches away from the mouth. Is that really better than just holding the entire cell phone to your ear?
You see them walking down the street, wandering in the airport, waiting for the bus. They are talking out loud into thin air. And right when you either think the person is telling you about taking the chicken out of the freezer or telling Jim about rescheduling the meeting - or right as you are convinced said person has entirely lost his mind talking loud and clear to himself - you spot the earpiece. And if on the off chance they are addressing you, that is inevitably the one time you assume they are on the phone and you stare at them blankly.
But these hands-free phone folks are never using their hands. They are not typing or making dinner or fixing the carburetor. They are not even driving - which if you ask me is the only time the hands-free accessory is acceptable. So why, if both hands are free, are you using this ear plug? Do you really think at any given moment you might have to catch a football? Maybe you'll suddenly need to bend down and tie your shoe? Chances are that's not the case, you're hands are free and will stay free and all you are doing is looking ridiculous.
Even more ridiculous are the people who have an ear piece in, but are HOLDING the damn cell phone in their hand, often right out in front of their face like a baby in need of a diaper change or a lit match. Or there are those who hold just the wire, where there is positioned a tiny microphone, gingerly between two fingers inches away from the mouth. Is that really better than just holding the entire cell phone to your ear?
Monday, July 18, 2005
weekend in the 'Ham
I came home for a much needed weekend of gorging on BBQ, drinking martinis with my two best friends and falling asleep at random intervals in the middle of the day. Despite being deathly ill with SARS - or maybe it's just a cold - it's been a nice relaxing couple of days.
Here are the highlights:
One of my best friend's threw a birthday party for her mother who passed away in the spring from ovarian cancer (Curses, Cancer!). I appreciate that may sound a little strange, but it felt perfectly normal to be in her home and celebrate her life - not by sitting around holding hands, sharing stories and singing Kumbaya - but by getting drunk on gin and tonics, eating ham biscuits and feeling Ann's presence all around us. (And we did pour one out for her... right on the kitchen floor if I do recall correctly.) It made me miss her dearly, think of my own mother, and thank my lucky stars for my amazing best friends.
We (five girls) finished the night by going dancing. We were the first to arrive and the last to leave. L told one woman she had great breasts (she did), and which point the woman shouted "they're mine!" We stumbled home at 3 a.m. and I woke up with a hangover and a cold.
At her hair appointment Saturday, my friend was chatting with her hairdresser Melissa who was just shocked and appalled at the London bombings. But what really stuck in her craw was that those bombers actually assembled the bomb in Leeds, Alabama (small town outside of B'ham for those who aren't familiar with this lovely state). "I mean, Leeds!" she says, "Can you believe it!?" My friend: "Um, I am not so sure about that, I think it's Leeds UK since they did bomb London..." Hairdresser: "Oh no, hon, I saw it on the news. They were in Leeds!" I think my friend dropped it at that point.
I took an Ambien the other night hoping to sleep more than five hours without waking up to toss and turn. Problem was I took it at 3 a.m. and woke up at 11 a.m. thinking it was 7 and the damn pill didn't work. It took two hours for the grogginess to wear off, but after last night I wish I had taken it again.
Among the things that keep me up at night:
1. getting a job
2. figuring out where I will be in a few months
3. the fear that I have SARS or lung cancer or bacterial meningitis rather than just the common cold
4. the news of a woman giving birth to a 15-pound child and wondering if my health insurance will cover an operation to end my own childbearing chances
Here are the highlights:
One of my best friend's threw a birthday party for her mother who passed away in the spring from ovarian cancer (Curses, Cancer!). I appreciate that may sound a little strange, but it felt perfectly normal to be in her home and celebrate her life - not by sitting around holding hands, sharing stories and singing Kumbaya - but by getting drunk on gin and tonics, eating ham biscuits and feeling Ann's presence all around us. (And we did pour one out for her... right on the kitchen floor if I do recall correctly.) It made me miss her dearly, think of my own mother, and thank my lucky stars for my amazing best friends.
We (five girls) finished the night by going dancing. We were the first to arrive and the last to leave. L told one woman she had great breasts (she did), and which point the woman shouted "they're mine!" We stumbled home at 3 a.m. and I woke up with a hangover and a cold.
At her hair appointment Saturday, my friend was chatting with her hairdresser Melissa who was just shocked and appalled at the London bombings. But what really stuck in her craw was that those bombers actually assembled the bomb in Leeds, Alabama (small town outside of B'ham for those who aren't familiar with this lovely state). "I mean, Leeds!" she says, "Can you believe it!?" My friend: "Um, I am not so sure about that, I think it's Leeds UK since they did bomb London..." Hairdresser: "Oh no, hon, I saw it on the news. They were in Leeds!" I think my friend dropped it at that point.
I took an Ambien the other night hoping to sleep more than five hours without waking up to toss and turn. Problem was I took it at 3 a.m. and woke up at 11 a.m. thinking it was 7 and the damn pill didn't work. It took two hours for the grogginess to wear off, but after last night I wish I had taken it again.
Among the things that keep me up at night:
1. getting a job
2. figuring out where I will be in a few months
3. the fear that I have SARS or lung cancer or bacterial meningitis rather than just the common cold
4. the news of a woman giving birth to a 15-pound child and wondering if my health insurance will cover an operation to end my own childbearing chances
rebirth of the blog
I told myself that I had no intention of continuing the blog once I returned from overseas. My issue with blogs is they seem so arrogant, assuming people care what I have to say or that my life is important enough to throw up on the Internet. But I guess I am rethinking that... not the "my life is important" part, but the continuing my blog part. See, it was suggested to me by a friend and fellow blogger (actually I'm not sure I am prepared to claim fellowship.... he's DC at http://journalscape.com/Dickie_Cronkite/ ... oh God did I just give a shout-out to another blog ... save us all.)
Anyway, I realized people love reading about other people's lives no matter how banal they may be, and I do enjoy writing, even if no one - or random sketchers - reads it. So welcome (back).
Anyway, I realized people love reading about other people's lives no matter how banal they may be, and I do enjoy writing, even if no one - or random sketchers - reads it. So welcome (back).
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
a dose of culture
For those of you that thought I didn't have a cultured bone in my body, I went to the opera last night.
First time, of course, and I saw Rigoletto at the Statni Opera. The building, opened some 120-odd years ago, was amazing, humblingly ornate with gilded walls and ceiling, extravagant statues... It was everything you would imagine an opera house to look like. And conveniently for some, subtitles were projected on a screen above the stage. Only, they were understandably in Czech, so I didn't entirely follow what was happening. But we all know the story - an affair, a Duke and a hunchback jester, a case of mistaken identity, a storm, a death. The performers' voices were unlike anything I had heard before in my life. It's unbelievable that a sound like that can come out of a person...
So yes, the tickets were free from work, but it was an amazing - and cultural, no doubt - experience.
First time, of course, and I saw Rigoletto at the Statni Opera. The building, opened some 120-odd years ago, was amazing, humblingly ornate with gilded walls and ceiling, extravagant statues... It was everything you would imagine an opera house to look like. And conveniently for some, subtitles were projected on a screen above the stage. Only, they were understandably in Czech, so I didn't entirely follow what was happening. But we all know the story - an affair, a Duke and a hunchback jester, a case of mistaken identity, a storm, a death. The performers' voices were unlike anything I had heard before in my life. It's unbelievable that a sound like that can come out of a person...
So yes, the tickets were free from work, but it was an amazing - and cultural, no doubt - experience.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
it's finally summer
After endless weeks of rain and cool weather, it is finally summer here. In fact, it got up to 85 degrees the other day and the beer gardens have been filled to the brim.
(I have managed to visit four separate beer gardens across the city last week... Best one? Must say it's a tie between Bezrucovy Sady - more of a family crowd, smaller, often live music - and Letna - one of the best views of the city and the river and perched on the edge of a massive park. Also nice are Vysehrad, with a rivaling view, and unfortunately the one within spitting distance of my apartment is coming in last.)
But I assure you beer gardens are more than just drinking, lest you think my time in Prague is hazy blur. It's people watching, getting to know co-workers, playing Sincerity (for rules, see the book Prague - you know, the one about Budapest? Never read it, but they lay out this really fun game in the first few pages that's all about picking one true statement out of a few lies and grilling your teammates.)
The heat wave also gave me an opportunity to go swimming in a reservoir on the outskirts of the city. Interestingly enough, I discovered there was a nudist section to the swimming area. And I mean nudist - not just women undoing their bathing tops. Naked-as-a-jaybird nudist. Although it seemed entirely normal to everyone else, it was certainly a shock at first, as you just don't get the nudist element at most American swimmin' holes.
Yesterday, the heat wave ended with a massive thunderstorm and hail the size of BB pellets. All work at the Prague Post ceased, as reporters became children pegging each other with the solid ice balls. The lawn was white with the ice, the gutters filled and the air was finally cool.
(I have managed to visit four separate beer gardens across the city last week... Best one? Must say it's a tie between Bezrucovy Sady - more of a family crowd, smaller, often live music - and Letna - one of the best views of the city and the river and perched on the edge of a massive park. Also nice are Vysehrad, with a rivaling view, and unfortunately the one within spitting distance of my apartment is coming in last.)
But I assure you beer gardens are more than just drinking, lest you think my time in Prague is hazy blur. It's people watching, getting to know co-workers, playing Sincerity (for rules, see the book Prague - you know, the one about Budapest? Never read it, but they lay out this really fun game in the first few pages that's all about picking one true statement out of a few lies and grilling your teammates.)
The heat wave also gave me an opportunity to go swimming in a reservoir on the outskirts of the city. Interestingly enough, I discovered there was a nudist section to the swimming area. And I mean nudist - not just women undoing their bathing tops. Naked-as-a-jaybird nudist. Although it seemed entirely normal to everyone else, it was certainly a shock at first, as you just don't get the nudist element at most American swimmin' holes.
Yesterday, the heat wave ended with a massive thunderstorm and hail the size of BB pellets. All work at the Prague Post ceased, as reporters became children pegging each other with the solid ice balls. The lawn was white with the ice, the gutters filled and the air was finally cool.
Monday, May 23, 2005
it's the final countdown
So I am down to my last three weeks at the Prague Post and in Prague. About two weeks ago, I was really anxious, homesick, ready to call it a day in the Czech Republic. But as with anything, as the time nears to get ready to leave, I am feeling more settled and comfortable.
Right as I was aching for home and friends and English and familiar spaces, I began to make friends at work, go out more and generally feel more at home in Prague. I guess that's always how it happens. It takes a couple months to find your stride, and in this case, a couple months is all I have and now I am uprooting again. I am not sad about leaving the Post, as the reporting and writing experience there has not been just what I expected, but I am beginning to really enjoy some of the people I work with, and feel nostalgic for my neighborhood, the city, even hearing the language buzz around my head all day....
I have made a list of things I want to do before I leave, and besides visit the beer garden and take absinthe shots (I assure you there is more to Prague that drinks), I have a few things I have either seen and need to do again or that I just haven't made it to yet. So far, I have listed and knocked off the Dancing Building (Tancini Dum), designed by Frank Ghery and intended to look something like the moving figures of Fred Estaire and Ginger Rogers. It's one of those buildings that people either love or hate, and for me, I loved it - I thought the curved glass and steel strangely complement the rigid, ornate neighboring buildings.
Also on the list were Petrin hill, which I wandered to last week and climbed the nearly 300 stairs of the mini Eiffel Tower at the top of the hill for some of the most breathtaking views of Prague. I've crossed it off the list, but intend to return.
I also kind of want to go to a puppet show (apparently Prague is the epicenter of European puppetry... whatever that means...), maybe a show and Obecni Dum and the Jewish cemetery (I know, I am embarrassed I have been here so long and still have not gone.) It's going to be a busy few weeks.
Right as I was aching for home and friends and English and familiar spaces, I began to make friends at work, go out more and generally feel more at home in Prague. I guess that's always how it happens. It takes a couple months to find your stride, and in this case, a couple months is all I have and now I am uprooting again. I am not sad about leaving the Post, as the reporting and writing experience there has not been just what I expected, but I am beginning to really enjoy some of the people I work with, and feel nostalgic for my neighborhood, the city, even hearing the language buzz around my head all day....
I have made a list of things I want to do before I leave, and besides visit the beer garden and take absinthe shots (I assure you there is more to Prague that drinks), I have a few things I have either seen and need to do again or that I just haven't made it to yet. So far, I have listed and knocked off the Dancing Building (Tancini Dum), designed by Frank Ghery and intended to look something like the moving figures of Fred Estaire and Ginger Rogers. It's one of those buildings that people either love or hate, and for me, I loved it - I thought the curved glass and steel strangely complement the rigid, ornate neighboring buildings.
Also on the list were Petrin hill, which I wandered to last week and climbed the nearly 300 stairs of the mini Eiffel Tower at the top of the hill for some of the most breathtaking views of Prague. I've crossed it off the list, but intend to return.
I also kind of want to go to a puppet show (apparently Prague is the epicenter of European puppetry... whatever that means...), maybe a show and Obecni Dum and the Jewish cemetery (I know, I am embarrassed I have been here so long and still have not gone.) It's going to be a busy few weeks.
me and the strange mannequin
Here I am with this very strange mannequin we found at the Vienna flea market. We were quite tempted to buy him and take him back to Prague - just to see the reaction we would get bringing him on the train with us.
four hour train ride for a flea market
... but it was the best flea market ever
A friend of mine from work, Fiona, and I went to Vienna this weekend. I expect it to be my last big trip out of Prague before I pack up and go home, and I had heard good things about Vienna (it's no Berlin, I hear, but worth the trip...)
And indeed it was worth the trip - only about a four hour train ride to get there Friday after work. Fiona and I share a love and a patience for flea markets, and we heard Vienna had a great one, so before any Parliament house, museum or city park, we set out for the flea market. We hit the bankomat and dove in Naschmarkt at about 10:30 Saturday morning and emerged a few hours and a doner-kabab-stomach-ache later sun burned to a crisp and pleased with our few finds, which oddly enough all followed the theme of telling time. I bought a small red clock that said "made in Czechoslovakia" on the face and surprisingly works (alarm and all, 3 euro), kicking off something of a desire to collect small retro clocks. Fiona also bought a retro clock, lime green, and an absolutely stunning antique Dolce and Gabana wrist watch that she seriously fell in love with and admired about every 20 mninutes for the rest of the trip.
The market stretched for blocks and after the garage sale/thrift store goods tables, there were endless rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, exotic spices, fish, ready made foods like hummus, stuffed tomatoes and falafel. That part of the market made me wish I lived in Vienna and went there each Saturday for groceries, wine, cheese and fresh foods. Delicious.
Vienna was neat. I didn't love love love it, as unlike Berlin, the city sleeps and it was hard to find much to do after the flea market and walking around the city center. But it was certainly a nice trip with nice company and unbelievable (finally) spring weather.
A friend of mine from work, Fiona, and I went to Vienna this weekend. I expect it to be my last big trip out of Prague before I pack up and go home, and I had heard good things about Vienna (it's no Berlin, I hear, but worth the trip...)
And indeed it was worth the trip - only about a four hour train ride to get there Friday after work. Fiona and I share a love and a patience for flea markets, and we heard Vienna had a great one, so before any Parliament house, museum or city park, we set out for the flea market. We hit the bankomat and dove in Naschmarkt at about 10:30 Saturday morning and emerged a few hours and a doner-kabab-stomach-ache later sun burned to a crisp and pleased with our few finds, which oddly enough all followed the theme of telling time. I bought a small red clock that said "made in Czechoslovakia" on the face and surprisingly works (alarm and all, 3 euro), kicking off something of a desire to collect small retro clocks. Fiona also bought a retro clock, lime green, and an absolutely stunning antique Dolce and Gabana wrist watch that she seriously fell in love with and admired about every 20 mninutes for the rest of the trip.
The market stretched for blocks and after the garage sale/thrift store goods tables, there were endless rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, exotic spices, fish, ready made foods like hummus, stuffed tomatoes and falafel. That part of the market made me wish I lived in Vienna and went there each Saturday for groceries, wine, cheese and fresh foods. Delicious.
Vienna was neat. I didn't love love love it, as unlike Berlin, the city sleeps and it was hard to find much to do after the flea market and walking around the city center. But it was certainly a nice trip with nice company and unbelievable (finally) spring weather.
Monday, May 16, 2005
you never have a camera when you need one
The Czech Republic won the hockey tournament last night, and although the last game against Canada was pretty good and the one against the States a few days before even had me screaming in my seat (for the CR, of course, being that I don't want to get beat up, and truly they played a better game), it was the post-win revelry that really takes it.
After watching the last period of the final game at a bar down the street, we walked outside expecting to see a few people in CR jerseys stumbling down the street, hollering and singing, as drunk Czechs tend to do. Instead, there were hundreds, all gathering on Wenceslas Square, shouting "Cesi" and hugging and swilling beer and loving life.
I have never seen anything like it. Picture an Alabama-Auburn football game where everyone is cheering for the same team (I know, hard to imagine, but try for the sake of solidarity - and you pick which team) that just won the most important game of the most important tournament for the first time in years. Now add tons of beer, matching T-shirts, flags and face paint; subtract the inevitable violence you'd have an Alabama game. And it was something like that. There certainly were police there, but they were more concerned with protecting the horse statue than getting the crowd to settle down.
At one point cars were inching along bumper to bumper up the street, and as they would stop for a moment, a crowd of guys would descend upon the car, drape the front windshield with a Czech flag, and begin shaking the bar back and forth to the point where I was truly expecting one to tump right over. Surely the drivers were mad, right? Nope, as the traffic inched up and flag was removed, the drivers were shouting and smiling and celebrating with everyone else.
So we stopped for a bit at the top of the square and watched the crowd celebrate. There really isn't anything like that in America - maybe in one city, but never the entire country coming together, drunkenly but amicably, to hail the national team. And yes, the screaming certainly got tiring as I was trying to sleep later, but it was really something to see an entire square jumping up and down and shouting in red, white and blue, flags waving, beer spraying, and people chanting for their country. Where is the camera when you need it?
After watching the last period of the final game at a bar down the street, we walked outside expecting to see a few people in CR jerseys stumbling down the street, hollering and singing, as drunk Czechs tend to do. Instead, there were hundreds, all gathering on Wenceslas Square, shouting "Cesi" and hugging and swilling beer and loving life.
I have never seen anything like it. Picture an Alabama-Auburn football game where everyone is cheering for the same team (I know, hard to imagine, but try for the sake of solidarity - and you pick which team) that just won the most important game of the most important tournament for the first time in years. Now add tons of beer, matching T-shirts, flags and face paint; subtract the inevitable violence you'd have an Alabama game. And it was something like that. There certainly were police there, but they were more concerned with protecting the horse statue than getting the crowd to settle down.
At one point cars were inching along bumper to bumper up the street, and as they would stop for a moment, a crowd of guys would descend upon the car, drape the front windshield with a Czech flag, and begin shaking the bar back and forth to the point where I was truly expecting one to tump right over. Surely the drivers were mad, right? Nope, as the traffic inched up and flag was removed, the drivers were shouting and smiling and celebrating with everyone else.
So we stopped for a bit at the top of the square and watched the crowd celebrate. There really isn't anything like that in America - maybe in one city, but never the entire country coming together, drunkenly but amicably, to hail the national team. And yes, the screaming certainly got tiring as I was trying to sleep later, but it was really something to see an entire square jumping up and down and shouting in red, white and blue, flags waving, beer spraying, and people chanting for their country. Where is the camera when you need it?
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
if only I spoke German...
... I might move to Berlin.
I don't think I expected to enjoy Berlin as much as I did. It's such a neat, huge city with cool looking people, colorful, interesting architecture, and a rich and visible history. Here are a few of the highlights:
- We arrive Friday afternoon after a five hour train ride, only to find the hotel we booked had some "computer problems" and had no room for us. They moved us down the street to the Holiday Inn, which we tried to pitch a fit about, but soon got over... after they assured us it was the same number of stars ... We are such snobs.
- We headed right over the Jewish Museum, opened in 2001, which we heard was unbelievable. And it was. The architecture was stunning, and I thought, really lent to the subject matter. And it was refreshingly not just a Holocaust memorial - it was an entire museum dedicated to the history and religion and customs, reminding us that there is more to being Jewish than remembering the Holocaust.
- We then went to a bar near our hotel, and upon a recommendation from the bartender, went to this club called Suite 22 or Annabelles or both (no one really seemed to be able to settle on a name). Dressed in T-shirts and Converse All Stars, we were very much out of place. It was an ultra-European posh dance club, complete with scantily clad (I am talking pasties here folks) dancers and men with more hair gel than imaginable. Thanks for the recommendation, Rodney. But we still danced and had fun and took silly pictures on the dance floor.
- The next morning, we tag along for a free walking tour of Berlin led by this ridiculous guy named Cal, who was absurdly long-winded and attention-starved but certainly knew his history. It was a neat way to see the sites - the new Holocaust memorial that just opened this week, the last remaining part of the Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, Hitler's former bunker where now stands some fancy condos (that are allegedly constructed with the recycled concrete from the bunker), Museum Island... Clearly the four hour tour only touched the surface of such a disturbing and complicated history.
- After much-needed naps, we went to an equally cheesey bar with horrendously loud salsa remixes and mist generator machines. Riiight.... clearly we are getting the recommendations from the wrong folks. We moved on to a couple other bars we had heard good things about and promptly ran into the Pub Crawl - the extension of our day tour where the same folks we wandered around all day with were rallying at some five or so bars. Not a pleasant sight, considering we ran into them a good four hours into the crawl.
- The next morning, we were disappointed to find that all the shops in the entire city were closed. Sunday. Not a single store open. But it worked out fine, as we wandered around Mitte for the afternoon, a really funky neighborhood with hip cafes and shops. The day ended in Kreuzberg, an equally awesome neighborhood with good cheap restaurants (Amrit Indian restaurant ruled) and more relaxed, less pretentious bars. A little more our speed.
- On Monday, we crammed an hour or so of shopping in and then hopped the train back to Prague. We did consider quitting our jobs and staying in Berlin for good, but that would probably have been a bad idea. Maybe I liked it because it stood in stark contrast to Prague. The people were nice and outgoing, the neighborhoods were endlessly awesome, the city felt new and modern and young.
I don't think I expected to enjoy Berlin as much as I did. It's such a neat, huge city with cool looking people, colorful, interesting architecture, and a rich and visible history. Here are a few of the highlights:
- We arrive Friday afternoon after a five hour train ride, only to find the hotel we booked had some "computer problems" and had no room for us. They moved us down the street to the Holiday Inn, which we tried to pitch a fit about, but soon got over... after they assured us it was the same number of stars ... We are such snobs.
- We headed right over the Jewish Museum, opened in 2001, which we heard was unbelievable. And it was. The architecture was stunning, and I thought, really lent to the subject matter. And it was refreshingly not just a Holocaust memorial - it was an entire museum dedicated to the history and religion and customs, reminding us that there is more to being Jewish than remembering the Holocaust.
- We then went to a bar near our hotel, and upon a recommendation from the bartender, went to this club called Suite 22 or Annabelles or both (no one really seemed to be able to settle on a name). Dressed in T-shirts and Converse All Stars, we were very much out of place. It was an ultra-European posh dance club, complete with scantily clad (I am talking pasties here folks) dancers and men with more hair gel than imaginable. Thanks for the recommendation, Rodney. But we still danced and had fun and took silly pictures on the dance floor.
- The next morning, we tag along for a free walking tour of Berlin led by this ridiculous guy named Cal, who was absurdly long-winded and attention-starved but certainly knew his history. It was a neat way to see the sites - the new Holocaust memorial that just opened this week, the last remaining part of the Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, Hitler's former bunker where now stands some fancy condos (that are allegedly constructed with the recycled concrete from the bunker), Museum Island... Clearly the four hour tour only touched the surface of such a disturbing and complicated history.
- After much-needed naps, we went to an equally cheesey bar with horrendously loud salsa remixes and mist generator machines. Riiight.... clearly we are getting the recommendations from the wrong folks. We moved on to a couple other bars we had heard good things about and promptly ran into the Pub Crawl - the extension of our day tour where the same folks we wandered around all day with were rallying at some five or so bars. Not a pleasant sight, considering we ran into them a good four hours into the crawl.
- The next morning, we were disappointed to find that all the shops in the entire city were closed. Sunday. Not a single store open. But it worked out fine, as we wandered around Mitte for the afternoon, a really funky neighborhood with hip cafes and shops. The day ended in Kreuzberg, an equally awesome neighborhood with good cheap restaurants (Amrit Indian restaurant ruled) and more relaxed, less pretentious bars. A little more our speed.
- On Monday, we crammed an hour or so of shopping in and then hopped the train back to Prague. We did consider quitting our jobs and staying in Berlin for good, but that would probably have been a bad idea. Maybe I liked it because it stood in stark contrast to Prague. The people were nice and outgoing, the neighborhoods were endlessly awesome, the city felt new and modern and young.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
ice cream from cream and dream
Ashley's in town!
She got here last weekend and we have basically been having a blast, eating out at great spots, exploring bars, sightseeing, and clearly eating ice cream.
The highlights so far: taking a shot of Absinth (that's right, illegal in the States, rots your brain from prolonged use Absinth) with a Slovakian bartender at a bar up the street; dancing to 80s songs that were less popular in the States but that the crowd went crazy for here; lounging in the park near Petrin hill people watchin on May Day; discovering the best Rusty Nail cocktail in Europe at Hapu bar; Ashley meeting a random British guy named Guy while sitting in Old Town Square.....
And tomorrow we are heading to Berlin for the weekend!
She got here last weekend and we have basically been having a blast, eating out at great spots, exploring bars, sightseeing, and clearly eating ice cream.
The highlights so far: taking a shot of Absinth (that's right, illegal in the States, rots your brain from prolonged use Absinth) with a Slovakian bartender at a bar up the street; dancing to 80s songs that were less popular in the States but that the crowd went crazy for here; lounging in the park near Petrin hill people watchin on May Day; discovering the best Rusty Nail cocktail in Europe at Hapu bar; Ashley meeting a random British guy named Guy while sitting in Old Town Square.....
And tomorrow we are heading to Berlin for the weekend!
Saturday, April 30, 2005
best meal ever
My roommate is moving soon so we decided last night to go out for a traditional Czech meal. On a somewhat cryptic recommendation, we trapesed around Vysehrad until finally finding the place hidden on a side street near the river. I want to say it was called Restaurace Podskalska, or something close, for those taking travel guide notes.
We walked into the restaurant, down a few steps and were greeted by a thick cloud of cigarette smoke and a waitress with dyed hair and an unusual, somewhat gritty Czech accent.
Kate can certainly hold her own speaking Czech, but we were guessing a little about what to order, mainly going off of what we had heard was traditional Czech food and looking up every second word in my handy pocket dictionary.
Perhaps the most notable experience of the meal was our appetizer. We could discern something about toast and tartarsky (or close to it), and Kate had heard that was a good popular Czech dish to get us started. So we ordered it and two velky pivos (big beers... that's my Czechlish for you), and when the dish came, we dove in.
First was a few pieces of thick, crispy fried buttery toast. Next to it came a plate of some kind of meaty spread, which I promptly slathered on the toast and sunk my teeth into. It was savory and rich and oniony and delicious. Meanwhile, I was musing on the texture. Hmm, I said to Kate, this looks strangely like uncooked meat or perhaps ground burger.... Her eyes became as wide as saucers and she stopped chewing mid-bite. I watched her put it together in her mind. Tartarsky. Steak Tartar. Raw meat. Friend in Brussels ate it and was sick for days. That promptly ended our enjoyment of the appetizer. Guess it helps to know what you are ordering, right?
We got much luckier with the entrees: an herbed chicken cooked to tender perfection, breaded and fried pork and potato wedges that would make anyone rethink the potentials of potatoes. It was excellent - perhaps one of the best meals of my life and undoubtedly in Prague. The atmosphere, the food, the waitress, it all made it feel like we had truly stumbled upon a traditional Czech meal.
We walked into the restaurant, down a few steps and were greeted by a thick cloud of cigarette smoke and a waitress with dyed hair and an unusual, somewhat gritty Czech accent.
Kate can certainly hold her own speaking Czech, but we were guessing a little about what to order, mainly going off of what we had heard was traditional Czech food and looking up every second word in my handy pocket dictionary.
Perhaps the most notable experience of the meal was our appetizer. We could discern something about toast and tartarsky (or close to it), and Kate had heard that was a good popular Czech dish to get us started. So we ordered it and two velky pivos (big beers... that's my Czechlish for you), and when the dish came, we dove in.
First was a few pieces of thick, crispy fried buttery toast. Next to it came a plate of some kind of meaty spread, which I promptly slathered on the toast and sunk my teeth into. It was savory and rich and oniony and delicious. Meanwhile, I was musing on the texture. Hmm, I said to Kate, this looks strangely like uncooked meat or perhaps ground burger.... Her eyes became as wide as saucers and she stopped chewing mid-bite. I watched her put it together in her mind. Tartarsky. Steak Tartar. Raw meat. Friend in Brussels ate it and was sick for days. That promptly ended our enjoyment of the appetizer. Guess it helps to know what you are ordering, right?
We got much luckier with the entrees: an herbed chicken cooked to tender perfection, breaded and fried pork and potato wedges that would make anyone rethink the potentials of potatoes. It was excellent - perhaps one of the best meals of my life and undoubtedly in Prague. The atmosphere, the food, the waitress, it all made it feel like we had truly stumbled upon a traditional Czech meal.
such is life as a reporter in the Czech Republic
Allegedly there is a law in the Czech Republic that says reporters have to show their sources a copy of their stories before they run in the paper. I say allegedly because I have yet to verify that for myself, and my source is perhaps questionable, but my recent experiences would certainly support that claim.
Law or no law, the approach to the media here is very different from the States.
I now have had several people demand to see copy before I file - not timidly requested like sometimes happened in the States. It seems like it is expected, and in fact I had one woman on the phone with me today become quite belligerent and come close to declining the interview. And of course, each time, I give the line about how it’s not our policy, I’d be glad to verify facts, but no copy. I have had to become increasingly more firm with that. And as I understand it, the Prague Post is an American-owned paper and doesn’t fall under said laws, although that seems to matter little.
The more people ask for questions in advance, to check quotes and then finally see copy, the less we become reporters and writers.
Ah, but the lessons of reporting abroad don’t stop there. A lot of people are suspicious of the press, and therefore hesitant to be interviewed. Twice I have had sources set up meetings before the interview, just to get to know me, size me up, before moving on to the meat of the story. They want to sit, have an espresso, see what I have in mind for the story…. and really, folks, neither of these stories were Watergate here. And in each case, neither of my sources made it clear that we were just meeting to meet, so I show up ready to go - in one case with a photographer - and they are surprised that a story is being written and that I have a deadline.
Today, I met with the director of the gender studies program at Charles University here. It’s the first and only such program in the Czech Republic, as women’s rights and gender issues weren’t much of a movement here. Perhaps some of that is because under communism, everyone is presumably the same, women always worked and interacted on the same economic level, and so there was no institution to rail against. Yet women were not - and still aren’t - treated equally socially. But I digress… maybe that’s for another post.
By way of illustration to how Czech’s view women’s issues, one Czech reporter wrote about this program, and said things about how she expected to see bras burning on the lawn of the school and after sitting in on a queer studies class, she wasn’t sure how many genders there were and if she would walk into the wrong bathroom at the school.
No wonder they are a little hesitant.
But rather than make it clear to me that she wanted to meet first and in her words “size me up,” she just had me come to her office (half hour train ride away) with the understanding that we would interview and instead she tried to tell me what she thought would be a good angle for the story. Again, I am the reporter. Please let me do what I do.
She also asked me to see copy before I filed.
Seems like everyday is a reporting adventure here.
Law or no law, the approach to the media here is very different from the States.
I now have had several people demand to see copy before I file - not timidly requested like sometimes happened in the States. It seems like it is expected, and in fact I had one woman on the phone with me today become quite belligerent and come close to declining the interview. And of course, each time, I give the line about how it’s not our policy, I’d be glad to verify facts, but no copy. I have had to become increasingly more firm with that. And as I understand it, the Prague Post is an American-owned paper and doesn’t fall under said laws, although that seems to matter little.
The more people ask for questions in advance, to check quotes and then finally see copy, the less we become reporters and writers.
Ah, but the lessons of reporting abroad don’t stop there. A lot of people are suspicious of the press, and therefore hesitant to be interviewed. Twice I have had sources set up meetings before the interview, just to get to know me, size me up, before moving on to the meat of the story. They want to sit, have an espresso, see what I have in mind for the story…. and really, folks, neither of these stories were Watergate here. And in each case, neither of my sources made it clear that we were just meeting to meet, so I show up ready to go - in one case with a photographer - and they are surprised that a story is being written and that I have a deadline.
Today, I met with the director of the gender studies program at Charles University here. It’s the first and only such program in the Czech Republic, as women’s rights and gender issues weren’t much of a movement here. Perhaps some of that is because under communism, everyone is presumably the same, women always worked and interacted on the same economic level, and so there was no institution to rail against. Yet women were not - and still aren’t - treated equally socially. But I digress… maybe that’s for another post.
By way of illustration to how Czech’s view women’s issues, one Czech reporter wrote about this program, and said things about how she expected to see bras burning on the lawn of the school and after sitting in on a queer studies class, she wasn’t sure how many genders there were and if she would walk into the wrong bathroom at the school.
No wonder they are a little hesitant.
But rather than make it clear to me that she wanted to meet first and in her words “size me up,” she just had me come to her office (half hour train ride away) with the understanding that we would interview and instead she tried to tell me what she thought would be a good angle for the story. Again, I am the reporter. Please let me do what I do.
She also asked me to see copy before I filed.
Seems like everyday is a reporting adventure here.
Monday, April 25, 2005
river running through Kutna Hora
I spent the day Sunday in Kutna Hora, a small town about an hour train ride from Prague. The weather was perfect for laying around in the park, wandering around the town and walking along the tiny river. It was quiet and peaceful and very much springtime.
these are real bones
This a bone chandelier in the Kostnice Ossuary in Kutna Hora. The ossuary has the bones of some 40,000 people who died from the plauge in the 14th century. An artist was later hired to creatively arrange the bones, and apparently, this chandelier utilizes every bone found in the human body. The place is eerie, and it's hard to imagine you are really looking at human bones.
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