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brightoverthere · 5 years
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CDMX
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An anole surveys his modernized kingdom, gazing down Paseo de la Reforma from his favorite planter at El Castillo de Chapultepec. On Sundays, the Paseo shuts down for 6 hours for a mass bike ride.
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The Metropolitan Cathedral (officially Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de la Santísima Virgen María a los cielos), built from 1573 to 1813, has its lines of perspective physically warped by the massive church’s uneven sinking upon the resisting remains of the Aztec Huēyi Teōcalli (Great Temple).
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One of the cathedral’s two impressive 18th century organs (the largest of their age in the Americas).
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Saturday traffic jam in the labyrinthine canal system at Xochimilco, the clearest window into the city’s history, built bit-by-bit, artificial island-by-artificial island on the then-massive lakes system in the Valley of Mexico (larger than modern day Great Salt Lake).
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Nobody likes traffic, including our trajinero (pilot of a trajinera), as he slowly guides us through the chinampas (islands built for agriculture that originally floated).
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La Casa de los Azulejos is paneled with azulejos - blue tiles that define Portuguese and Spanish architecture - and dates back to 1793 in the Centro Historico.
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A massive mosaic built for Día de Muertos with rice, flowers, beans, and more on the plaza of the Palacio de Bellas Artes in the Centro Historico.
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A Friday night lucha libre bout at the Arena México. We didn’t have any less fun in the packed house in our $4 upper deck tickets, supplemented by big cheap beers and offerings from the concession hawkers, including Instant Lunch ramen.
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The gorgeous colors and light in the common area of our 2nd hostel - Massiosare El Hostal - in El Centro.
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The Museo Soumaya, funded by the richest man in Mexico, Carlos Slim, and named after his wife who passed away. Free admission means long lines and no visit inside for this tourist.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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CDMX - La Comida
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Despite the etymological suggestion, Mexico City-style quesadillas sometimes don’t include cheese. Instead of the state-side tradition of putting fillings between two circular tortillas, long tortillas are just folded length-wise. These two were snagged on the shores of the labyrinth of canals known as Xochimilco - one with chicken and one with flor de calabaza (squash blossom) with stringy, white Oaxacan cheese.
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This woman, operating her stall in the Coyoacán neighborhood, made me the best quesadilla I’ve ever had. At her establishment, they cook the quesadillas in a deep fryer, resulting in a crispy tortilla, wrapped around the gooey filling. Here, I tried the huitlacoche - a darkly colored fungus that grows on corn cobs and tastes lightly of truffles. It’s not a pretty sight, but is a delicious bite.
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The broad selection of pastries at Pastelería Ideal in Centro, CDMX.
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I’ve had a bunch of wacky foods, but this might top the charts. Dorilocos are a no-holds barred snack based on a bag of Doritos (you choose the flavor, but my guy’s favorite was the classic Nacho Cheese) split on its side, then topped with an insanely wide variety of goodies, both sweet and savory. Peanuts, carrots, cucumber, pickled pig skin (cueritos), gummies, tajin, chamoy, hot sauce, and a chili-tamarind straw. It’s spicy, salty, sweet, and savory - none of these flavors represented subtly.
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Enormous trompos of seasoned pork rotate near passerby, the outside constantly browning in preparation for the next shave, creating the filling for the remarkable king of tacos: the al pastor. The name directly translates to “shepherd style” (ever hear of a pastor refer to his congregation as a “flock”?), as lamb was the original meat on the spit. The classic lamb shawarma was first brought to Mexico by Lebanese immigrants, which later was adapted to pork. Trompos are usually topped with a big piece of pineapple, while the tacos sometimes are accompanied by a small one.
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A master at work at El Moro, a small chain of churrerías in CDMX. This location, in Centro, is open 24/7. These public servants fry giant coils of churros using a special batter-dispensing machine (in rear of photo), cut them up into foot-long segments, toss in (cinnamon) sugar, then tuck into a paper bag. Chocolates of dipping and drinking viscosities are technically optional, but spiritually required.
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Taqueria Los Coyucos - also in Centro, CDMX - delivered the best meal in Mexico City, beating out #22 restaurant in the world Quintonil in the process. The surtido (”assortment”), campechano (”mix”), and suadero (between belly and the leg) were all fantastic and ranged from 13 to 18 pesos a pop.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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John Muir Trail - Big Places
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Day 5 (9/14): Mt. Lyell from a crossing with the Lyell Fork, a mile before Donohue Pass, a scary milestone: the first big pass of the hike.
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Day 5 (9/14): Thousand Island Lake (I didn’t count) near Emerald, Garnet, and Ruby, where I had my first excellent camp experience (thanks to Team Minnesota - Mary and Sammie).
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Day 6 (9/15): Devil’s Postpile National Monument with the daytime moon making its presence, if shyly. Put my pack down in order to take the quick hike to see the top of these basalt columns. I made my way into Red’s Meadow (near Mammoth) that evening, where I met Peter and Laureanna from Milwaukee, cut my head open in the shower, and enjoyed my last quality time with Mary and Sammie.
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Day 13 (9/22): My thirteenth day brought some lucky views from Evolution Lake, above the gorgeous Evolution Valley.
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Day 14 (9/23): From the west end of Lower Palisade Lake - after conquering the Golden Staircase and before reuniting with Kat that evening and sharing a campsite with the Chocolatiers.
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Day 17 (9/26): Mine and Kat’s morning view before leaving Middle Rae Lake and conquering Glen Pass.
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Day 17 (9/26): The view from Glen Pass (11926′), the most challenging ascent of the trip for me, in part due to running out of water.
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Day 18 (9/27): Forester Pass (13153′), the highest pass on the JMT, as well as the boundary between King’s Canyon and Sequoia National Parks. The view is evidence of the increasing barrenness of the landscape and ecosystem.
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Day 19 (9/28): A mom and son hiking duo taking a break near Guitar Lake, prior to their evening ascent up to Whitney, where they stayed in the hut overnight and where we met them the next morning.
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Day 20 (9/29): Melanie’s headlight marks her ascent up Whitney in the wee hours of our last day.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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Renovation at Muir Hut
Inside Muir Hut atop Muir Pass now lives a Scottish stone.
As I learned from Grant, a Northbound Scot I met during my second night at Vermillion Valley Ranch, John Muir was born in the coastal town of Dunbar, Scotland. He spent the first eleven years of his life there, prior to his family’s emigration to the United States. It was there he first began to develop a love for nature. As we enjoyed the campfire at VVR, Grant revealed that he had previously conquered the John Muir Way, a 130-mile bike or hike across Scotland, concluding in Dunbar; the John Muir Trail, then, was a natural sequel. He told me Muir had enjoyed playing in the rock pools of Dunbar, where the stones are a distinct, earthy red. Grant then let us in on a secret.
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Above the fireplace, a pair of antlers sits upon an official plaque commemorating the shelter. Grant directed his southbound audience, upon arrival at the hut in the coming days, to examine the area above the antlers, specifically about one foot above the right antler. There, we’d find it.
He had brought one of these smooth red stones over from Dunbar, carrying it in his pack up the passes, and installed it in a crack between the larger rocks composing the walls of Muir Hut. Now, a piece of Dunbar, of Muir’s childhood among the rocks, was part of this monument to the man, tucked in the wilderness, nearly 20 miles from the closest road.   
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His full scheme wasn’t completed, though. Grant had taken a small rock from Muir Pass - now buried in his pack - with the plan to return to Dunbar. He intended to affix it to the red rock pedestal of statue of the young John Muir in his hometown.
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Photo: https://thecrusoes.wordpress.com
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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Flora and Fauna of the JMT
It was dry and quiet in September. Had I hiked earlier in the season I would have seen the flowers that come with May showers. In exchange for a limited number of blooms, I received three weeks free of precipitation - worth it, given that Indian Paintbrush and Lupine never bored this prairie peasant. The near-complete lack of bugs was another important bonus. The twisted, turned trunks and generously discarded cones of the conifers set the stage in the forests. While shielded by their mass, grey came from their bark, while on unshielded climbs to the many passes, it came from the rocks. Golds of dried grasses and stagnant, late-season water, and blues of the sky, reflected in quiet lakes, completed the palette that dominated the hike.
Trout teased me from beneath the surface of so many alpine lakes that I was convinced they knew I was without a pole. A few marmots and one pika were bolder and braver than I expected, but neither species as audacious as the California ground squirrels that thieved my trail mix on Half Dome nor as vocal as the tree squirrels that shrieked at me from logs and branches all along the way. Mule deer - with their cartoonish ears and smaller stature - were easily spooked, but curious on occasion. I heard from fellow hikers about their bear sightings - almost exclusively notched within the first day or two at Yosemite, where human food is plentiful - but had none of my own. I saw plenty of birds, mostly small and cute; the Dark Eyed Junco does a good enough job representing these en masse. Steller’s Jays are a fascinating first sight with their bold blues and blacks, and were common, too, but I reserve “cute” for the birds that don’t harass me with shrieks and aggressive suggestions that my food might be theirs. Some type of mustelid - a weasel, a pine marten? - showed off, scampering more quickly than any squirrel, nearly bouncing up, across, and over a heavily wooded patch. Conspiracies (”unkindnesses” is an alternative term) of ravens joined in with a late appearance around Bighorn Plateau, floating on thermals affording them a view of the vast and uninterrupted landscape.
My favorite animal interaction - one I’ve now recounted numerous times, with my audience forced to believe my word, without my having gathered proof in the form of photographic evidence - came early. After having summited Half Dome in the morning and continued on relatively late, I spent night two at the base of a climb up Sunrise Mountain, at the last water for a few miles (a report which spooked me early on), at the last crossing of Sunrise Creek. The site, a relatively large one, well-padded by fallen pine needles, was, even for its size, slightly overpopulated. A group of 9-or-so from Korea were first to stake out their tents, while I continued to decide if I wanted to continue on. We were joined by Bill, a retired doctor from Iowa, and two women - Sammie and Mary - from Minnesota. I decided to round out the Midwest representation, but cautiously avoiding breaching expectations, picked a less-than-ideal spot across the trail from the rest of the crew. I was the last to make the decision, but when I finished setting up camp, it was still early. I cooked my second dinner - couscous and tuna - and enjoyed it over some reading as the sunlight making it through the trees waned.
I had lost my second water pouch (and the snow stake I bought for digging catholes) earlier in the day. In combination with the news through-the-grapevine that the stretch ahead was drier than usual, this development made me particularly water-conscious, a proclivity that lasted longer than I needed it to, adding generously to the number of pounds I carried and calories I burned along the first few days of trail. To avoid the numb hands that came with an early-morning stream fill-up and filtering of multiple bottles, I decided to check that task off the to-do list before going to bed.
As I prepared my things, I saw a handful of the Koreans standing under a tree, looking up, their cell phone cameras flashing. I eventually made my way over, just as they began to disperse. I made eye contact with their leader (he who had most confidence in his English) and he responded to my quizzical look with an excited one-word explanation: “owl!” I moseyed to their former spot, scoured the branches above me, with nothing to show for (er, look for). Disheartened, I resigned to the path towards the river. Watching my step in the early dark, I turned upstream to find a suitable spot to collect water. As my gaze returned to the space in front of my head, I froze. Owl!
It sat on a branch at eye-level, less than ten feet away. Bigger than my head, smaller than a breadbox. My headlamp, water filter, and water bottles filled my hands and pockets. My mind went to my cell phone and my DSLR, both of which sat idle near my tent. If the owl had just moved spots, I thought - it might move again before I could return with a camera. I pushed the urge aside and decided to stay, to wait, to observe, to settle into the interaction for as long as the owl would allow. After some time (a minute, two?), I realized how lucky I was to have this moment, excited I’d be able to tell the story later. To add detail to the story, I started my stopwatch. I was curious to know how long we shared the moment; it had already felt like a fortuitous eternity. 
The owl continued to sit and stare, only occasionally breaking eye contact in order to examine the source of sounds I could not hear. She perpetuated owl stereotypes by bobbing her head in a circle while maintaining eye contact. I looked back occasionally, to see if any of my camp companions were headed my way, to warn them and alert them to the magic ahead of them. They weren’t coming. While returning my gaze to the branch after one of these glances, I caught a flutter of wings in my periphery, accompanied by the stealthiest rustle, amazed by the silence. She glided across the stream, doubling the distance between us, settling on a large rock next to the brook. She wandered a bit on her pedestal, the perfect size for an owl. The experience at this point began to edge into the spiritual, her presence magnified by the setting, both of us sharing the dark, still, and quiet, punctuated only by the stream’s gentle babble.
With another sudden flutter, she hopped down the water’s edge to investigate. As she bowed her head, seemingly to take a drink (as I had also come to do), a faraway crackle interrupted the moment and she jerked her head up, away from the water. After a brief, investigatory pause, she flapped (a verb too loud for the way she flew) downstream a few yards, breaking me out of the trance of intimacy. I struggled to see her through the darkness, but she stayed nearby. I immediately missed her details. Curiosity getting the better of me, I equipped my headlamp and illuminated the bird. She gave me the courtesy of looking back my way, her enormous pupils glowing brilliantly. I felt guilty about the intrusive illumination, switched off my headlamp, allowing her and her eyes to return to the task at hand.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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Sunset on the trail
On September 9th, the sun set at 7:16 pm as I settled into camp in the backpacker’s campground at Yosemite Valley. I had put up my tent relatively late, my flatlander brain skipping over the idea that being surrounded by tall rocks could induce darkness more quickly than otherwise expected. I cooked and ate my first backpacking dinner in the dark - couscous and tuna, à la ziploc - accompanied lovingly by my second tall boy of craft beer purchased from the camp store. I stumbled around, neck craned, watching the humbling geological formations around me glow red and fade away into the dark.
While cowboy camping - sleeping pad and sleeping bag tucked behind a wind-defeating boulder above Guitar Lake on September 28th, Jordan, Melanie, and I went to bed as the sun made its way down, completely hidden below the horizon at 6:41pm. While I had managed to get in bits of naps in the hours leading up, I slid out of the cozy refuge of my sleeping bag and hastily snuck on my camp shoes, as the last rays bounced off of the lake below, coloring the ridges behind us with the familiar citrusy warmth I had become intimate with over the previous 18 nights.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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John Muir & Co.: Part 2 of 2
These are folks I met at VVR or later. The second half of the trip brought fewer nights alone, longer hiking companionships, deeper relationships, and wider smiles.
To read a bit about these beautiful people, click on the photos to see the captions.
In particular, I owe big shoutouts to Melody, Jordan, and Kat.:
To Melody and Jordan for being my companions for the end of the hike, for my first night of cowboy camping just above Guitar Lake, for our shared, cold, windy summit of Mt. Whitney, for our trodding, painfully long descent to Whitney Portal, for partners in late night fear of campsite companions, and for sharing a silly sense of humor that made each step easier to take.
To Kat for talking with me for three days straight without getting (obviously) fed up, for providing me with a wonderful example to learn from in both professional and extracurricular life, for laughing generously at my jokes, for patience with my hiking speed and unending questions, for adapting to my penchant for long breaks and long lunches, for introducing me to the wide world of the East Side of the Sierra including hot springs, Mammoth, and the best gas station meal I’ve ever had, and for a long ride back to the San Francisco Bay.
And to everyone for sharing their cooking fuel with someone who turned out to have had such a talent for burning it.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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John Muir & Co.: Part 1 of 2
I knew that I wanted to practice my landscape and nature photography - not having had much practice previously - so I toted along my too-heavy, too-bulky DLSR along for my hike. Since Ansel Adams, the natural beauty of the Sierra Nevada has been documented through blacks and whites and colors captured through lenses, and I’d join in the tradition for a few weeks. I knew that I had slim chances of producing anything terribly original in the process, that any photos I captured of marvelous sites would also be accessible - probably in greater quality - via a simple Google Image search. I wanted to document my trip in a way that more accurately, more uniquely captured my specific experience. Given that one of the heralded attractions of the JMT is the peer group that hikes it, I decided on the first day of my trip to embark on a project to capture portraits (again, without any delusions of grandeur) of people I met along the way. I didn’t get to capture every person I had a kind word with, but I did snap photos of most people who left me feeling happier and more content for having met them.
To read a bit about these beautiful people, click on the photos to see the captions.
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brightoverthere · 5 years
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John Muir Trail: Days 1 & 2
September 10 & 11, 2018
I began my day early on September 9th with an Uber, followed by a bus, a train, and another bus, bringing me, via downtown San Francisco, Emeryville, and Merced, to Yosemite Valley. The bus pulled in, the windows flashing humbling views of El Capitan, Half Dome, and other granite megaliths. 
After retrieving my permit and tying up loose ends with help from the wifi (and $1.50 craft beers) at Degnan’s Deli - the source of the only wireless internet in the Valley - I moseyed over to the backpacker’s campground where I deposited my requisite $6 and set up my rented backpacking tent for the first of 20 nights in the wilderness. I cooked and ate my dinner and settled in to rest up for a big first day.
The John Muir Trail begins with small mileage (6.5 mi) but large elevation gain (3200 ft) - a preview for my quads of the many steep climbs to come. The first day was one of few I spent on the trail without blisters on my feet, which meant that my smile rarely transformed into a grimace. After being greeted in the morning by mule deer near the campsite, I got off to an excited, but slow-and-steady start. I took it easy, knowing that my first days were planned to be shorter, to acclimate to both the severe, rocky climbs and to the elevation that accompanies them. My only mistakes - minor - were having to hike back to a last water source I inadvertently passed and, ironically, carrying more water than I needed.
During a snack break, I met a mother (Holly) and daughter (Carolyn) heading up to Nevada Fall for a day hike. It was Carolyn’s first time, but Holly, who had hiked the JMT in high school, had been to Nevada Fall an estimated 35 times before, even having played a sticks-and-pinecones version of hockey on the pond at the top in the winter. Holly was thrilled for me, inspiring me to embark on a project I had been considering for a while. I decided, among other ways of documenting the trip, to photograph the people who made my trip unique, memorable, and positive. Holly and Carolyn set the mood for my trip and so it’s only fitting that they become the first subjects of this project.
I finished my first day camping near the junction for Cloud’s Rest trail, alongside a stream, and nearby 10 or so others. My day ended relatively early, so I relaxed, reading and eating until my soon-to-be standard bedtime of 7pm or so. The next morning, I was waking up early (before sunrise) to hike Half Dome.
Graced by a cloud free morning, I got started before 7:30am and made it to the base of the cables in a bit more than an hour, with another 20 or so to make it to the summit, impressing myself with my pace in the process, but only by ignoring the fact that I left my big, heavy pack back at my campsite. The view was, without surprise, astounding. My only loss - a few nibbles of trail mix at the paws of a bold ground squirrel - was thoroughly surpassed by what I gained: a major tick on my outdoors checklist, a healthy burn in my forearms from the workout of the cables, conversation with others at the summit, and remarkable views of the Valley and more, frozen in time with the help of my too-heavy-for-backpacking DSLR.
After spending an hour or so on top, I decided to descend in order to avoid the growing crowds on the cables. The descent - harder than the ascent, especially with two-way traffic - was relatively quick. I ditched my borrowed gloves, made quick work of the return to camp, packed up, then headed just another few miles down the JMT, away from the busy day hiking trails of America’s 5th busiest national park, but looking over my shoulder more than once, not knowing for certain if I’d ever get to see these majestic sights again.
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brightoverthere · 6 years
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Food across Poznań, Berlin, Hamburg, and Copenhagen.
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brightoverthere · 6 years
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Bus rides are always better when interrupted by a ferry ride. On the top deck, shielded, behind glass, from the cold, wet, whipping Baltic Sea air, I enjoyed my sandwich and beer, consuming the last of Hamburg en route to the final foreign stop of my trip.
Copenhagen
Having missed the opportunity to exchange my Euros to Kroner, my late night arrival in central Copenhagen was necessarily followed by a long, dark walk to my final paid accommodations - an appropriately trendy hostel (Sleep in Heaven). Upon arriving, I realized my energy level was at least a few notches below that of the spot, full of chatting, drinking, laughing young people. Instead, I settled into my room (a few buildings down - this was a veritable complex), breathed, and, after a draft beer at the front desk to refuel, trudged to the nearest hotspot for craft beer (BRUS) where I got a taste of true Scandinavian pricing. I treated my shock with a home remedy: a strong beer, in a fun-looking can, purchased at comfortable familiar, 7-11 prices, followed by dormitory snoozing.
I was committed to using my one full day in Copenhagen to explore, to gather, to take in fully. As such, I fell back on my (t)rusty old legs. A full day of putting one foot in front of the other led me through the tourist classics - King’s Garden, the nearby Botanical Garden, the Kastellet, the Little Mermaid statue, and Fredriks Kirke. A recharge of the phone, limbs, and spirit at Original Coffee allowed for the energy required to pack my afternoon with plenty more sights and sensations. A bird’s eye view from the tower at Christiansborg Palace allowed me to preview my next stops at Noma (a mecca for the food-interested-but-self-proclaimed-non-”foodie”), where I unironically stuffed my face with a deconstructed sandwich from Aldi, an nearby art installation which remains untitled in my memory, and the Copenhagen Street Food market where I tried a traditional smørrebrød. A immersive, surreal, substantial stop in the anarchist Freetown Christiania paired nicely with the tastes of McDonald’s. I took advantage of late night hours to digest my favorite Danish export at the Museum of Art and Design, before confirming that there are many more styles of chair than there are of beer at the uppity Nørrebro Bryghus and the much-more-comfortable Ølsnedkeren. It was there that I found my first Chicago flag of the trip, stitched to the side of a hat obtained by the Dane-in-question at Local Option, a brewpub about a mile from my childhood home in Chicago. He told me about his trip to my city before introducing me his friends (one being the bartender) and treating me to a local brew. Impressed-but-unsurprised by their English ability, I learned about the city through local eyes, an interaction I wish I’d had more frequently during my trip - a lesson I’ll certainly strive to take forward to future travels. But first, sleep.
My afternoon flight to Boston was looming. I awoke, packed up my things, stowed them in a hostel luggage room for the last time, and prepared myself for my last hours on the continent with coffee at a cafe with interior design as impecabbly styled and hipster as its name: [superkaffeforsyningen] (yes, with brackets). After self-medicating, I breathed crisp air in the nearby Assistens Cemetery (eternal home of Hans Christian Andersen and Søren Kierkegaard), and continued to avoid fixing what wasn’t broken: walking. I discovered the best deal in Copenhagen - Zaggi Coffee - where everything (coffee, sandwiches, cakes) was 15 kroner - less than $2 - a price I would certainly have been less excited about at the start of my trip in Bangkok. I trekked to and through the Superkilen, a long park celebrating innovative art and design from around the world. I turned around when I needed to, to make it back in time to my hostel, to hop on the Metro, to arrive at the airport, to check my bag, to pass through immigration, to find a seat to wait for my plane back to Boston, where the remainder of my evening awaited.
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brightoverthere · 7 years
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In our last episode, your hero was speaking English en route from Poznań to Berlin, not actively realizing that he would speak no more foreign sentences in these travels.
Berlin
After being dropped off by my linguistically superior chauffeur, I confidently strode into the night, without betraying the uncertainty of my mental map, towards my best guess of where my accommodations for the night would be. I eventually found them, as well as my hosts - my mother’s (Polish) cousin Zofia and her (German) husband Christoph. It was a late night reunion, their thorough, European hospitality jogging memories of the six weeks I had stayed with them in Washington DC, six years prior. They, as excellent hosts, allowed me to settle in at my own speed and save further reminiscing for the coming days.
Day 1 began with the standard free walking tour, provided this time by the most standard free walking tour company, Sandeman’s. After meeting near the Brandenburg Gate (sparking recollections of my 24-hour visit in 2011), we proceeded through classics like the Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, and the site of Hitler's Bunker, as well as an extended stop for a thoughtful meander through the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. At the tour’s endpoint, Bebenplatz, I was reminded of how small the world is (my boss’s daughter was leading the next tour). Apparently unsatisfied with the amount of walking, I continued, fueling myself with a currywurst stop (one of the most puzzling signature foods in the world) on my journey to very hip east end of Kreuzberg (or, more fashionably, X-berg). There, I stopped for beers at a craft brewery hidden in a food market (Heidenpeters), then crossed the Spree on the famous Oberbaum Bridge to see the East Side Gallery - a large section of the Berlin Wall covered in paintings made in 1990, acting now as a memorial to freedom and appropriately experiencing regular graffiti. Ready to dive into Berlin’s public transit system in order to make it back for dinner with the von Marschalls, I took the S-Bahn from the intimidating Ostbahnhof (east station) back for dinner and more catch-up with my former-and-present hosts. My punctuality was rewarded with a fantastic meal.
A fantastic meal is best when followed by a fantastic meal. After the next day’s midday brunch (feat. cheesecake!), I kept walking, this time towards Breitscheidplatz and Kaiser Wilhelm Church. It was here that the Christmas market terrorist attack happened only 2 months later (luckily my hosts weren’t there). I enjoyed a music rehearsal in the newer half of the church, then continued past the zoo and through the Tiergarten, the Central Park of Berlin. I revisited the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe to take in their museum - located under the memorial itself, an appropriate companion to the minimalism above - providing a thoroughly educational and understandably depressing experience. From Potsdamer Platz, I took the train (this time the U-Bahn) back to home base.
Berlin had clearly captured my attention as a walking city - my third day mimicked my first two in that my primary activity became putting one foot in front of the other. I followed the Landwehr canal through some very residential areas to yet another marker of the war - the Topography of Terror - which we had stopped near for a bathroom break on the walking tour. The indoor/outdoor museum focused on the Gestapo and the SS and is built on the sites of the headquarters for the same groups. The special exhibit - on mass shootings - offered no reprieve from the darkness. I’m very glad I enveloped myself in WWII history while in Berlin, as a month later, the results of the presidential election in the US brought plenty of reasons to remember the lessons of history, particularly those of Nazi Germany. I put these emotions out of my mind with more walking, beer, and a döner kebab that was worth the wait/weight. After a rainy walk home, I enjoyed another fantastic dinner with my hosts as well as their nephew Stephan, who I had cohabitated with for a brief time in Washington DC. Two Germans, a Pole, and an American (two young, two middle aged) have beers after dinner... Political discussion ensues - no joke. After making our second entries in the guestbook, Stephan and I parted ways.
In the morning, I parted ways with the other two von Marschalls and hopped on a relatively short bus to Hamburg.
Hamburg
I arrived in Hamburg midday and trekked to my immaculately contemporary hostel (Pyjama Park) in the Schanzenviertel. The rapid pace of my travel and number of foot-miles since Poland made me feel way too raggedy for the environs. I did the requisite walking tour to orient myself, taking in the fantastic architecture (including the brick expressionist Chilehaus) and geography. I grabbed a coffee to recharge, then continued solo through St. Pauli back towards my hostel, where I settled in, then wandered the neighborhood. I had Vietnamese for dinner, prematurely nostalgic with the end of my travels fast approaching.
I had spent an extra night in Berlin, meaning that day 2 also meant departure. Unburdened by baggage, I bopped around the neighborhood, had an excellent coffee and conversation with the barista, had a light, very-German lunch at a nearby immigrant center and cafe (Why Not? being the name and the motivation), and documented the excellent street art in the light of day. I then hauled my things on a long walk to the Kunsthalle, Hamburg’s primary art museum. I made sure to save time to treat myself to the special exhibit, featuring surrealism from the likes of favorites like Dalí and Magritte. After my dose of culture, I huffed it to the nearby bus station, where a delay allowed me plenty of time to grab food and beer for the long ride to Copenhagen.
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brightoverthere · 7 years
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My (travel) buddy Craig created this masterpiece out of footage he captured during our 3 months together on the road, plus the 2 weeks he spent in Japan afterwards. It’s a great representation of our whirlwind adventure. Enjoy.
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brightoverthere · 7 years
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Food adventures with family in SW Poland.
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brightoverthere · 7 years
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Dolny Śląsk (Lower Silesia), continued
I departed Wrocław on a train, heading for Sedzisław, where I would be reuniting and staying with Ciocia Iwona (the mother of my cousin Kasia, my host in London) and Wujek Rysiek. I arrived at this plan with much politicking from my mother, who negotiated with her older sister Halina about which of my aunts would be hosting me when. It was decided that Iwona’s in Sedzislaw would be my home-base; I could always backtrack the 4 stops on the train (25km as the crow flies) to Halina’s. I’d had enough of unpacking, repacking, and moving over the previous 5 months, after all.
Likely the only American on the train, I was reading my English book, savoring the last minutes of a world that required no Polish, prior to diving into weeks of interaction in a language I spoke with the proficiency of a flustered 4 year old. Less than an hour from my destination, I was interrupted. A familiar-looking woman stood next to my seat. Instead of jumping to the more logical explanation, I nervously waited, thinking I may have taken the woman’s seat by mistake.
“Michał? Michał Bright?” she inquired, repeating my middle name. It was my Ciocia Halina, who had just boarded at her town’s stop, successfully intercepting me. And Intensive Polish 102 began.
We shared the rest of the journey and some words (a conversation would be putting it generously), then disembarked, welcomed by Ciocia Iwona (who Halina had also surprised). We walked to my home base, enjoyed a light afternoon meal, and Halina departed (with a certified promise of further time together). I settled into my digs - Kasia’s old room - and relaxed, preparing myself for the continued intensity of Central European familial hospitality.
Over the course of my two weeks in rural southwestern Poland, I (complete with Wikipedia links where relevant - in English when available):
enjoyed remarkable amounts of remarkable food for śniadanie (breakfast), obiad (the big late afternoon meal), and kolacja (supper) cooked by remarkable family
visited the nearby Krzeszów Abbey and climbed to the top of its Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, home to a large collection of frescoes done by Michael Willmann (AKA the Silesian Rembrandt) and an unexpectedly very impressive audio tour
spent a sunny afternoon eating smoked prunes and fresh grapes in Ciocia Halina’s garden
had a full day adventure -with my cousin Karolina and her boyfriend Alek - mostly in English given their excellent skill! - in Karpacz, where we visited my mother’s old school, combatted Karolina’s fears in a climb to the top of a ski jump, visited a museum of sports and tourism (in this Polish winter sports mecca), saw the Wang Church (a wooden 13th century church brought from Norway in 1842), hiked to and had lunch at Mały Staw (small pond) in Karkonosze National Park, and joined my Wujek Irek (one of my mother’s younger brothers) and Ciocia Gabrysia for dinner and coffee, followed by a pint at Karolina’s workplace, Browar (brewery) Miedzanka
helped prepare for a huge feast in Ciocia Iwona’s backyard attended by my Babcia (grandma) Krysia, her sister Zosia, 4 aunts, 5 uncles, 6 cousins, 2 cousins-once-removed, and 1 dog
a day at the market in Jelenia Góra (deer mountain) with Ciocia Iwona, Ciocia Halina, and Wujek Czesiek, followed by a climb to the 14th century Zamek (castle) Bolczów, a picturesque stop at Pałac (palace) Wojanów, traditional dinner of kotlet schabowy at Restauracja Nad Potokiem, and a return to Browar Miedzanka for some more beers and excellent service from Karolina while we enjoyed the sunset from the patio
biked, solo, to the nearby Kolorowe Jeziorka (colorful lakes), a collection of former mines filled with water owing its various colors to the mineral content of the water
got a full tour of Ciocia Halina’s town of Świebodzice
had a full day adventure with Ciocia Halina, visiting the Palmiarnia (conservatory) Walbrzych, Zamek (castle) Książ, and finishing the day with some Zloty Pociąg beers, named after the legendary WWII-era train line built by the Nazis, believed to be nearby
a wonderful afternoon with my Babcia Krysia at her home in Marciszów spent devouring homemade gołąbki (my mother’s favorite) and eating raspberries off the bush and plums off the tree in her garden, joined by the final hold-out of the family reunion - Wujek Tomek (the youngest and tallest) and his family (Ciocia Dorota and their two children)
a second visit from Ciocia Agnieszka and her family, who came from Wrocław for an evening of drinks and food and horseplay (from my cousins Kuba and Michał)
a day spent with Ciocia Iwona and my cousin Rysiek (the młody/young Rysiek), stopping at a miniature park (full of shrunken regional and national architectural gems) and a stop across the Czech border in the small town of Trutnov for a relaxing walk around
a lunch with my mother’s Ciocia Zosia (my Babcia’s sister) in Kamienna Góra
Relative to the rest of my trip, these two weeks were, schedule-wise, quite relaxing, despite the busyness noted above. It was, however, my deepest dive into language in my life, and as a result, was often mentally draining and emotionally challenging. But what comes with challenge and effort is growth, which I can comfortably appreciate now, 6 months later. I can also deeply appreciate the opportunity to see my family on my mother’s side, who, despite 17 years of separation, absolutely showered me in love. With hugs and grammatically-bereft promises to return in (more) due time, I departed for the final legs of my time in Poland and Europe as a whole.
Poznań
After two easy train rides (props to the modern Polish rail system), I arrived in Poznań for a quick stop of 2 nights. While wallowing in the loneliness that comes from leaving an enormous family tree in the dust, I checked off the requisite sites thanks to a rainy free walking tour and learned the requisite Polish history thanks to the interactive Brama Poznania (Poznań Gate) museum. Also, knowing this was the last of my time in relatively inexpensive Poland (with Germany and Denmark next), I picked up a backpack in addition to more than enough food and drink (including my new favorite spirit).
And with that, the return to the mother’s motherland was complete. As I headed to Berlin via BlaBlaCar and chatted with the driver in English, my brain’s language center let out a loud sigh.
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brightoverthere · 7 years
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My mother came to Chicago from Poland in 1989. She settled down and never left. She (along with my father and myself) visited in 1992 (before my sister was born in ‘93) and again (with my sister) in 1999. None of us had been back since. This was going to be a big reunion with 7 aunts and uncles, up to 12 cousins and their children, and my only living grandparent (my mom’s mom - Babcia Krysia).
Kraków
I arrived at the Kraków bus station on Saturday planning to find my Ciocia (Aunt) Danusia, who, given her profession, wouldn’t be that hard to find; all I had to do was find the nun. Unfortunately, my first scan yielded one non-related nun (a good reminder that I was now in a strongly Catholic country). I wandered around the bus station, then the adjacent train station, then used wifi to attempt contact. With no quick response, I returned to the bus station and (of course) found my aunt patiently waiting for me. We exchanged all the pleasantries that come with a 17-year reunion between two people who don’t speak the same language, then got down to the business of logistics (a guided walk to the museum/convent where I’d be staying, some basic shopping, etc.). We parted, but the pastries she brought stayed with me.
The next day, orientation continued as I set myself up with a SIM card for my month in Poland (and - trigger warning - my upcoming 2 weeks without wifi), discovered the building where I’d be taking my intensive class, had lunch at the main convent where Danusia had worked, found an internet cafe to print the requisite forms for school.
Monday brought my first day of class, and the start to my 2-week long course at the 650-year-old Jagiellonian University, where I’d have class until the early afternoon, then have the rest of the day to relax and explore. My classmates were a diverse group: Rene (a Belgian in his 40s married to a Pole); Basia (aka Barbara - a middle-aged Australian woman with Polish parents); and Chie (a Japanese girl of 19 who simply fell in love with Polish culture through study abroad).
In those two weeks, I discovered:
the laughable difficulties of Polish grammar and the debilitating fear of speaking that comes with it
the widespread English fluency of young people in Kraków (and the corresponding tendency to switch to English when a novice Polish speaker is identified)
the main library in Kraków, where my new card access allowed me to use the computers and do some blogging for free
a few different grocery stores (cheap chanterelles, an exhilarating range of sweets, and solid charcuterie)
the wonders of the cheap and delicious eats of the communist-era bar mleczny (milk bar, so named due to corresponding government efforts to increase dairy consumption)
the nearest place to get bottles of Polish beer (that I hadn’t yet seen in Chicago)
the preeminent English bookstore in Kraków - Massolit
the Mosquito Hostel, who was kind enough to allow me to participate in their book exchange (Deception Point for The Book Thief)
the dominant walking tour company of Poland (the Free Walking Tour Foundation), through which I took tours on Kraków’s Stare Miasto (Old Town) and on the Jewish history and historic neighborhood (Kazimierz)
the immense popularity of the nearby mountain town of Zakopane, resulting in my inability to find a free walk-on seat on the bus, even before 5am
the benefits of buying a bus ticket the day before, namely: the beauty of the Tatra Mountains (Tatry) near Zakopane, including the tourist hotspot lake named Morskie Oko, and the less busy hike reward, Czarny Staw pod Rysami, less than a kilometer from the Slovakian border
the healing powers and (more apparently) the architectural, artistic, and industrial achievements of the 800-year-old Wieliczka salt mine, which includes numerous sculptures, a grotto, a banquet hall, a chapel with a Last Supper bas-relief and chandeliers (which you can check out on Street View) - all made of salt (personally verified with many-a-lick)
perhaps the most famous artwork in Poland - DaVinci’s Lady with an Ermine - in temporary residence at Wawel Castle
the widely-known horrors of Auschwitz-Birkenau - a surreal and chilling atmosphere in person, especially with a consistent light drizzle dampening the sounds, sights, and spirit - even without a guide, a valuable, emotional experience
cheerier things, too
After immense amounts of alone time and the progress in Polish language from unconscious incompetent to conscious incompetent (see below: a major and necessary step, but not an encouraging one), it was time for me to leave Kraków and head for the immense challenges associated with family, but especially family who doesn’t speak the same language as you.
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Wrocław
I hopped on a bus, planning to meet my 2nd aunt of the trip (Ciocia Agnieszka) on the other end, in Wrocław (pronounced ”vrots-wav” for those wondering). After enduring horrendous traffic, I reunited with her, Wujek (uncle) Marek, and united (born since ‘99!) with my cousins Michał and Kuba. I stayed with them the night (and enjoyed dinner and breakfast with them), then departed for my hostel, closer to the center of town, for some exploring.
After dropping my things off, I saw the Racławice Panorama (a cycloramic painting depicting the Battle of Racławice, during the Kościuszko Uprising - thanks to Wikipedia for the reminder), walked across a huge number of islands and bridges (behind only Venice, Amsterdam, and St. Petersburg within Europe), and spotted a Korean film shoot in the Rynek (market square). Shortly afterwards, I met with Maks, the son of my mother’s best friend from her adult years in Poland.
After picking me up and learning the location of my hostel, Maks insisted I stay with him and his girlfriend (both English speakers!). We had an Italian dinner followed by drinks at a local brewpub and a trendy bar; this was the Wrocław yuppie experience, an appropriate parallel to my time in Seattle.
The next day, I did the requisite walking tour and strengthened my bearings on the Stare Miasto (Old Town) and Ostrów Tumski (Cathedral Island). I also met many more of the unofficial mascots of the city: the dwarfs. I would need their friendship and confidence in me in order to conquer my next challenge: staying with my non-Anglophone family in the countryside for two weeks.
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brightoverthere · 7 years
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The parallel food post for my first visit (<24 hours) to Hong Kong in February 2016 (allowing some great New Year’s celebration as well).
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