Versailles

So I swear I still live in France and just to prove it to you, I'm going to tell you about my trip to Versailles.

The visit was a long time coming. I was supposed to visit the first time I came to France with my high school French class. But due to that greatest of French institutions known as "la greve," we had to leave France a day early, and I never made it. So when some friends mentioned that they were taking a day trip to the chateau, I was on board.

It's a short train ride from Paris to Versailles, and there was a special offer where you could buy a ticket for the chateau, the grounds and a special exposition on Louis XIV for eight euros. Not bad by French standards. And they probably use those eight euros to pay off continuing construction costs. Because I don't think there's a square inch of that chateau that isn't decorated, carved, or gilded. From floor to ceiling, there's not one detail that was neglected.




The one word I would use to describe all of the above is "subtle." Very, very subtle. Not ostentatious at all. Not like Louis XIV just said, "Let's throw some gold on all this crap and call it a day." Nope. Not even a little.

The Louis XIV exhibition was interesting, but basically just confirmed my belief that the French kings were crazy people who had all sorts of mistresses (Louis XIV had two at once, who used to ride around in a carriage with his wife) and made their wives give birth IN PUBLIC, as if Marie Antoinette would have just swapped a fake baby in for genuine royal spawn.

One thing they got right, though, was the landscaping. I'm a a sucker for gardens, parks and green spaces of any kind and this place has a lot of those. It rained considerably the day of our visit, so my feet were soaked through almost as soon as we went outdoors. But even when you're freezing and damp, it's hard not to be impressed by views like these.


We wandered around the grounds for hours, from the Grand Canal to the hamlet where Marie Antoinette would pretend to be a "peasant." (Seriously, how did it take so long for these people to get their heads chopped off?) The property is so extensive that they have shuttles to take people from one end to the other. I'll definitely be back in the spring to see the gardens in bloom.

Now, I don't know if any of you saw the movie Marie Antoinette with Kirsten Dunst. I did not, but I have been told that the film includes shots of many delectable French pastries, notably Laduree macarons. Of course, Versailles wouldn't be complete without a Laduree boutique. My friends and I decided that if we split a box of six among six of us it would only be mildly outrageously expensive. That was how we ended up eating these:
In this setting:
With this overhead:

I love France.

One Third Down...

Another month has gone by, and this time I really have no clue what I've been doing with my life. Between a bout of illness a few weeks ago, and the realization that maybe I should not have put off doing all of my homework for nine weeks, I haven't been exploring Paris nearly as much as I'd like. I've taken a couple international trips, enjoyed a couple of excursions in and around Paris and visited a few museums and monuments for the first time. But an unreasonable amount of my days have been spent curled up in bed, sleeping, working or (more often than healthy) pretending to work. I was just getting used to Paris in the fall, and now all of a sudden it's almost December, I have less than a month of classes, and the semester students on my program are already getting to leave. Again, let me reiterate how glad I am that I chose to stay the year. I'm already terrified by how the months are flying by, but I can at least comfort myself with the fact that six months still sounds like a lot of time. If I were down to my last three weeks I would be breaking into preemptive tears every time I saw the Eiffel Tower and gorging myself on every pastry, baguette and cheese wheel in sight (actually, I am doing that last part).

Happily, you all have six more months before you get to stop reading about my life. And despite the fact that I have spent most of this month in my bedroom, I've gotten out enough to give a quick recap of the past four weeks.

------------------------------------------
Countries Visited: 3 (Belgium, Poland and Ireland)

Greatest Shame: I still have not visited an art museum that may or may not be one of the most famous in the world. I'll give you a hint: it starts with "L" and rhymes with "Groove" and according to Dan Brown Francois Mitterrand turned it into a satanic haven.

Favorite Metro Stop: Leave it to Paris to ensure that even their Metro stops are attractive. Most people have seen photos of the art nouveau above-ground signs. But the fun doesn't stop there. Many of the stations have elaborate interior decorations as well. Sometimes these are themed. For example, the Varenne stop is the closest to the Musee Rodin, and decorated with full-sized casts of "The Thinker" and "Monument to Balzac." And the Concorde stop is decorated, in true revolutionary style, with the text of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen (isn't Independence just so much more concise?)

But my favorite stop has to be Louvre-Rivoli. It is, appropriately enough, the stop for the Louvre, and it features replicas of pieces from the museum collection. It's all dark and dramatic, and if I were a bum in Paris this is definitely where I would hang out.

Favorite Street/Metro performer: There are a lot of musicians and artists in Paris. One of my favorite things about the city is its wide variety of subway musicians. The accordionists tend to stick to the tourist-pleasing standards ("La Vie en Rose," "I Love Paris"), but some of the performers add charm to dark, crowded stations drenched in various bodily fluids. The only thing that gets me through a transfer at Chatelet is the prospect of seeing my beloved Peruvian folk band. And there's no better stress reliever than the strains of "Ave Maria" floating down a Metro tunnel at you.

But it was not until last week that I found my favorite street performer of all time. I was crossing a bridge off of Ile-de-la-Cite, right next to Notre Dame, when I heard the plaintive notes of one of the most romantic songs of all time. I turned my head to see the singer, and then laughed for approximately eight and a half minutes straight.

Only in Paris can I be serenaded by a puppeteer and his foot-high marionette, complete with guitar and microphone, assuring me that I am, indeed, beautiful.

Most Bewildering Moment: On the rare occasion that I need nourishment that a boulangerie or patisserie can't provide, I head across the street to my local Monoprix. Monoprix is kind of like French Super Target, selling everything from clothing to books to food. I have come to enjoy these trips to Monoprix, as I always leave with a greater sense of cultural understanding.

For instance, you can tell what French people's priorities are by the fact that every Monoprix in Paris has a vast selection of incredibly cheap wine (not that I've ever even stepped foot into that section, Mom and Dad) and an entire aisle devoted to cheese. But you can also tell a lot about how the French view other countries, notably America.

I was standing in the checkout line the other day, counting out euros to avoid the wrath of French cashiers who are apparently incapable of making change, when my eyes fell upon a shelf at the end of an aisle. I'm very upset that I did not get a picture of it, but I'll describe it as best I can.

This aisle was labeled "U.S./Japan," and was apparently devoted to the cuisine of America and Japan, which, as you know, is nearly identical. The Japanese got the bottom half of the shelf, which was filled with fairly innocuous noodles and soy sauces. But the American half of the shelf was truly a celebration of a country that unites some of the most diverse culinary traditions in the world. It was filled with the following:

-pancake mix
-microwave popcorn
-Pop Tarts
-Oreos
-peanut butter

and

-Marshmallow Fluff

I must admit that I am an American, and I do love six of the above seven items (sorry Orville Redenbaccher, but even your light, fluffy popping corn and adorable old man name can't tempt me) But seriously? Seriously. This is what the French think of us.

Best Instances of French Passive-Aggressiveness:

One thing that I've realized since coming to Paris is that the French are either enormously rude or enormously frank depending on your interpretation. Often, they are both. I've heard stories of host parents remarking on weight ("I got you a special chair because you're too big for the other ones"), sleeping habits ("It's not healthy. Everyone else lives between 8:00 and 8:00; you live between 12:00 and 12:00") and both simultaneously ("If you got up earlier in the morning, you'd have time to run..."). My host mom has refrained from any personal attacks on me, but I have been subject to the following two exchanges, both of which were hilarious, yet indirectly insulting.

#1 (related to the above Monoprix post)

HM (Host Mom): So, is Chicago famous for any specific food? Because we had a student from Vermont who brought us maple syrup. And there was another girl from Seattle who told us that they eat a lot of salmon there. Does Chicago have anything like that?

Alanna (after a pause): Well, there's this kind of pizza that Chicago is famous for. (Receiving nonplussed looks, she perseveres) It's not like New York pizza. It's called deep-dish, and the crust is about this thick. (Horrified looks tell her she should stop, but she keeps trying) You can get lots of toppings on it, and they put on a lot of cheese. I mean, it's not very good for you. But it's really delicious.

HM: Hmmmmm.....Anything else?

Alanna (continues to dig her own grave): Oh! And we have Chicago style hot dogs. They're normal hot dogs, but with a lot of toppings on them. But never ketchup.

HM:....So no special food, then?

Exchange #2 (This one's not even an exchange, it more of a monologue)

HM: So, you're going to Dublin this weekend? (Nod from Alanna). I was surprised when I went there because the Irish girls are ugly. When I was walking down the street, maybe two or three girls were pretty out of ten. But the way they dress....And they're all fat, because they drink beer all day long...I don't think you'll have much competition.

Best Sequel to a Former Blog Post: So I mentioned in my two-month anniversary post that French sidebar ads often promise you the opportunity to win a green card. This month, I discovered that they do even more. Not only do these ads provide a means of entry into the U.S., they also allow you to choose your own American dream from the following realistic options:

Hollywood star...

New Yorker...And, my personal favorite:

Farmer in Texas

Again, this is what French people think of us. How have I survived for three months here?

Thanksgiving

So, today's Thanksgiving. Well, not really. Because French people don't believe in Thanksgiving or anything related to it. They don't believe in turkey. They don't have an exact translation for "cranberries." And, according to my history professor, they don't even consider North America its own continent.

But I refuse to be deterred. Thanksgiving must be celebrated. The eating part will be taken care of tonight, at a Thanksgiving dinner organized by my program. And the thanking part, I'm going to take of here. Warning: If you have a low tolerance for cheesiness, stop reading. Right now. Seriously, it's going to be bad. Like a Nicholas Sparks novel on crack. Consider yourself warned.

I'm subjecting you to this corniness because this is the year when I have the most to be thankful for. I'm living in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I eat my lunch in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I spend hours sitting at cafes with friends. I get into the Louvre for free. My homework consists of watching plays at the Comedie Francaise. I spend my vacations in some of Europe's greatest cities. Very, very few people get to spend a year living out such a huge opportunity with so little responsibility.

Of course, that's due to parents who sent me to Europe for the third time in my life, even though they haven't been to Paris in over 20 years. I am fully aware that "a year in Paris" is not really on the list of required parental contributions. There are a lot of parents, even good ones, who would not do as much for their kids as my parents have done for me. My mom and dad not only conquered their fear of Taken-related incidents to let me come here, they are also apparently willing to sacrifice their retirement savings so that I can eat a pastry every day. And the fact that they gave me this opportunity and have never once made me feel guilty about taking it is really pretty amazing. It looks like it'll be the good nursing home for you guys...

I'm thankful for my sister, who takes time out of her busy college schedule to Skype me for four minutes every six weeks. And I'm thankful for the rest of my family who follow my blog or send me cards on all those holidays that I'm missing in France.

I'm thankful for my friends. Being separated from them by an ocean has made me realize just how lucky I am to have them. I've had the privilege to meet some really great people who put up with all of my neuroses for some reason. On numerous occasion this year, I've found myself laughing out loud to myself while remembering random nights at Northwestern or my favorite Father Bob quotes, to the obvious bewilderment of the French people around me. So thank you guys, for making assimilation that much harder.

Finally, I'd like to thank my manager, my stylist and God...Just kidding. I swear the Oscar speech is just about over.

Basically, I'm just thankful for this entire experience. It's something that I've anticipated for years, but even I couldn't have known that it would come at the absolute perfect time. Not that there isn't a perfect time to live in Paris. But this was really the perfect time. And as poetic as it would be to pretend that fate brought me here at this ideal moment, it didn't happen that way. I'm here because of the sacrifice and the support of a lot of different people. So thank you. And thank you for reading (or pretending to read) all of this hideously sappy post. I swear it will not be repeated until Christmas.

Happy Thanksgiving! (Remember me as you eat your cranberry sauce).

Dear Dirty Dublin

My first transatlantic trip was 12 years ago, in August of 1997. Even though I was only eight years old at the time, I still have many memories of the three weeks that my family--parents, sister, grandparents, two aunts and one uncle--spent in Europe. It was my first experience with international travel, and it gave me a travel bug that I've never shaken off. And, fittingly, it happened in Ireland.

I don't think that my first European experience could have happened anywhere else. To clarify: I started Irish dancing when I was four, have suffered sunburns on every body part from my scalp to my toes, and eagerly awaited annual St. Patrick's Day visits from the leprechaun. I'm Irish.

So last Friday morning at 5:30 I mustered up a remarkable amount of excitement considering the hour, and left my apartment on my way to the airport. Five hours later, I caught my first glimpse of Dublin in over a decade. I was on my way to meet up with Eunice, my college roommate, her friend and a friend of that friend.

We started the trip with--what else--food. Specifically, this food. While I do love my pastries dearly, it was good to spend three days gorging myself on corned beef, potatoes, lamb stew and shepherd's pie. Which is exactly what we did.


Yum.

To walk off our boxtys (boxties?), we headed over to take a tour of Trinity College. This was one of the few things I remembered from my first visit to Dublin. It's a beautiful university, and is famous for housing the Book of Kells, one of the world's finest illuminated manuscripts. It was one of the eight nice days that Ireland gets all year, so it was nice to walk around the campus for a while. We learned about decision to make Trinity a coeducational college (the provost who opposed it died shortly afterward and was buried under the quad so women could walk over his dead body), the terrible organization system in their library (it's done by size of the book) and Irish people's inability to come up with creative names (e.g. Long Library is a long library).

Then it was off to the Jameson Distillery for some genuine Irish whiskey. Given my past trials with alcohol, which I have documented here, I wasn't expecting very much from the tour. But it was actually surprisingly interesting. Our guide told us the history of the factory and took us through the entire process of producing the whiskey (secret: it's triple-distilled). At the end, of course, there was whiskey to be tasted. Surprisingly, I really liked it (Mom and Dad, pretend you didn't read that). Maybe that's because it was about three drops of whiskey mixed with half a glass of cranberry juice. But I think it's a start.

My favorite piece of information from the tour involved the factory workers. Considering that there are only so many Irish surnames, sometimes several employees would share a last name. To avoid confusion, the men were each given nicknames. Behold, the names of my ancestors:

I am opening the vote on which one should be my new nickname. Personally, I'm liking Ducky Woman.

Saturday

Saturday, we woke up to a The tour covered most of Dublin's major sights, including: Trinity College, Dublin Castle, Temple Bar, Christchurch Cathedral, the Ha'penny Bridge and St. Stephen's Green. Our guide Louise, was a Dubliner who knew a ton about the city. We learned about some of the major neighborhoods of Dublin, Irish rebel figures and some ridiculous stories about the Dublin city council.

We also learned that Ireland has had a terrible history. I have created a pictorial representation for you. It goes something like this:

Basically, whenever there was even the slightest chance that things might be getting better, something came along to ruin it. It's hard to believe now, as Ireland is such a modern country, but its people lived in sub-human conditions for centuries. The fact that the Irish have managed to keep a legendary sense of humor is pretty astounding.

Even though the tour took over four hours (instead of the advertised three), I really enjoyed it. I have a decent understanding of Irish history, but there are still a lot of gaps. Hearing a Dubliner's perspective on it gave me a grasp on some key events. Plus, our guide was hilarious, and spent a lot of her time insulting the British and the French.

Sidebar: I picked the worst possible time to come to Dublin, considering that I was coming from France. You may not have heard, since America is the one country in the world not obsessed with soccer, but there was a rather contentious World Cup qualifier match between France and Ireland just before my arrival. Many Irish fans are convinced that the refs missed the call on purpose, because the French team can bring bigger sponsors and more money to the World Cup. Whatever the truth, there was a march on the French embassy in Dublin while we were there. I thougt it was best not to mention that I'm living in Paris.

We finished the day with a trip to what is probably the most touristy destination in Dublin: the Guinness factory. For some reason, my parents did not think this was a fit place to bring an 8-year-old and a 6-year old, so I had not visited on my first trip.

Unlike Jameson, it's a self-guided tour. You start on the first floor and work your way up the museum, which is shaped like the largest pint glass in the world. It's all very high tech (think interactive videos, waterfalls, etc.) and pretty impressive. What everyone really comes for, of course, is the free beer you get at the end of the tour. It's served in the factory's Gravity Bar, which offers panoramic views of Dublin city. And it was surprisingly not as disgusting as I thought it would be. I don't think I'll be ordering it in restaurants anytime soon, but it wasn't half bad for a beer. I'm not sure that it made me feel stronger, but it did make me feel Irish.

Sunday

Unfortunately, Eunice decided that things like "sleep" and "classes" were more important than another day in Dublin, so our foursome was down to a threesome on Sunday.

We started the day with a long, long walk out to Kilmainham Gaol. Kilmainham is a famous Dublin prison, built in 1796. It held thousands of people during its 130 years in operation, but its most famous inmates were the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising.

All but one were executed in Kilmainham's courtyard (Countess Markiewicz was spared because she was a woman). One of the leaders, the schoolteacher Joseph Connelly, was dying from injuries sustained during the fighting. He couldn't stand to walk across the yard, so he was strapped to a chair and shot. The rebellion had been considered unpatriotic among Irish people whose family members were fighting with British troops in WWI. But when they heard about the deaths, particularly that of Connelly, the executed men became martyrs and the country began its real push for independence.

It was an interesting place to see, having heard the names of these men for years. It wasn't the happiest of places, but it was important.

Afterwards, we fought the rain and took a quick walk to Phoenix Park, the largest enclosed urban public park in Europe. As it's over 1,700 acres in size, we only saw a tiny fraction. But that fraction was well worth the trip. Dublin isn't a capital city known for its beauty, and the gray November weather wasn't helping its aesthetics. But I'm a sucker for parks, and wandering the green pathways was a great way to relax after the morning. The best part came a few minutes after our arrival, when the sun came out, and we got the most stereotypically Irish sight we could hope for.

At this point, I split off from the group for several hours to indulge my nerdy side at the Dublin Writers Museum. It's a pretty small museum in a beautiful old house that highlights major figures in Irish literary history (Beckett, Joyce, Swift, Yeats, O'Casey, Synge). There were some pretty standard displays mixed in with other, more unique artifacts (original playbills from the Abbey Theater, the phone from Samuel Beckett's Paris apartment). For such a small island, Ireland has produced a lot of great writers (many of whom, ironically, left their country for France). I've read a lot of them, and it was nice to read about their lives in the city where so many of them found their inspiration.

The next morning, I left for the airport at about 4:20 in the morning, so there was no time left for sightseeing. My weekend in Dublin was a ton of fun, and left me with a couple observations:

Observation #1: I LOVE Irish people.

I have to admit that a large reason for my love of Irish people is the Irish accent. As soon as I heard the accents on my fellow passengers on the flight out of Paris, I knew I was in trouble. I think I would marry an 80-year old toothless hunchback if he had that accent. But that is besides the point...

One thing that my host mom told me before I left (besides that Irish girls are ugly and fat from too much beer-drinking) is that within five seconds of pulling out a map in Dublin, you will have about fifteen Irish people offering directions. This turned out to be absolutely true. We barely had to look confused while looking for the Guinness Factory before a good Samaritan stopped and told us: "Guinness? Just that way."

Our bus driver from the airport took this idea even further. We bothered him during the ride about whether we were on the right line, which stop we had to get off at and which direction our hostel was in. When we saw that the drivers were changing, we thought we were lost. Instead, our driver told us that we were at our stop, and then walked us 3/4 of the way to our hostel.

Then there was the guy who paid for part of Eunice's shampoo when she couldn't find exact change (although we agreed this was probably because he didn't want to wait for her to sort out pounds from Euros). Obviously it's too simplistic to say that all Irish people are jovial, happy-go-lucky, "top-of-the-morning-to-you" types. But there's something true in the stereotypical Irish friendliness.

Of course, this might just be because I have lived in Paris for three months and have a skewed reaction to any sort of human kindness, of the "Did you just smile? MARRY ME!!!"variety. But I think they really are nice.

Observation #2:

Being in Ireland was like going through a wormhole.

I've dreamt of studying abroad for at least ten years. I remember researching my options as early as seventh grade, and a good study abroad program was absolutely essential when making my college choice. But I always thought it would be Ireland.

Even as late as last year, I seriously considered applying to at least one program in Ireland, just to keep my options open. It was ultimately academic considerations that kept me from doing so. Essentially, if I were not a French major I would be in Ireland right now.

So it was strange to wander around Trinity College, picturing myself as one of the students crossing the quad. I can't say whether my year would have been better, worse or comparable to my current study abroad experience. I certainly don't regret coming to France. But it is strange to me that I made a decision to live in a culture of which I am so clearly not a part.

I love Paris. I love many aspects of French culture, and I made a conscious decision to immerse myself in said culture for a year. I like the idea that you should be able to relax on Sundays. God knows I can get behind pastries. But I am not--and never will be--French. I smile reflexively when I walk into stores. I'd take the Dubliners over Edith Piaf any day. I wear green, not black.

I would never claim to be as Irish as someone born in Ireland. Being in Paris has helped me identify those parts of myself that are very American. And the way I've been raised, my beliefs about education, religion, politics have been shaped by my upbringing in the States. But even here, I bring up my Irish heritage a lot. I don't think I'm alone in feeling this way. For one thing, it's nearly impossible to identify "American culture" when you've been surrounded by it for your entire life. For another, a hallmark of American culture is its diversity. So adopting the culture of your parents or grandparents is a way to differentiate yourself from everyone else. And I strongly identify with my Irish heritage.

Ultimately, I'm very happy in Paris. And I think that living in a culture that is not my own, speaking a language that is not my own, has been good for me. Paris isn't exactly exotic, but it has taken me further out of my comfort zone than Ireland would have. But it was still nice to spend a weekend hearing (hotly-accented) English, seeing smiles on the street and feeling a little more at home.

Autumn in Paris

Fall is many people's favorite season. I know this, because a weather.com poll once told me so. I, however, was never one of those people. It's not that I have anything against autumn itself. I think it's just that fall is always a harbinger of winter, a season that I loathe with all my being. Any season that signifies a transition between the joys of summer and the absolute horror of sub-zero temperatures, gray slush and frozen snot is not my friend. In fact, when I was younger I would close my eyes during any fall car trip because the sight of changing leaves literally pained me. (Yes, I was an extremely neurotic child. No, I don't know how my parents put up with me either). But Paris is changing my mind.

I suspect that this city couldn't be ugly if it tried, but it's especially beautiful in fall. There's nothing better than taking an afternoon walk along the Seine, with the sun shining on the water and the sun hitting the spires of Notre Dame, or people-watching in the Jardin du Luxembourg under an alley of orange leaves. Ambling around the city never fails to make me happy, even on the most stressful of days. It's just an amazing city full of beautiful buildings, beautiful parks, a beautiful sky (don't ask me how it manages to have a prettier sky than anywhere else, it just does). Plus, it has mutant, season-resistant trees that have held onto their leaves for longer than is natural, so that even in mid-November the city doesn't have that stark, barren look that I so hate about winter.

Unfortunately it's now mid-November, and I fear that my favorite part of fall can't last forever. So, before 600 consecutive days of gray, rainy skies destroy this new-found love of fall, I'd like to commemorate some of my favorite fall activities below.

1) Going to some of Paris's best museums (and their great gardens) for free





2) Eating Laduree pastries along the Seine (and no, I did not eat all three by myself).



3) Afternoon walks in the Jardin du Luxembourg

4) Sunny afternoons on the Ile Saint-Louis, with Berthillon in hand and this for a view:



5) Watching the boats on the Canal Saint-Martin

Auschwitz-Birkenau

Between traveling and schoolwork, I know there haven't been many entries on Paris in a while. I promise to remedy that soon. But first, as promised, a post about my visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau.

It won't be a long entry, because there's nothing especially profound I can add to years of newsreels, movies and books. Obviously it was very disturbing. (Side note: Be careful when clicking on the photo links. Nothing graphic, but a couple are kind of disturbing). And it was surreal to see the camps in person, after studying them for so many months starting in middle school. But it's hard, if not impossible, to describe. So I'll just take you through the most notable parts of our visit.

There were actually three camps at the site: Auschwitz I, Auschwitz II (Birkenau) and Auschwitz III (Monowitz). Auschwitz I was the first of the camps, and is still mostly preserved. Birkenau was the much larger second camp, but the Nazis demolished much of it (including the gas chambers and crematoria) when they retreated as an attempt to cover up evidence. Auschwitz III was a work camp attached to the Buna rubber factory, which used prisoners as labor. It was also largely destroyed before the liberation, and so was not part of the visit.

We started the tour at Auschwitz I, meeting our guide in the building where prisoners were tattooed, then passing under the iconic "Arbeit Macht Frei" sign. The tour took us to several barracks, each of which had exhibits focused on one aspect of life at Auschwitz.

Row of barracks at Auschwitz

The first building that I found really disturbing was Obviously the Nazis stole enormous amounts of property from the people coming to the camps. Most of the goods were shipped off to Germany for distribution. But some of the items were stored in large warehouses in Auschwitz-Birkenau called "Canada I" and "Canada II" (because, to the prisoners, Canada represented the land of plenty). A selection of these possessions is now exhibited in one of the barracks. I remember seeing a similar exhibit at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., which I thought was extremely effective. 6,000,000 people is just too large a figure to comprehend; breaking that total down into individual victims makes the Holocaust much more concrete. I was very moved by the displays of suitcases, all carefully labeled with names and home addresses, eyeglasses, pots and pans, children's shoes, even prosthetic limbs. Seeing the distinctive pattern on a mixing bowl, or extra beadwork on a small shoe makes you wonder about the lives and personalities of the people who owned them. Why did one person choose a blue mixing bowl? Was that pot a family heirloom? How old was the girl who wrote her name on that suitcase?

The most infamous--and disturbing--exhibit in the building is a glassed-in room filled with piles of human hair. After 60 years, it's all turned a uniform grayish-brown color, so it's impossible to distinguish any individual traits in it. But it's a powerful visual example of the Holocaust.

From there, we visited several other barracks, including Block 11 (the "Death Block"). It was the building where prisoners were punished for any "wrongdoing." They could be be locked into starvation cells, forced four at a time into cells the size of a telephone booth, or shot against the Death Wall between blocks 10 and 11. The fact that people spent so much time thinking of increasingly sadistic ways to torture and kill the prisoners is unfathomable, and this particular block has been left in its original condition, which makes it all the more frightening. It was incredibly eerie to walk down dimly-light hallways and see the rows of cell doors set into the peeling walls. Most of the rooms are closed to the public, but one of the starvation cells is open. Inside is a tribute to the people to starved to death there, including Father Maximilien Kolbe.

The death wall at Auschwitz

The final site on the Auschwitz I tour was the gas chamber and crematorium. Again, I don't think I need to tell you how unnerving that was, especially considering that the camp commander's house is easily within sight of the gas chamber. It's unbelievable that they could live there with their wives and children in the middle of a concentration camp. The first of these commanders, Rudolf Hoss, was brought back to Auschwitz after the war and hanged on a specially constructed gallows next to the gas chambers.

We spent a shorter amount of time at Birkenau, as most of the camp was destroyed at the end of the war. This second camp was much larger and starker than Auschwitz I, and the living conditions were much worse. The only way into the camp was via one set of railroad tracks. Prisoners were unloaded by the side of the tracks, and then sorted to determined whether they would live or die. The prisoners who were not immediately gassed survived, on average, for three months. Living conditions were terrible, with hundreds of people crammed into brick or wooden barracks (six to a bunk). The wooden barracks were originally designed for horses, which should give you some idea of their comfort level. It's not hard to understand why the survival rates were so low. The barracks were the last stop on our tour, so we headed back to the bus for a pretty quiet ride back to Krakow.

The main gate to Auschwitz II-Birkenau

The visit was a strange experience for me. Having gotten so unexpectedly emotional on my visit to Normandy, I assumed that I would have a similar experience at Auschwitz. It was a deeply affecting visit, and there were absolutely moments where I had a physical reaction to what I was seeing.But I didn't get choked up, didn't have to avert my eyes, didn't feel sick at any point. For one thing, Auschwitz I was much smaller and--bizarrely--prettier than I thought it would be. The day we were there it was cool but sunny, and very quiet. There were grassy pathways, and changing leaves and compact brick barracks, but very little to suggest what had happened at the site. Birkenau was more barren looking, and it was a little easier to picture the living conditions of the prisoners. But considering that very little of that camp is still standing, it's hard to imagine its once-vast scale.

Auschwitz II-Birkenau

I think the other thing I couldn't get over was the fact that the majority of the victims were ordinary people. In my head, the are "Holocaust survivors" or "Holocaust victims," and that label sets them apart from average human beings. Trying to imagine my Mom's mixing bowl piled in with the rest, or my Dad's eyeglasses on display was almost impossible. But the fact is, these people were normal families with normal lives, and ending up in Auschwitz must have been as surreal to them as it would be to me and my family.

After a few weeks, the experience has had some time to sink in. And now I feel like there was no way for me to fully grasp what I saw at Auschwitz. I do feel as though I understand more about the Holocaust now. And, as I said, I had flashes where I sort of got it, where I was able to connect with a photograph or an abandoned possession and, by extension, the person attached to it. But can anyone but a survivor really understand what happened? Of course we should try. But, to me, it's an event so singular that even standing in the gas chamber at Auschwitz I couldn't begin to understand it.

Do You Have Family There?

Maintaining my image as an international jet setter takes work. It involves a lot of time spent packing and unpacking, combing the Internet for flight and hostel reservations, making plans with friends/fellow travelers and getting to and from the airport. Is it difficult? Yes. Does it leave time for such things as "homework"? No. But these are insignificant details. Europe is begging to explored, and someone has to do it.

Last weekend was the third straight weekend in which said exploring took me somewhere other than Paris. In this case, that "somewhere" was Krakow, Poland. I got various responses when I told people I was going to Poland. The most common were: "That's so cool!...Why?" "What is there to do in Krakow?" and "Do you have family there or something?"

So why did I go to Poland? It's true that I didn't have any of the usual reasons to go to Krakow. I'm not Polish; I knew almost nothing about any museums or monuments the city had to offer. Plus, my Polish vocabulary is limited to the following phrases: "Hello," "Thank you," "Please," "I need help," "ugly," "fat," "monkey," "pig," "butt," "wasp," "kitten," "doll," "owl," and "turkey." I will let you decide which four of the above are helpful.

My biggest reason for going to Krakow was that one of my oldest friends is Polish, so I've been exposed to the culture since I was about five years old. It was Natalia and her family who taught me the above phrases, sent me postcards from trips to Poland and gave me an unhealthy addiction to golumpki and nalesniki. They also mentioned something about a Cracovian dragon, so that was all the incentive I needed.

Friday

My weekend started at 3:45 Friday morning, as I had to catch a cab to Charles de Gaulle at 4:20 (oh the joys of budget airlines...). Mary and I were conveniently on the same flight, but there wasn't much conversation, since we both passed out before take-off. Two hours later, we were descending on the Polish countryside. My first impressions were that the Polish countryside is beautiful, especially with the fall colors lighting up the trees. You don't have to get too far away from the city to encounter rolling hills, forests and farmland. Of course, our immediate goal was to get into the city and start exploring.

We found our way to our hostel, which was located steps away from the Main Market Square, Krakow's centerpiece and Europe's largest medieval square. It's full of cafes, restaurants and vendors, and also boasts a beautiful church and town hall.

Just south of the square is another of Krakow's main attractions, Wawel Castle. A royal castle perched atop the hill where Krakow started, Wawel is pretty overwhelming. There are multiple tours you can take, each one focused on a different part of the castle. Mary and I weren't up to exploring the whole thing, so we took some insider advice (thanks Mrs. Ambrozek!) and visited the Armory and Crown Treasury. That was really impressive, just room after room of armor, swords, pistols, silverware, clothing and jewels. When leaving that building, however, Mary and I caught sight of the following sign:

Had we found it? The mythical dragon that I had always associated with Krakow? In any case, there was no way we weren't exploring the cave next to the sign. Lo and behold, we found this at the end:

Why yes, that is fire coming out of its mouth. Real fire that apparently spews forth at random intervals, or if you send the dragon a text. I'm not making this up. You can text the fire-breathing dragon. I liked Poland already.

The rest of the day was just spent wandering (and sometimes getting lost) in Old Town and its surroundings. It was a cold, gray day but we still managed to get a (positive) feel for Krakow. It's a very pretty city, lots of medieval buildings and cobblestone streets. I especially liked the Planty, a 2 1/2 mile long band of trees and gardens that surrounds the Old Town (as pictured in the first photo).

But the real high point for me was stopping in a little restaurant for lunch where I got a huge plate of pierogis, warm and stuffed with potatoes and cottage cheese, for 6.90 zloty, or approximately 1.73 euros. 1.73 EUROS!!! In Paris, you'd be lucky to get a cottage cheese curd for that. Seriously, if I could teleport a couple patisseries to Krakow, I would move there tomorrow.

After that rousing success, I found myself in a pretty solid food coma. We headed back to the hostel and had an early night in anticipation of a full Saturday.

Saturday

For me, part of Krakow's appeal lay in several important sites outside of the city limits. Saturday, Mary and I saw two of these: Auschwitz-Birkenau and the Wieliczka Salt Mine.

I'll write about Auschwitz in a separate entry. It was jarring in real-life to make the transition from a concentration camp to a salt mine, and I think it would be just as jarring in print. So I'll focus on the mine for the time being.

I know what you're thinking. A salt mine? Why is that interesting? Answer: Because it's an 800-year old mine with almost 200 miles of tunnels, hundreds of chambers and an equal number of sculptures. The catch? It's all done in salt. The walls, the sculptures, the chandeliers are all carved in salt.. It's impressive enough to have drawn visitors such as Nicholas Copernicus, Bill Clinton and Pope John Paul II. And anything that's good enough for J.P. 2 is good enough for me.

It's a unique sight, to say the least. No professional sculptors work in the mine; all the carvings were done by miners in their spare time. At some point, the idea really took off and now there's a 3.5 kilometer trail including a ballroom, restaurant, multiple churches, underground lakes and dozens of salt carvings.

The centerpiece of the mine is the St. Kingas Chapel, the world's largest underground chapel. Take a look:

All of those chandeliers and all the carvings (including a replica of da Vinci's Last Supper) are made completely of salt. The same thing is repeated (albeit on a smaller scale) throughout the tour. The idea of these men--all amateur artists--creating an entire world for themselves deep inside the Earth was really fascinating. I'm glad I got the chance to visit the mine, as I've never seen anything like it, and I don't expect I will again.

Sunday

Sunday was November 1st, All Saint's Day, which is a huge deal in Poland. Most of the stores, restaurants and attractions were closed, so we were pretty much forced into relaxation. But after two early mornings and two long days, we weren't complaining. I think our roommates were a little happier with us too.

When we finally did get out, we decided to explore Kazimierz, Krakow's Jewish district, which was a really interesting experience. It's an old neighborhood, and walking its streets you can see how the physical effects of history on the buildings. Most of the Jews living in the neighborhood were forcibly relocated into nearby ghettos during WWII, and it seems as though the area hasn't recovered. The main attractions are synagogues and cemeteries, and they are everywhere, in various states of repair. We visited the Remuh synagogue and its attached cemetery. During the war, the Nazis tore down many of the graves to sell as paving stones, and although some of the tombstones have been replaced, there's still a run-down look to the cemetery. The rest of the quarter was similar, beautiful old synagogues next to abandoned buildings with broken windows and trash-filled rooms.

Next we took an unplanned detour through a more industrial section of the city in search of an abandoned factory. We walked under some underpasses and through a quiet construction site, passing through an area so empty I thought we were lost until we finally saw one pair of tourists headed in the same direction. Headed towards this:



A nondescript, locked building that is in fact Oskar Schindler's factory (yes, that Schindler). Surprisingly, it hasn't yet been converted into a museum, and as far as I can tell the building itself is closed to guests. But I'm still glad we caught a glimpse of it.

We were down to one last night in Krakow, and there wasn't a whole lot going on. As I mentioned above, it was All Saint's Day. For the heathens among you, that's the day after Thanksgiving and it commemorates the souls who have gone on to heaven. Considering that Poland is a heavily Catholic country, many of the restaurants and stores close down, leaving the city pretty empty. So if you want to find where the action is in Krakow on November 1st, head for a cemetery. We chose the Rakowicki Cemetery, one of Poland's most famous. Although we nearly paid for that choice with our fingers (it was freezing cold, even while wearing three sweaters and a jacket), it was my favorite night in Krakow.

It was easy to tell where the cemetery was from the crowds of people all headed in the same direction. And as soon as we got inside the gates, we saw what they had all come for. There were graves stretching out in every direction, and every headstone had at least one colored glass candle on top. Families were everywhere, laying flowers on graves, and some tell-tale clinking suggested they were toasting relatives as well. It was cold, but otherwise a perfect autumn night, with the yellowing trees leaning over the graves and the smell of their damp leaves on the ground. All we could see in the darkness were thousands of glowing lights, and all we could hear was the chanting of mass-goers at the cemetery chapel. It was eerie, but unexpectedly beautiful.

Whenever you visit a foreign country, there are certain "must-see" sights, museums, castles or cathedrals. But this was an experience, not a destination. It's something that few tourists are lucky enough to see. I left the cemetery with a better sense of Poland's culture, the customs and values that are important to its people. What more can you ask from travel?

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When discussing our trip, Mary and I both felt it was an atypical weekend. We visited some normal touristy spots (Wawel Castle, the salt mine, the main square), but we also saw a Nazi concentration camp, dilapidated neighborhoods and numerous cemeteries. To me, that's very indicative of Poland's history. It's been conquered so many times, suffered through the Holocaust and been affected by Communism. It's a striking contrast to my normal surroundings.

Paris has an ugly side, but overall I've never seen a more beautiful city, or a people more fanatical about preserving that beauty. Krakow is less polished, but somehow more real. It's been touched by tragedy in a much more noticeable, and recent, way. The Parisians have had time to put up an obelisk where the guillotine used to stand. They suffered real tragedy during two world wars, but there were no extermination camps on French soil. Paris goes down easy. Krakow makes you work a little harder.

Note: this is not my way of saying that Poland is an ugly, depressed Eastern European stereotype. Krakow really is a beautiful city with stunning architecture, a strong cultural heritage and friendly people. But, more importantly, it's one of the most unique cities I've ever visited. I had moments that were pure fun, but I also felt more challenged by what I saw over the weekend. And that's why I would encourage anyone to visit Krakow.

Even if you don't have family there.