INFERNO et PURGATORIO (sweet relief)
After enduring the rest of the journey and a four day rock concert at Werchter, Belgium, the eight hour trans-Atlantic flight back home didn’t seem so bad. In fact, the last two weeks have been so cushy that I have been deleteriously neglecting my diary duties. The small handful of you diligently reading and falling asleep to the stories of my travels (I’m practicing for old age) are probably prepared to excite yourselves into riot if I don’t finish. But as I now am earning money - thus meaning I have much less to do as opposed to advancing my career - there is plenty of time to finish out the legible end of my journey.
I left off somewhere in the whereabouts of Česky Krumlov and the whenabouts of preparing to leave. Or maybe shortly thereafter in Prague when I realized that my traveling companions were wearing heavily on my legendarily durable patience. Perhaps I was already back at the Elf. As this job doesn’t afford me internet access and my memory is going the way of the setting sun, I’m just going to guess that the last time I wrote to you all was during my fed-up-with-Prague days.
SOPHOMORIC TRAVELER INFERNO (Fifth Ring)
As much as the good reviews come flowing back about Hostel Elf, the quality of the hostel really has much to do with its guests. And as the quality of the guests - judging by maturity and experience and overall ability to have a good time (all rolled into one) - declines, so does the quality of the hostel. The nature of the guests around mid-June began to feel like the first year of university when everybody thinks they know everything and have not been humbled enough by the infinite amounts of knowledge in the world to acquire the much-sought-after virtue of being able to listen and digest. There were also pouring into Prague the barely-tolerable crowds of people who wanted to spend the vacation indulging in vices for low prices avec ou sans couture (learning was an unpleasant side-effect for them).
I wanted out.
Prague was not all negative. I did manage to get some things done like relieving myself of four kilos of dead weight from my bag. These four kilos consisted of a heavy leather jacket, two already finished books (normally I would give them away but they were destined to specific folks), two more pieces of assorted clothing, and some other small sundries. Quite a lot actually. The main thing stopping me from doing it before was the knowledge that my abilities in the Czech language would seriously be tested. The customs post office - where you must send packages of two or more kilograms - was not in a terribly convenient location. After the whole ordeal, roughly 700 Czech Korunas poorer and a little befuddled by all the Czech, I felt much relieved.
Back to the negative parts during those few days in Prague, there were multiple conversations during which I realized the only significance of them were that they were memorable for how vapid, non-entertaining, and sometimes frustrating they were. They were not limited to Americans as they sometimes are. Overall, the average age of the travelers had dropped about seven years. Seven very important years. The exception of this was a 27 year old Japanese girl who, when we were speaking in English, insisted on not letting me finish my sentences despite being able to speak English as well as I could speak Hungarian.
She was from Yokohama but her name I have successfully tried to forget. For some reason she ingratiated herself with the 20 year old (mostly American) boys in the hostel. After watching me cook, she decided to strike up a conversation with me - and of course I approve of such friendliness. Later in the evening however, after talking a little about traveling she decided that she was going to argue with me about how Americans are all pushy and arrogant. The futile and ultimately infuriating conversation went something like this:
“How much Czech have you learned?” “Just the word for beer. I want to speak more English.” “Isn’t it strange to learn English in Czech Republic?” “It’s difficult for me to learn English.” “But you are in the Czech Republic.” “It’s easy for you to speak English or choose to learn Czech.” “Yes, that’s true. Don’t you find it unfair that it’s easier for me and other people from English speaking countries?” “Well, I just want to speak to people.” Among other things I omitted pointing out the fact that the majority of Czech people speak no English whatsoever - see the upcoming (hopefully) entry on language. “But do you think it’s unfair that you have to speak English and I just speak it as a mother-tongue?” (then there was some fuss and nonsense about it being my mother tongue). “We all have to learn it.” “You have to learn it because of Americans.”
After this, there ensued an argument that made less and less sense. It was the kind of argument from someone who was arguing with the sole intent of injury. I have no idea what kind of chip she had on her shoulder but that chip was directly aimed towards me. During it, she was intent on saying there is no American hegemony and “all you Americans are the same in believing that Americans are the best” - my color changed from explanatory to annoyed. For those of you that know me, I’m one of those that are accused of being anti-American from time to time. I’m probably on the CIA blacklist. Her logic went something like this: all individuals are the same so all countries are the same. My explanations, which were speeding up since I had to get more in before she cut me off, that not all countries have the ability to drop hundreds of thousands of tons of explosives on a country fell on deaf ears. She then she insisted I was getting angry and refused to listen to me. At that point, I teetered on the point of smacking her upside the head. I refrained.
I left the next day. Yes, I definitely wanted out.
Sadly, now Yokohama is just a little dimmer for me on the map of the world.
She wasn’t the only reason why I left Prague, but pretty much the deciding factor. But also there was the opportunity to return to Olomouc once again and get my head together before making the next step.
PURGATORIO, OLOMOUC, RELIEF, OLD FREUNDEN
Despite the inconveniences of moving from city to city, it was a brilliant idea to not be in Prague. Prague is definitely not a place for quiet contemplation and planning. There were several possibilities of the last leg of my trip back to Belgium:
1) The first and most outlandish was to continue southward towards the Balkans via Bratislava and the western part of Hungary then westwards through Slovenia into Italy. I would then take a cheapo Ryanair flight out of Treviso into Charleroi, Belgium. The advantages were being able to take a short and cheap flight back and to see my friends in Padova and maybe Vienna (if the long arm of EU law didn’t get me first).
2) The second and more reasonable option was to go up to Warsaw and then west to Berlin seeing friends in both cities. That option wasn’t too bad either but the difficulty was coordination with rides and friends in cities. This option could have been cheap too depending on getting a ride and staying with friends. Obviously the friends were a big draw.
3) The last and least interesting option was leaving directly from Prague back to Leuven. However, this option would give me more time to explore Slovakia and other places in the Czech Republic. Possibly Hungary and Austria (the long arm of EU law permitting) as well. Nevertheless it was almost immediately discounted. Not enough adventure in this choice.
Regardless, going a little further east about 300 km to Olomouc made more sense if my next step was to either Bratislava or Warsaw.
Conveniences and planning aside, I was quite happy to see my friends, Greg and Francie, in Olomouc again. Francie was in Česky Krumlov at the time but I coped after weeping bitterly. Two interesting characters I ran into while staying at the Poet’s Corner that I’m going to write about now so I don’t have to write about them again later were Alex and Steve. The former was a civil servant from Antwerp, the latter a white-haired American retiree from the West Coast.
Alex seemed to have an inclination to meeting people without much effort. By this I don’t simply mean he talks to people and meets them, but for some odd reason he is always approached by strangers in foreign countries and makes friends with them. He had come to the Czech Republic for this reason. In New York, he met a Czech guy somewhere in New York (on the street or something rather) who insisted that he come visit his country. During his two-week long trip, he met almost a dozen people who urged him to hang out and spend time in their village or town. His original plan to work his way down to Budapest failed and Alex ultimately spent much more time in the Czech Republic than planned.
Over one of my many trips to Moravian restaurant extraordinaire, Hanacka Hospóda, we also talked about how few Flemish people have “discovered” the Czech Republic. In fact, the only other Flemish person I ran into on this trip was at Auschwitz. As far as I knew, the Czech Republic was Flemish-free besides Alex. This is strange since Flanders is not far and it is a rather incredible country. Maybe it has to do with the fact that most people there don’t speak English, French, Dutch, or German. Some speak English and German but not enough to count on it. The Flemish claim linguistic superiority but I guess only in the Germanic-Romantic framework. I suppose I’ll expound more on this in the to-be-written appendix on language.
Steve I spoke to less, but what I gathered is that he was an writer and a romantic. He was traveling to Lithuania because the woman he was in love with had some connection to it. Good enough reason for me. The woman he was in love with however was not single. He wrote voraciously but would pause to speak to us if so prompted. He was attempting to start a project with artists and correspondence. The project worked like this. Artists send their work to each other and keep up a correspondence but only within their medium. For example, a painter would send a work to a poet who would respond with a poem. Then the response to the poem would be another painting and so forth. I’m curious how it will work with sculptors.
During a mission to find a place to get a haircut on a Sunday, Greg and I discussed business once again. While walking around the city scouting out different hairdressers and barbers, I got the impression we were talking more seriously business than I planned to.
[The rest of this paragraph has been edited out and placed in top secret files - email me if you want to read about it and I'll email it to you]
My more immediate plans were pressing. Since I had heard nothing so far from my friends in Vienna and leaving from Prague was an option long forgotten my decision was to travel up to Česky Tĕšin on the Czech-Polish border and then cross on foot. Then continue onward to Warsaw and compare how much money I saved by not taking a direct train. In Warsaw I would see about staying with my good friend Inga whom I’ve known from studying and other various escapades. Continuing onward, I would go to Rzepin on the Polish-German border and cross that on foot and hop on a train to Berlin to see fellow Tampa native, Anton Jones.
FOOTING IT IN CIESZYN, RZEPIN, & OTHER UNPRONOUNCABLES
On the morning of the 23rd, I made my way towards the train station and inquired about the price for a direct ticket to Warsaw in broken Czech. There were some puzzled looks when I said thank you and left without buying the ticket but I got what I wanted. As I looked for a train directly to Česky Tĕšin with ticket in hand, I realized the schedule on the Vlak-Bus online service did not correspond with the time-table posted in the station. So there needed to be a plan B to get to the border via several trains. No problem, I had lightened my load recently by 4 kilos so walking around was relatively a breeze. Yet on the platform, the train that pulled up going in my direction - towards Ostrava - had a sign full of destinations including Česky Tĕšin. Again, using broken Czech (the third time that day), I managed to find out that I was on the right train and I slumped into my seat.
At the border, the tiny train station for a medium sized border town led out towards the checkpoint for those Poland bound. Luckily I had drawn myself a map copied from the Czech and Slovak Republics Lonely Planet. The Eastern European Lonely Planet had no such map. After the unbelievably gaudily bright yellow Hotel Piast, a row of ugly buildings followed. Interestingly, all the shop signs and billboards were in Polish. I would find out later why. Soon enough I came up to the checkpoint that sat upon the River Olše. Stupidly, I greeted the guards in Czech and got a reply in Polish and then was spoken to in English once I showed my passport. While leafing through my passport, the non-English speaking guard muttered something about Americans to the translator in Polish. After an inquiry about what the guard said, the translator replied, “No problem.”
It was overall a simple procedure and I was again in Poland. More specifically I was in Cieszyn, the Polish sister town to Česky Tĕšin - literally meaning Czech Cieszyn or more specifically the Polish town of Cieszyn on the Czech side. According to the priest I met on the way to Warsaw, Cieszyn and Česky Tĕšin were both Polish, but after the First World War the Czechoslovak and Polish side was divided by the River Olše running through its center.
Cieszyn itself was a much more picturesque and green town than its Czech counterpart. When crossing the checkpoint, the contrast is stark. I was suddenly overwhelmed by all the foliage and greenery in the park immediately on the other side of the river. The town square was clean and lively and judging by the stadium seating set up, it looked like it often held events. Also, the banks located in the center let me load up on złoty again. The streets were clean and pleasant and there were plenty of places to sit and enjoy oneself. Knowing this, I strayed slightly from my original course of travels to a part of the map where I didn’t add so much detail. None in fact. I was lost.
No problem. I had lightened my load, remember? I piddled around the city for a while thanking the planning I had made before. I knew I had at least three hours before the next train. For a while I searched for an internet café unsuccessfully to try to arrange my stay at Inga’s place in Warsaw. After about one hour of wandering around I found the Cieszyn’s tiny train station. The clerk there suggested I buy a ticket that brought me first to Zebrzydowice and then catch the train from there called the “Praga” to Warsaw. Of course, I would have to make reservations for the “Praga” at a price. This wasn’t quite my original plan, but sounded fine to me especially since it was all in Polish. Luckily, the guy wrote out the schedule for me. In the end, I saved about 10 euros compared to taking the direct train from Olomouc to Warsaw.
The train to Zebrzydowice was leaving within the next 20 minutes so I made my way towards the tracks. I noted that there were only four other people boarding the train so I checked with the train conductor and he said, “Is OK.” That was the limit of our conversation. The train ride to Zebrzydowice was pleasant enough since I had the entire car and probably the next few cars (I was in the first car) to myself. I felt so relaxed that I took many photos of the inside of the train.
Zebrzydowice… hmmm… Zebrzydowice. I don’t have so much to say about this backwater. Once I descended from the train, I realized there was really nothing in this town where I had to spend about 3 hours before the next train. It felt like an eternity especially since I was never 100% sure that it was the right place to be or if I had the right perron information. In the end I did ask the lady at the ticket booth and she responded positively with some words unintelligible to me. I considered getting a haircut at the station barber but didn’t quite feel up to it.
At approximately 16:45 the “Praga” pulled up and loaded on select few from the two groups of people tearfully saying goodbye. For the residents of Zebrzydowice, it was a great endeavor to go Warsaw. For me, it seems it was as well. It felt like it at least. In the cabin I was assigned to was sitting one other person. A man in his mid-thirties with a lot of luggage, sitting in shorts and drinking orange soda from a massive plastic bottle. After a few phrases in Polish and Czech concerning the state of the window, he realized I was more comfortable in English. I could not discern immediately where he was from but he spoke Polish and was reading a Czech newspaper.
It turns out that he was coming from Olomouc and had been teaching there for a few years. Since he knew some Czech from his undergraduate work visiting Ostrava and Bratislava, the University of Olomouc had hired him to teach. The Roman Catholic Church was strong in Poland and many theological scholars come to Poland for that reason. According to him, the Czech Catholic Church was not as organized and not as strong for different reasons. Since the authority of the Catholic Church in the Czech lands and the rest of the region was always a puppet of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it was viewed under a different light by the subjects of the Church there. Moreover, during the Soviet era all of the power of the Church via the power of the central Austro-Hungarian government was usurped wholesale. At present day, there are many unresolved problems over ownership of formerly Church owned assets. In Poland, the Catholic Church was and is much more based at the grassroots level so the complications of ownership were much fewer. The Vatican takes all.
The priest himself was not in fact a priest but a Catholic theologian. He was an interesting Polish born and educated fellow who really enjoyed talking. So much that once the cabin filled up, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of the window bouncing up and down and our - mostly his - voices speaking in English. Czerzare (sp?), as I eventually found his name was, had actually gotten on the train where I would have if I decided to pay the full price of a ticket directly from Olomouc. He was moving to London to improve his English, which was deteriorating due to his years in Olomouc speaking Czech. I can vouch for that. Once he got there, he would look for a job as a preacher or a cook. Supposedly both were in high demand in London. Later, he would try to get me to open a Chinese restaurant in Cieszyn for some reason. Maybe because his Czech girlfriend is from Česky Tĕšin. We talked plenty about the Church, problems with academia, and Indian food but I’ll spare you the details.
The train rolled into Warsaw.
