Never Mind the Bigos

JoeIt's raining in Kraków.

I've been in the dwarven city of Wrocław this week, about which I promise to say more later. Right now, though, I've had a long day, what with the getting to Kraków and all, and the being too cheap to spring for a cab. The Wrocław train station was only 3 km from my hotel, and the same in Kraków — a nice walk through the city! So I checked out of my hotel at noon, hiked to the train station, figured out what train ticket to buy — a non-trivial task in Poland, as there are several companies offering wildly different levels of service (e.g., "reserved seat in an air conditioned car," versus "standing room only for five hours because we responded to the financial crisis by selling most of our rolling stock") — bought a crappy sandwich in a bar in order to have enough coinage to get a luggage locker, then spent the next two hours dwarf hunting (that would be the more, for the later). Five hours later: Kraków! The walk to my hotel was blessedly sans the rain from the morning's forecast; nevertheless, it was already 9 pm when I got to my room. Deciding that the half of the aforementioned sandwich which I had ingested instead of throwing away was no longer cutting it, I took a quick shower, then went for food.

The rain had arrived in the meantime, but it was jut a steady sprinkle, so I set off anyway. Turns out that my hotel, which I selected in a hurry based solely on tripadvisor reviews, is a scant two blocks from a restaurant filled square in the Jewish quarter. My quick glance at the map hadn't left me expecting to be spoiled for choice, so it took me a while to choose a place; the rain had rather made up its mind to stay, unfortunately, so by the time I took a seat I was a little bit damp, a little bit cold, and bordering on more than a little bit grumpy. I ordered a plate of peirogis and a glass of beer, and spent the next several minutes bemused at the incongruity of the Swedish Christmas goat sitting atop the shelf in front of me. Then my food came, and I forgot to take a picture of it. (The goat, or the food, take your pick, because I didn't. Take a pic. Of either.)

Best. Food. Ever. I am not even kidding. Just simple dumplings with a sauerkraut and mushroom filling, topped with a smattering of caramelized onions, but it was without a doubt one of the finest things I have ever eaten (not excepting my first ever plate of Bigos — again, with the later — whence cometh the title of this post).

On the walk back, belly full of cabbage and onion and beer, I realized that Sweden, despite its best efforts, has not yet succeeded in destroying my love of cities in the rain. Its something about the sound of tires on wet pavement, the way the stop lights glint off shining sidewalks… I can't put my finger on the quality of it, but I'd always loved it. In recent years, I've started to worry that my love of rain has been deadened by moving to a truly rainy place, but tonight I think maybe its just been dented a little. Or maybe I've just had a long day, and a good beer, and some yummy onions.

Either way: it's raining in Kraków.

Scotland part one: Kilts and flags

photo gallery

JenniferI was fortunate enough be able to go along with my friend and native Glaswegian S. to Scotland last month, and attend a few soccer games of the Olympics in Glasgow. I guess London figured it had enough to do with all of the usual Olympic things, and hosting soccer games was just one more thing. Hence, early round football (for both women and men) were played in satellite locations in Coventry, Manchester, and Glasgow. (Presumably everyone who cares about the Olympics has followed it as much as they cared to, so I won't say too much about them in general other than to say that I enjoyed them quite a lot, as I always do, and that the coverage by SVT, Sweden's state-run television, was fantastic.)

Of the two large cities in Scotland, Glasgow is the more modern and 'real' city. Edinburgh, by contrast, is a bit more touristy, with a castle and stuff like that. "You won't hear bagpipes and see people walking around in kilts, that's more Edinburgh stuff," said S. at some point during our journey to her hometown.

Glasgow played host to a group that, for the women's soccer tournament, included the US, France, Colombia, and North Korea. The city didn't really have much in the way of Olympic spirit going for it, other than one of the bizarre mascots in the train station (please note the kilt), a set of Olympic rings in the main square (above) complete with warning sign, and a lonely volunteer handing out literature on the main shopping drag; no beer tents or fan areas (as per the Women's World Cup in Germany last year).

The most important thing to do, after finding our living quarters (there was a kilt store just across the street), was to get some curry. We went to Charcoals, an Indian place about three blocks away, and nearly were in tears over the food, not because it was overly hot, but just because it was so flavorful. Swedish food is tasty but bland. I think many immigrants decide to open restaurants here, seeking the flavors of home and seeing the complete lack of them, but as a whole, Swedes just don't seem to be into strongly flavored food, and some little while after opening, all restaurants take the spiciness down. For some reason, instead of mints, this restaurant brought us jello shots with the bill.

Next day, two soccer games: US versus France followed by Colombia versus North Korea (with synchronized ball boys as an unadvertised bonus, right). A free shuttle bus took us from the train station to the venue (on the way, US support was spotted, as were Questionable Establishments ("Is it seedy here?" I asked. (long pause) "Well, I wouldn't go to an unknown bar in this neighborhood," said S., as we peered out the bus windows). At the drop-off point, a volunteer in a pink-and-purple polo shirt (and red plaid kilt that did not match) led us to the park. The venue, Hampden Park, is home of the Scottish national team. As we arrived, a bagpipe could be heard bellowing across the parking lot from the upper balcony.

The evening was sunny and warm enough that short sleeves were enough, and the first game a fun one to watch, as France gave eventual gold-medalists US a real scare by jumping out to a 0-2 lead within the first 15 minutes (the US eventually won 4-2). In between the games, we ate our picnic lunch and were entertained by a ~20-piece fife-and-bagpipe-and-drum core. Who were all wearing kilts, of course.

A pack of young men appeared from entrance near us. I nudged S. with my elbow. "Look, Swedes," I whispered, going by their clothes and haircuts. S. looked at them surreptitiously, just as one of them started talking in a language that sounded familiar... but wasn't quite right... "Close," she muttered at me, and we nodded in agreement: Danes. They sat behind us, laughing and joking with each other and showing signs of being, let us say, in fine spirits. The crowd had diminished perceptibly after the first game, revealing the white-on-blue saltire of Scotland in the end-zone seats (see picture below).

Suddenly the stadium erupted with whistling. Why? What was going on? Why was there a North Korean flag displayed on the jumbotron, hovering menacingly over the saltire? "It looks like North Korea is taking over Scotland," S. chuckled. Wait, what time was it, anyway? A quick check of our timepieces showed that the kick-off should have happened five minutes earlier. In fact the stadium had introduced the players; in retrospect we are slightly ashamed to admit that neither of us had noticed what had happened. The whistles continued; a wave started and made it seven times around the stadium, which is pretty impressive given how few people were there. Eventually a voice came over the PA system, apologizing for the delay and saying that it was a result of "... An issue behind the scenes." (Well, yes, thank you, we had kinda figured that out already.) The field had been cleared for the game, but now a couple of coaches from Colombia came back on to the field and put out practice cones. The whistles from the stadium turned to boos. The Colombian team came back to warm up.

A few smses later, and Joe had informed us, from reading the Wall Street Journal blog (why on earth was someone at the Wall Street Journal live-blogging the North Korea–Colombia soccer match? don't they have international monetary crises to cover?), that a security worker at Hampden said that the team was angry because the wrong flag had been displayed next to the North Korean players on the displays.   Eventually the North Koreans were satisfactorily apologized to, and the game started more than an hour later than it should have, with the Colombian team getting enthusiastic cheers during their anthem, and the North Korean team getting heartily booed during theirs. The only thing of note that happened during this game was that I got hit in the head with a ball: a clearance came skipping over the low wall, smacked the arm of the chair in front of me, and gently grazed my forehead. Note: no, this incident is not the source of the picture that some of you have already seen...)

The next day, officials at the stadium blamed the pre-made media package that they received from London. I'm not sure when Glasgow started trusting things sent from London, but I'm sure they won't make that mistake again! It's still unclear why the flag showed on the jumbotron for nearly an hour. Perhaps the stadium officials were trying to say "See, we do know what your flag looks like"?

Coming soon in Scotland Part Two: A pub, a park, and a passel of friends and relations; two more games and I get the ball again, but this time for real.

Life in a small northern town

photo gallery

JenniferSo it's true that in a town like Uppsala a car is not really needed (although it would come in handy for those weekend Ikea binges), and many people do not own cars. On the other hand, having a driver's license is not at all unusual, and renting a car or RV for summer camping is a common way to vacation. There is a lot of Scandinavia to see that is not readily accessible by train or bus. Besides, we are used to having a car, and being able to just up and go somewhere for a day or a weekend. Sounds good, right? But... how? The first step was to spend an afternoon in small-town Sweden for a test drive.

Wolfsburg

Wolfsburg photo gallery

JenniferJuly 7, 2011: Wolfsburg was, as predicted, not especially tourist-y, although there are some nice things there in addition to soccer. For instance, there is a castle, and what American doesn't love a castle? Schloß Wolfsburg includes a relatively tiny but obsessively well-clipped Baroque garden, plenty of decorative animal-themed flourishes (dragons for downspouts, wolves for weathervanes, and eagles just for pretty), a sizable garden of mirrors. There was also a Teahouse at the end of the garden, which had a bit of Art in it. The best thing, though, was that the castle housed a family of kestrel falcons ('Turmfalke' in German and 'tornfalk' in Swedish; 'tower falcon' in both languages). One young kestrel had left its nest, high up on the castle wall; the young 'un was now hopping about on a lower windowsill, while the other chicks peered out from the nest, and occasionally peeped at their precocious sibling.

Hannover

photo gallery

JenniferJuly 4-6, 2011: The Women's World Cup of Football was in Germany this year. Don't worry, Gentle Readers, I shan't bore you with endless details of the sport I'm passionate about (not yet, anyway); this post will only be about non-sport-related tourist activities. The games were in Wolfsburg, a small town nearly devoid of tourist stuff, so my friend S., who was also going to a few games, thought it would be fun for us to spend some time in nearby(-ish) Hannover, a larger city with a much better reputation for touristic sights and activities. So off we went, in search of gardens and good beer...