Of Baths, Billiards, Buses, And Bulgakov

Ok, so here are a few topics I'd like to share cohesive thoughts with you about, interspliced with little things that have happened to me in my time here.

For example, best question about America I wasn't able to answer:
In the showers after practice, somebody asked me what the going rate of "grass" is over in the states. The slang is the same as ours. I, being not quite an expert on the subject, tried to think it out. Somehow I came to about $20 an oz, and since there's 28 grams in an ounce, I just rounded to a dollar a gram.
"So cheap?"
Footnote with graphic imagery (you're warned): It's not custom here to shower naked after practice. Happens, but rarely, most of the time we're in our underwear. Those who have ever been on a team with me know I tend to be quite "comfortable" with my body, so this was an adjustment. On the plus side, I wash my (only) shirt every time I shower.

OK, first topic!
Bulgakov's house, now a museum dedicated to him.

Bulgakov, Superstar:
Mikhail Bulgakov was a writer whose creative period collided with the creative period for the Soviet Union. Fortunately, art won out, as always. His acclaimed novel, Master and Margerita, didn't get published for 27 years, but once it finally came out it became a huge favorite in Russia, as I understand it, as well as an acknowledged classic.
That's all well and good, and you may have known that already. What impresses me is that pretty much everybody here confesses their love for the book. It's actually hip to like this book here! I'm actually hip here! (Ok, not so much...)
Since most of the story takes place in Moscow, you can go around and actually see where, say, the Devil meets Berlioz and Homeless, or where Berlioz gets beheaded by a tram, or where MASSOLIT is. I imagine this is very similar to how Dublin is with Joyce, only not nearly as thick and hard to read.
Anyway, this was the first time I pulled out my camera over here, so here are a few more pictures associated with M&M.

Patriarshi Pond, where the novel begins
Gribodeyov's, home of MASSOLIT, though in real life it was a building named for Gorky

The front door to Cafe Margarita, right off of the Pond. The Russian at the bottom is the famous line, "Manuscripts don't burn". (In Russian, duh)
My guide of the day claimed that Berlioz and Homeless sat on one of these two benches. I think, I can't remember her words exactly. I basically just wanted to point out that I went to the Pond with a girl. Actually, 2, on separate occasions. No euphemism intended, though.

Last Thursday I sat out on a bench on the boulevard ring near Pushkin's statue (the meeting place in Moscow, metro stations excepting) with a group of Moscow youth as we talked, told Russian anecdotes, drank beer, smoked cigarrettes, and played guitar. I'll let you figure out which of those activities I as involved in. But I got to hear a lot of the naughty Russian words I learned, and even a good anecdote about one of them. And the upshot was that I've been asked to write a song for one, ahem, person and may be going to Petersburg not alone in a weekend or two.

Billiards and Bathing:

After our independent day of practice on Wednesday, we hit up the sauna. It's not a completely Russian bath, being dry heat, but I assure you it is sufficient. They just redid the room, so it's this 3-tier large wooden bench with plenty of room and an L bend to it. So, like most saunas, you go in mostly or completely naked and sit there and sweat.

The twist comes in the branch. They have this branch, from a birch tree I think ,though am not sure. Anyway, this branch, what they do, is they hit you with it. Lightly, but to get the blood flowing or something.

So I had been in a sauna like this once before, in Lithuania. It was great and made me so excited that I misused one of my favorite words, sensual - I meant to say sensory. This time I go in for the first session, then step out, cool off. But I didn't take advantage of the showers, and I'm realizing that might have been a mistake. As this doubt worms into my head, I request the branch treatment for my second go.

There I am, the American, and while CSKA's wrestlers hail from all over the country (and Russia's a pretty big country) and a few foreign places, American is about as exotic as it gets. They're eager to get their, err, twigs on me. I lie down on the top level, on my belly. And then the whipping starts. Sensations rush through my back, the heat mixed with the sharp but airy pain, everybody's looking at me, and what else could I do but scream? Ok, more like yelp. And I didn't ask off or anything, I hung in there. But I didn't take the treatment on my front (which I recall being even more sensory) and I took my shower after this, cutting short the standard bath numbering of 3.

Later that day, after taking all those Bulgakov pictures, I headed down to play billiards with one of the wrestlers on the south side of town. That's his job, he manages the pool room at a club once every three days for 15 hours. Seems like a not so bad gig, and he whooped me multiple ways in straight American pool (it's probably called 8-ball, eh?) and 9-ball, though I vultured a couple wins. Apparently billiards is really "fashionable" these days, and so it was a good experience. And I met my first potential English student and heard more of that naughty vocabulary.

Interesting event in between: I ran into a friend from Duke on the same car of the metro on the way to the pool hall. The Moscow metro system is huge, there are 24 hours in a day, many cars on many trains, and she doesn't even live in the city. The chances of us running into each other are low, to say the least. Of course, not as low are the chances that on the day I run into someone from Duke, I'm wearing my Carolina Open long-sleeve, with emblem on the heart and all. Geez.

Buses:

I ride these every day, and let me tell you, good stuff goes down. One day I rode the 88 and there was a drunk who was at first asleep. He was fat, with a 70's styled combover looking hairstyle, and huge sunglasses. I sat next to him, then gave up my seat to an unsuspecting woman. He proceeded to wake up and then rail to whoever would listen (mostly nobody, he went on all the same) about how people could sneak on to the bus for free and it didn't use to be like that, how he was in the army from '82-'84, and the rest of the ills in society. He was great.

Then another day on the bus some kid snuck on (one of about 15 people who did, it happens when the back doors open to let people off), and somebody else caught him and started asking for him to pay the fine (I think it's only 100 rubles, roughly $4). He refused, claiming he had a student pass and it just didn't work, or he didn't use it or something. Anyway, this led to him trying to sneak under the man's arm and off the bus at the next stop, and there was scuffling and jostling and punching. They were both in a huff when we pulled away, but it was funny.

Then there was the dude I saw/met on the way to that guitar playing Thursday night. Slightly balding with reddish brown hair, middle aged, in a sweat suit of sorts, he was doing pull-ups when I saw him at the bus stop. Then he explained it, "You have to use your time wisely", before jogging off to the next stop. He did beat the bus there. Then he got into an argument with an older man about culture and respect. And then he asked me to play on my guitar, cited some old Russian songs. Which led to this gem- "In the future machines will do all the work, so all we'll do is art and sports." I figure I'm all set if I live to 120. Anyway, he lives alone in the same building I live in, his friends just like to get drunk (which led to the woman next to him nodding in agreement), and he got off the bus a stop early to jog to the station. Just beautiful. Ahh, Moscow.

Dan

Prague in Retro

So before I go back to the present with a nice big post on Moscow (there's a lot of ground to cover), here's a full summary, with accompanying pictures, of Prague as I saw it a month ago. This was written before I went out that final night and encountered drugs, sex, and (my own) terrible dancing, though I added a few notes when I typed it up. Hijinx and hilarity tomorrow, I think.

Prague St. Vitus Cathedral in the Prague Castle Complex

Here’s what Prague has against it: it is cold; relatively easy to get lost in; poorly lit streets at night; an unclear linguistic dichotomy – who speaks what? (As a note, this annoys me because I mildly arrogantly assume everywhere in Eastern Europe has either English or Russian speakers in it, and additionally a lot of these languages are related enough to Russian to raise my hopes up before dashing them with a shovel). More essentially, the main draw of the city is likely the architecture rather than the location, nightlife, or high culture.
Following on that, what Prague is trading on is a familiar authenticity. It is Eastern European, technically, but far more accessible than the barren plains of Poland or the tiny cities of the Baltics, for example. A westerner’s visit to Prague is transportative and nostalgic, but at the same time not that foreign. Similarly, as Prague sells its authenticity, it wins tourists crowding the streets and money. Money that goes to Western businesses like McDonalds.
So as Prague nears its 20th year as an open city in the modern age, it must find the balance between progress with open money and its duty to the city’s past. A quick read of the English paper here suggests that the city politicians may not be up to snuff. And signs frequently advertising “authentic Czech cuisine” show that the citizens might be no better. Let’s hope that changes, because there is a lot of good stuff going on.

What is there to like about Prague? Most everything else. The city is beautiful, especially when walking it at night, and despite the bad lighting and confusing routes, the city feels relatively safe, the occasional prostitute or drug peddler not withstanding. Further, it’s easy to walk the main parts of the city, always a good thing. The metro is unspectacular but good enough for the city-size, and the ubiquitous trams cover much of the rest, running constantly at times, leaving an intrepid jaywalker in a game of Frogger. (Post-facto note: trying to cross a street in Moscow without a light is really like playing Frogger. Don’t worry, I never liked Atari that much anyway.)
The food is a good mix of West and East Europe, or perhaps better said, East and not East. Most Czech staples are meat-heavy, especially on beef and pork, but they’re missing the abundance of starches (read: potatoes) and butter, oil, or just plain fat juice that was endemic in Lithuania, Latvia, or Poland. Top choices were meat skeqers and the beef goulash. I ordered Spatijscke (clearly misspelled), a sort of noodle dish with selected toppings. It could be that I was sick or not hungry or just tired, but I hated it, hardly touched the dish, and then got an extra 15 crowns (about 60 cents) on my bill for the doggie bag, which I left there anyway. The wines here are fine, nothing special, though I usually go cheap as it is.
While many men have touted the Czech/Prague women as gorgeous, I was not blown away but once. They were certainly pretty, with an abundance of leggy blondes, but not world beaters by any means. (PF note: Later that night was when I saw the two very pretty girls at the club, shared a wink, and then got rejected on the dance floor…sigh) There was this one girl with the nicest outfit I’ve ever seen, however, on the Legee bridge, one South of the famed Charles. A red shirt, light, under a tan/warm jacket, with a black skirt to the knees, I can’t remember the shoes, so I’m assuming they were not ostentatious, but her hat tied it all together, this French (?) number, white and round, with a little bill, worn askew to her right. Perfect. Of course, she had a beau on her arms, which leads me to my next point: the best looking women by and large had male companions. Obvious, perhaps, but it knocks the feeling down. As for Prague men, well, honestly, it takes me a little longer period to make any judgments, since I pay less attention to them. No, really, it takes about 8 days instead of 2.
You are now looking up my nose at a statue of Franz Kafka

Culturally, here’s the scoop: the literary tradition is top-class, and the Kafka exhibit here represents it brilliantly. The museum is small with Czech and English titled signs relaying info on Kafka. In essence, they try to build an argument for why Kafka wrote the way he did, and why he’s so alienated and so special. A poor relationship with Pops K, the Hilsner affair leading to anti-semitism in Bohemia, low self-esteem over his clothes and looks, getting called a Ravachol (something akin to a little bastard, I believe), a hatred of his office, and four unfulfilled serious romantic relationships. The stark “plot” is accompanied by eerie music and odd, silent movies. The rooms feel dark and narrow. Never has a museum so effectively sent its message across using all tools available to it.
For art of the visual variety, I stuck with another favorite Prague son, going to the Alfonse Mucha Museum. It was as good as promised with his key posters on display, though rather short on time needed there. They showed a nice biopic that covered his life in about 20 minutes, with a British nar-RA-tor taking us through it. I didn’t see any other galleries and as such am mostly ignorant about other Czech art.
Music came in a couple ways. First, the museum of Czech music had a nice exhibit on Mozart in Prague and than a main, permanent exhibit with old and funky instruments. My feeling is that Prague does not have the strongest creative tradition musically, but they did put on some great music back in their day, and meanwhile pushed the envelope on instrument and scoring style.
Modern music looks unspectacular, but M1, a bar, had indie rock Wednesday and it was both packed and good. Says one ‘tender: “It’s this indie pop/rock shit. I hate it. I think it’s the kind of thing you either really like or really hate.” Touring bands come through here, but not often, and a lot of places have jazz.
I went to a Czech film on my last night and it was great. Marta starts slow, ends suddenly, runs a touch short (and I never say that about movies that are not based on books I’ve read), and features great acting and a mildly veiled plot. It is gruesome, in physical, sexual, and emotional ways, and makes for a great movie. Apparently, it is not representative of Czech film, but it is a good sign all the same.

Wencelas "Square" from the North, that's the National Museum at the far end

Now, for a detailed run through of St. Vitus' Cathedral and a brief run through of every other tourist site:

St. Vitus Cathedral: Now that I have seen this I feel much better about missing the Sistine Chapel. Not to say this bests that, necessarily, just that it is surely close enough, especially considering more cathedrals are sure to come.
Vitus is in the Eastern European gothic style through and through. On the wings are ornately constructed gold-plated or stained glass homages to Jesus, his mother, the Saints, and various Czech dignitaries. The ceiling is high, pointed, and beautiful, even missing Michelangelo’s touch. Below there is a royal crypt reminiscent of the one in Poznan (Poland), and to the right (South) there is a great tower.
We wound our way up 287 stairs with nary a landing. Some steps were a touch wider and there were windowsills to rest on, but mostly it was a straight hike. The stairwell was narrow, though not quite as slim as the climb to the top of Malbork Castle, where we worried for our broad-shouldered heavyweight’s chances of making it through, and later even more so for a not very slender woman walking there. Two regular-width people could pass each other in reasonable discomfort. The steps just barely were large enough for a full foot, so usually each step left the walker dangling, clinging to the outer wall going down or the central pillar going up. People going both ways stopped, and those coming down offered a smile and words of encouragement. It didn’t matter if we spoke the same language or not: the note in our voices did the trick.
Emerging from the dimly but sufficiently lit stairwell, the feeling is far more relief than exhilaration. We were high up, certainly, and what views there were in Prague, we saw them. Prague’s beauty, however, is far better recognized on the ground level. The climb was worth it, but mostly because it was there.

An example of the not quite spectacular view from the top of St. Vitus. I mean the city!

On to the other tourist sites/sights. The old Jewish section had very nice synagogues and its own little block on the north end of the old city. The Jewish community is now dispersed throughout Prague, I read. The old town center is absolutely lovely from all directions, and you can appreciate that while just walking around, especially at night. Charles Bridge is glorious if crowded. The Prague Castle peaks as a whole at the St. Vitus’ Cathedral, literally and otherwise. The museum of torture is blah: no pictures allowed, expensive tickets, gruesome but not so much, and not all that edifying. Wencelas Square is pretty hip, with a walkable middle showcasing modern art and a nice shot of the National Museum; choice.
There is a strong American ex-pat scene here, from cafes to bars to clubs. One of the two Americans I met put the number at 30K Americans in the city. Prague Post is a weekly English newspaper, and I’d guess between 50-75% of native Praguers speak passable English. Additionally, German, Italian and Russian from tourists dot the streets.
On the whole, I’m a big fan of Prague and would love to live here for a year or two, above all other European cities I’ve been to yet. We’ll see how that holds. Interestingly, for my purposes – cultural blitz, traveling adrenaline, and a dose of social life, a two and a half day stay is about perfect. (I should have somehow worked around this all-nighter idea, 2nd of the trip and 1st solo.) I saw most if not all of the sights, got a good feel of the city if not the people, had a great hostel, and had a decent time last night during my brief time out. I could come back here briefly, for a year, or never again. Not a bad place to be, and so I dig on.

The mildly silly looking Astronomical Clock in the old town center of Prague, representing the silliness of posting this a month late, perhaps.

Dan

That kind of finish...

Before dishing out the leftover photos from Paris and Rome, courtesy of Ben, here's the best understandable Russian language mistake I've made:
I learned and always thought the verb for finish was "Kon-chat" or "Kon-cheet" (imperfect or perfect form). So I've been using that a lot. And everybody smiles and corrects me, adding a "Za-" to the beginning of the verb. I was starting to get the hang of it, and trying to get it right, but surely there's a context where the true form of "to finish" works.
Finally, walking around museums and Old Arbat (sort of the La Rambla, Greenwich Village, or Fanueil Hall of Moscow, now commercialized), I asked my companion why I couldn't say "Kon-chat." "Does it mean something more like 'to end', or suggest that you died or something?"
She laughed, and then finally consented to explain. Apparently, "Kon-chat" is used for one specific context of finishing, but rather than a death context, it's the quite contrasting sexual context. So while you fully grasp that, I assure you all that I will not make that mistake again, unless I do it deliberately, in my punning sense of humor.

Ok, pictures.

Welcome to Paris. I had no luck finding the Hunchback.

Larger than Life. That speck in the middle is me holding on just before losing control and sliding down the face of the park, breaking my sandals and scraping my finger bad enough to last for the rest of the trip (it is healed now, don't worry). Ben would have taken an action photo if he wasn't caught between laughing and wondering if he should catch me.
Instead of running through La Fontana Di Trevi Anita Eckburg-style, as requested, I posed. I think I look almost as good as she did. Or at least my chest is roughly proportional to hers.

And I have zakoncheel, though not koncheel.

Dan

I'm too bright for this city!

Herein will be a retelling of my physical inspection, assorted observations after 10 days in Moscow, and a small essay on Madrid.


So, to get properly admitted into the wrestling club I am training in, I needed to jump through a few hoops, and among them was to get medically cleared. Perfectly understandable, we do it in the states too. But all the same, the whole procedure was quite the event. Allow me:

I showed up a little early, waited and read my newspaper (Soviet Sport, keeping it old school). After some confusion over where I was going, I finally got in to meet with my doctor/advisor for the morning session about 15 minutes late, or standard for Russia, I'd say.
So we exchanged some pleasantries, some personal info, some money, and then I got going.

The first room was the laboratory for a blood test. Again, perfectly normal procedure, prick the finger and poke blood out. Well, except for the time she put my blood in a pipe on one end and then blew it out from the other end into a receptacle. That was a little unusual. And the second time no less.

After we decided that a urine test was unnecessary, I went down the hall, thinking I was going to get my first ever EKG (or possibly EEG, the heart one). While that was yet in store, first I had an Echo test. Which meant that I was to sit there with my hands neatly on my knees, palms out, while this nice old doctor took what looked to be my temperature from various points on my body: second joint of each middle finger, elbow, wrist, temple. After the first try she told me that we should take another one, my results weren't too good, maybe I was nervous. Well ok, first test in Russia and I fail. No biggie. Apparently this test tells how much energy I have ready, on tap, and in reserve, and how my nervous system works, and what type of girl I prefer, and so forth. Very detailed, I can understand how Ivan Drago was constructed now.
On the next one I passed in hovering just above the ground colors, suggesting that I had a lot of energy in reserve and that I should only work out to 80% capacity for a little while. As if it was my choice.

Next came the long awaited heart test, which ever E*G it was. I went into the room, and the pretty doctor told me to take off my shirt and hike my pants up Huck Finn style. Yes ma'am. Then I lie down on the medical bed, and she straps my legs and arms to the bed with metal clamps. Wondering where this could possibly go next, I got my answer in two words: suction cups. The good doctor put 6 cups around my chest, right around nipple area on each side. To say they felt funny would be a mild understatement; they tickled like hell and I was left biting my lip to keep from continuously laughing. If my results showed anything funny, I'd argue that there's a reason for it right there.

Anyway, the show resumed slightly more mundanely with an interview/blood pressure test. Interview because this doctor asked me questions about my medical history, my past with concussions, my favorite food, and so forth. One result was that I learned the word for "Adenoid" is pretty much the same in Russian.

These sort of questions continued in the next room, where the doctor inspected my eyes, ears, and nose. She found that my nose was a little uneven in nostril width. As long as it doesn't bother me I'm fine, and the way I figure, after my haircut I'm one good broken nose away from really looking Russian.

The dermatologist and I had a nice little chat after I barged into her office before she got there. You see, she just got back from vacation, so things were a little confused, and I didn't mean to break that vase...err, anyway, clean skin, I'm golden.

For my reflexes test I met my first male examiner. His first test was to have me pretend I got pulled over: stand on one foot, close your eyes, touch your nose with each hand. If he asked to to recite the Russian alphabet, forwards or backwards, he would have had me dead to rights. Anyway, then instead of hitting the mallot on my knees, he had me kneel on the chair and then hit my ankles. And you wonder why communism didn't work.

I don't even know what my final test was, except it involved me taking off my shirt, going into a little chamber, and putting my chin on a stool. And when the light went on I was to not breath out. I think. It's enough for me to understand layman's Russian, but to grasp doctor speak in another language is a struggle.

Have no fear, my bill of health is clean and I made by on the bill of money. And I've already practiced 3 times, or once a day this week. And I hurt really bad. Other observations:

- The title is a quote from one of the people who has been greatly helping me out over here. She said I was instantly recognizable by the fact that I smiled as I walked around, and that after 3 months I'll be nice and worn down to Moscow standards. Between that and my ears getting really fat because headgear is a foreign concept and I want to fit in, I'll be completely unrecognizable in December. Hooray!

- After seeing all the people on the most inner boulevard circle drinking openly on the benches, whether beer, champagne, or vodka from a plastic cup; getting used to the smoking endemic here and in Europe; and seeing how people drive (with reckless abandon and a passion unrivaled outside of Nascar, namely, they drive it like they stole it) and refuse to let walkers cross the street, I remarked to my uncle on this, and we decided that this is the Дикий Восток (that is, the Wild East).

- My first game of soccer over here was a success: We won 6-3. I had the final goal as well as two assists (playmaker, folks), and I managed to take a pass on the postgame cigarette - and they were wondering why they were so tired out there.

- Just in case you didn't know, Moscow is huge. Both in area and population, this place is swarming. The metro trains are almost always packed, the city streets always swarming, and it takes me an hour plus to get to practice, which is in the same general region of the city as my apartment. More on this later no doubt.

Ok, and now for a few words on Madrid:

Madrid:
The city actually looks baked most of the time, a dusty, rusty red, as seen from Gran Via or Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol. There is green to be found in gorgeous amounts, and there correspondingly is plenty of life to be found after dark. But those elements work in Madrid almost in spite of the city, which felt better defined by its walkability, great food at decent prices, and the siestas.
Ahh the siesta, the most intriguing piece of Madrillan (and Spanish) life. With reports/claims that Spanish citizens average an hour less sleep than their European counterparts, and that Madrid brings that average down, it would appear that siestas go for about half of a young Spaniard's daily sleep count.
On the one hand, that's brilliant. Everybody loves a midday nap, and if you can manage, an extra hour spent awake is a bonus. But that's the rub: wouldn't it be more productive, economically or socially, to sleep more and get more out of your waking hours? This could be a Puritanical American heritage speaking, but sometimes this siesta business seems a little archaic and disruptive.
Then again, few feelings are more pleasant than slowly reviving from a midday snooze, with a layer of sweat on the legs and vague recollections of sub-conscious thought. It throws a pause into Madrid's pace, and that pause makes me feel that Madrid is the best city to live in of those we saw in Western Europe.

Dan

From Russia With Love

Man, have I been dying to use that title.

So my place, let me tell you, I'm living in a room with two roomates. And they're cool enough, you know, it's strange. One's shorter than me, kinda fat, kinda hairy, really proud too, sort of doesn't say anything unless he wants to eat, he'll just stare at you kind of funny and yawn if you try to talk to him. But whatever, he's quiet, his name is Timmy (well, Tima in Russian). Then there's Philly (Fila), who's a cool enough dude, a little rough around the edges, he drools when he sleeps and always lies out on my bed. And he's always asking me to go out, he's like, "Danya, come on, we need to go out, I have people I need to see," and I'm like, "Fila, dude, I don't want to go out, I'm tired, and we went out this afternoon already," and he's like, "Come on, you're in Moscow, you have nothing to do anyway," and I'm like, "alright, fine, you're right." Anyway, he's alright otherwise, a bit messy when he eats. Anyway, here's a picture of these two, they're quite a pair, Timski is on the left:

But seriously, yes, I am here in the city of onion domes, red and revolutionary squares, obtuse visa registration requirements, and cyrillic letters. Moscow, be mine. This has been a shockingly relaxing week, with the whole idea of sleeping in the same bed for more than two days a truthfully amazing development. At the same time, I'm on the verge of setting the next two and a half months up quite nicely. Wrestling, visa, maybe work, social life, a soccer team to cheer for in the Champions League (CSKA, where I'm training for wrestling), it's all a pretty good deal. I should also mention that the place I'm staying in is stellar, mostly because the people therein are stellar. A family that includes a generous and dry-witted dad, a very kind and helpful mother, a friendly and slightly dopey son, and an equally friendly and enthusiastic daughter, and the kids are both teenagers. Oh, and listen to our eating schedule: Every meal is followed by tea and sweets, largely in chocolate form. You think I'm in love?

A few more advantages to Moscow life so far:

Watching TV: Educational, always, as it's in a foreign language. And I'm actually getting into Lost, which I never tried watching before, though here it's called "Remaining among the Living" or something.

Music: Well, first, the family I'm here with has an old, not quite functional but decent enough accordion, so I fooled around on it. Number 2, I have a cd player set up in my room with speakers attached that plays mp3 cds, so I have one cd here that has every Beatles record on it, so that's kind of cute. Lastly, I played my 2 Russian songs and "Julian of Norwich" for the folks here. Knocked 'em dead. I plan on hanging out on the hipster street (Old Arbat) and doing the whole playing and putting the hat out thing (I forgot the verb) as soon as I'm legal.

Phone: I have a cell piece, known as a "Mobile phone", here. While there's nothing extraordinary about it, I did manage to set it up so that phone calls from unknown numbers will ring as the opening notes to Bombadil's "Jellybean Wine", and from numbers in my phonebook the notes will be the melody to "Julian of Norwich". So vain.

Fairer gender: I'm told, told mind you, that there's a line waiting for me. Tomorrow I begin to verify.

Anyway, all is well, and here's a little piece I wrote about Barcelona, which wins the following superlatives: Most Intense City, Best City to Vacation in, City most likely to Burn me out.

If that looks like I'm flying, it's only because it's true. Atop Park Guell, with Barca in the background, picture by Mr. Ben Chang.

Barcelona: time spent here: 24 hours +-

Headrush. Barcelona rushes through the visitor as the visitor rushes thorugh it. Fast-paced but in the easy-going Mediterranean style, this city felt like an amusement park. And only partly because modernist architecture, mostly courtesy of Antoni Gaudi, made it look like one (especially the entrance to Park Guell). Barca is high on energy and demands: if you want to go out, you go late; if you want to see the city, you walk a lot and up tall hills.

This felt like the best city to date to vacation in. On th epositive, it offers close to as much high culture as Rome and Paris, meanwhile rounding it out better with beauty, nature, sports, and the beach. More importantly, assuming you don't want to actually rest on your vacation, that Barca energy combines with the high culture for full days. Very full days.

On the negative, that high energy felt constant, and it takes a special type to face up to and meet the standard day in and day out. I would guess Barcelona is not cheap to live in, and as such requires a lot; you might be able to get the best out of it for a year or two, but I imagine burnout is the reward in the end.

Still, I think Barcelona is the "coolest" or "hippest" city of the Western European Cities we visited.

Lithuania always comes near the end...

And so the end is near, because I'm in Vilnius now, and will be on my way to Tallinn in a couple hours, and then it's Moscow. Which is really just the beginning.

Since I last typed:

Budapest- In the upper echelon, certainly, as weird as it was. One full day of touring provided plenty of good sightseeing, from the Buda Castle District to multiple good views of the Parliament to the Citadel on Gellert Hill, as well as the most lavish synagogue I've ever seen, and apparently the 2nd largest in the world at that (#1, anybody?) I guess it makes sense they call it the "Great Synagogue".

The payoff was all on the last day, however, where I not only found out that I didn't lose my pair of spandex when I went to the National Art Museum (it was in my jacket pocket, obviously), but I got to go in the Szechnyi baths. It's basically a big spa complex, except all naturally heated and outdoors. A very nice 3 hours spent, lounging around mostly naked and looking at other mostly naked people while healing the bod. Or something.

Krakow- Very homey city, comfortable, low-key, but with a nice little nightlife scene (ok, I'm not the best judge, conceded). Plus my hostel had a great book to read, so I got going on that. And I took a run and only got lost a little bit this time, it's a convenient route around the city.
A lot of Jewish stuff in the city and catching a train out to Auschwitz, which was all pretty worthwhile. As was running back to the train station only to miss my train back to Krakow, but then catching a bus, which got to Krakow late, meaning I ended up just squeezing onto the 20:00 train for Warsaw, so I got in there at the cheery hour of 22:45, rather than an hour later.

Warsaw- I wasn't here very long and this was one of my down days physically, so I was kinda crapped out, but I was surprised, the city was nicer than I thought it would be. Plus I found another beef tartare (first time I've had it in the same country, my 4 previous times were in Poland, Montreal, Somerville, and Paris), and this place that had hot chocolate that was actually too rich. I didn't think hot chocolate could be too rich, but E. Wedel proved me wrong.

Vilnius- I've only been here today but it has been lovely. I got in much too early and was tired, but decided after some consulting with friends north of here to stay until the night bus. I sludged around for breakfast and then decided to stop in on a Shabbat service, because I thought it would be interesting and keep me busy. It was more the latter than the former, but never let it be said that the Choral Synagogue does not know how to hold a kiddush: good eating. Plus, the sermon/service was in Russian when it wasn't in Hebrew, so that was cool.

In fact, Vilnius is at least 50 % Russian speaking, marking the first day of my immersion, I suppose. And it's a very pretty city, with a nice old town and this hill to climb to a tower. I got to the top, which had a nice view and all, but was also superb to nap on. So I napped. It was the best half hour of the trip, I think.

I was going to load a picture but it's taking too long. I basically wanted to show how ridiculous I look right now: long unkempt (and infrequently washed at best) hair, full facial scruff, and I'm wearing my shirt/khakis combo right now. But, on the precipice of Moscow, I have not lost/damaged my camera (though I left it in a bathroom in Vienna for a couple minutes), I have only broken the wristband on my watch, turning it from a cheap wristwatch into a cheap pocketwatch (August 29th in Barcelona for those who had the date in the pool), and the only item I've lost is my glasses case (train to Krakow). Which seems easy, but you must consider how absentminded/stupid I can be about these things.
The trip's been lovely, educational, tiring, and satisfactory. And I think I'm ready for Moscow too. Is it ready for me?
(sorry, couldn't help it)
Dan

Sipping on some Tokaj, feeling breezy in Budapest

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