Larbucks!

Coffee. Black. Triple espresso. Mint cappuccino. Gingerbread mocha with a double shot. Egg nog machiatto. Chocolate latte with whip cream and a caramel swirl. These are just of few of the concoctions that have been served up in the teacher’s lounge at ASW in the past couple days. Every year around this time, the usual refuge from crazed, sugar-infused middle school students is transformed into Larbucks, the Polish outpost of the world famous Seattle coffee shop, complete with a faux fireplace, and dorks with laptops hogging the free WiFi for hours on end. Oh wait a second, one of those dorks was me.

Larry, our middle school techie and native Seattleite during the summer months, has made it his personal mission to get the staff through the always difficult days right before we all set off for the long holiday break with friends and family. Over the last few years, he has decided to share his love of the dark-roasted bean buzz with the entire school faculty. After chatting with him over a cup of sleep remover this week, I soon discovered that this love has morphed into obsession.

Myself, an amateur when it comes to coffee appreciation, bought my first espresso machine last spring, used, from a departing parent. It’s an old Krups with some wear and tear, but it’s effective in producing a powerful potion with just the right amount of amber foam to top it off. But when I saw Larry’s monsterous, almost robotic, multi-functional Swiss Army knife of coffee makers, my curiousity was piqued. This thing did seemingly everything but bake you the perfect biscotti to accompany your brew, with the sleek lines of an Italian sportscar to match. Thinking that I might be in the market soon, I inquired about how many ducats a beauty like that would set a guy back. After hearing how serious Larry is about his coffee, I decided that I didn’t quite have the samelevel of dedication. Not to mention the industrial grade grinder that he picked up from a guy in Italy for 200 Euros. Whew!
We here at the Chronicle extend a special caffeinated salute to the proprietor of Larbucks for his dedication and passion for his craft. The last two mornings have brough smiles, great conversation, and countless laughs among all that entered the cozy confines of Larbucks. It’s the little things that make coming to work at ASW a distinctive pleasure and his generosity in sharing his love of the bean adds that special touch to the holiday season. Thanks Larry! And thanks to our esteemed Athletic Director Jim Matter for taking time out of his busy schedule to pose for a few pics : )

Dive like an Egyptian

I will never again complain about a lack of legroom on commercial airlines. I’d heard about these airborne cattle cars that pass for charter flights before, but finally experienced it firsthand on my way to Egypt aboard Air Memphis. For some strange reason we had to take an airplane from Tennessee to get from Warsaw to Hurghada, a resort town on the Red Sea famous for its spectacular coral reefs that equate to scuba diver paradise. But we (my Polish Cleopatra and I) had to endure four hours with our knees locked against the seat in front of us, the stench from thousands of Egyptian smokers who had come before us still clinging to the interior. Elvis was not on the plane, although one of our flight stewards (read: air waiters) resembled a slimmer Egyptian version of Wayne Newton.

Upon arrival, we were shepherded through customs where for the low price of 15 dollars, you too can receive an Egyptian visa to enjoy the sun, sand, and endless gratuity requests for doing anything from lifting your luggage off of the baggage carousel to holding the door open for you on your way to the restroom. And this was only within the first half hour after touching down. The next step involved delivering a busload of sun-starved Poles and the three token North Americans (Angie from Iowa and Yvonne from Saskatchewan, two teachers at ASW, were also diving that week) to around a half dozen different all-inclusive resorts with names such as The Desert Rose, Jungle Land, The Titanic (where the whole building is shaped like the infamous vessel but there is much less chance of being sealed in a watery grave), and the Magawish (actual spelling). Unfortunately, the two of us had booked a room at the Hilton Long Beach Resort, the last stop for the bus and located way out in BFE. There has never been a more appropriate usage of this metaphor since we were literally out in Bum____ Egypt.

Upon checking in, it became apparent that 90% of the hotel guests at the Hilton were Russian. It was also evident that at the conclusion of the 80’s, the nations of the world shipped any clothing with neon, ruffles, tightness or whiteness to the former Soviet Union. It was a garish display that would’ve made Elton John, David Bowie, or Pat Benatar proud. In fact, we dedicated hours to just sitting in the lobby with a drink in hand pointing out the pure majesty of this retro fashion show. My mom was a pioneer of this “sport” back in my childhood. I remember asking her what she was doing when she would just sit in a place like a mall or the state fair watching the world go by. She termed this pastime “people watching”, much like one would go in search of birds with their wide variety of plumage. Should it worry me that I am content to just sit and watch people go by? I guess there is the element of play by play commentary added when you’re with a partner.

The primary motivation for coming to Egypt was to learn how to scuba dive. I spent four days getting my PADI (Professional Association of Dive Instructors) open water certification in the warm, clear water of the Red Sea while trying not to get too distracted by all the colorful, and sometimes dangerous, fish swimming by. My instructor almost put me down on top of a Devil Scorpion fish during one of my drills. That could’ve been painful. She was not impressed with my adult ADD and inability to remember what she had told me on the surface long enough to perform the skills 10 minutes later on the bottom of the ocean. I just kept getting so nervous. It didn’t help matters that she was also a blonde Polish girl. I’m used to getting yelled at by one of those at home, but not on my vacation! (żartuje kochanie!)

The last couple days we went out onto a boat and explored some of the larger reefs located near Hurghada. My better half spent her days lounging by the pool, with the occasional venture out to snorkel in front of the hotel beach. We went together one afternoon and spotted moray eels, blue-spotted stingrays, lionfish, coronet fish, and many other species right only a couple hundred meters from the Hilton cabana bar. It was an amazingly colorful scene right off of the Discovery Channel.

Egypt also gave us a wide variety of local experiences, most exiting of which was the daily 25 km journey with my personal Egyptian cabbie who upon learning that I liked it when he went fast interpreted that to mean that I love danger. This meant cranking the steering wheel to and fro, causing the car to violently lurch from side to side at a speed approaching 180 kph (105mph). It was all I could do to show no fear, nervously smiling as my sphincter tightened enough to produce precious gems. We were also treated to endless haggling sessions over tea as merchants tried to convince us that they were making us “a very special deal” since we were from Poland. It didn’t take much prodding for them to share their low opinion of the ubiquitous Russians.

Upon further review: Air Memphis a definite thumbs down, although with a slight bribe we are able to finagle an exit row on the way home. Hurghada airport is your best bet for scoring bargains. Don’t even bother with the endless row of shop outside the hotel gates. Scuba diving in the Red Sea, though I have nothing to compare it to, certainly lived up to its billing as some of the best in the world. All inclusive resorts centered around the next feeding time is certainly something I will take a pass on next time.

The lighter side of Albania

Through a twist of fate and the willingness of a tiny school in Albania to once again host over 40 middle school students from all over Europe, the Kielbasa Chronicle made a return trip to Tirana this year. I remember last year, tearing the four pages out of my tattered Eastern Europe guidebook, thinking I would only have to research Albanian words, food, and directions once in my life. After all, this tiny bunker-strewn wasteland is not exactly known as a tourist hot-spot. The food is great, the weather is mild this time of year, but clean and orderly it is definitely not.

Despite having made the same trip last year, five of the twelve kids on the cross country team made the return voyage, so they must have had a good time. We also brought along the czar of CEESA athletics and our athletic director, Jim Matter. My assistant coach from last year, Rachel, could not make the trip since she had a baby a few months ago, so the new addition to the coaching staff, who absolutely loved the trip, was Barbara, our middle school German teacher.

After four years, and missing it by a whisker a couple times, the boys’ team brought home the championship trophy, and their coach couldn’t have been prouder. The great thing about working with kids this age is that they have almost no experience to draw upon, so there is also little fear of failure. Just go out and run for the fun of it. Being on the trip is reward enough. It’s certainly a far cry from the days of coaching high school cross country where the season started Aug. 12 and ended the last weekend in October, with the kids running six days a week. We needed to employ all kinds of strategies, from bowling nights to camp-outs, just to keep the kids engaged. I have many good memories of those years, but don’t miss the level of commitment required.

It was a stress-free trip with a great bunch of kids who were so much fun to travel with. Sometimes teenagers have tendency to whine when things aren’t so entertaining, but this group was complaint free. The adults were also, and we even found time to rent a bus for an afternoon on the Albanian coast. After driving many air-condition deprived miles down potholed roads and passing through countryside which probably hadn’t changed in 50 years, we arrived at a remote beach, inhabited by only us foreigners and the staff of a tiny restaurant & seaside cabana rental. The fresh seafood dinner was phenomenal, as we enjoyed the company of our fellow coaches from Budapest, Moscow, Prague, and Zagreb. We all had to agree that middle school cross country was by far the most relaxing sport to coach.

Oktoberfest in Munich!

If you aren’t paying attention at Oktoberfest, you will get your ass kicked. It’s not because of anything you did to provoke somebody’s wrath. You can just be standing in the beer tent enjoying the festivities, drinking in both the suds and the atmosphere, and you will first hear a warning. This comes in the form of a whistle. Not the kind you hear at a rock concert or sporting event, but an actual whistle. The referee kind. If you do not heed the warning and get out of the way in a timely manner, you will receive the foot of a sturdy but mature-looking German woman right between your butt cheeks.

This happened to me at the Paulaner tent on a sun-drenched Saturday afternoon. I don’t blame her for doing this. After all, she needed to deliver a flock of broasted chickens to some hungry festival goers and I was oblivious to the urgency of the situation. I’m sure I was not the first ass she kicked that day and there would undoubtedly be many more to come as the crowd became increasingly lubricated.

The tents. Paulaner. Haufbrauhaus. Augustiner. Lowenbrau and a score of others I can’t remotely pronounce. If I tried, it would sound like an attack of bronchitis. They are set out in succession along the back row of the festival grounds, gleaming temples devoted to the art of brewing and the ritual of imbibing. Each holds around 10,000 from around the world, some having reserved their place at the long wooden tables over a year in advance. If you are lucky enough to gain entrance sans reservation, you will be treated to a spectacle that can only be found annually for two autumnal weeks in Munich.

The beer is why they have made their pilgrimage. The natives, in all shapes and sizes, sporting lederhosen passed down from generation to generation for just this occasion. Australians with their yellow “Fanatics” t-shirts. The Brits, Scots, and Irish clad in their rugby jerseys. Americans in their university hoodies. and the Italians looking . . . Italian. Gelled, slicked back hair, high-priced T’s stamped with designer names, and gold-plated chains around their necks, ready to throw themselves at anything in a traditional dress.

The dirndl. Some are born to wear it, with their ample curves almost spilling forth from the bodice. Others look just a bit too ample for the form-fitting corset. But that doesn’t stop them from trying to squeeze into one for a few days while swilling beers and noshing on the cornucopia of pork products to be found around every corner of the legendary grounds. My traveling companion, despite looking fetching in her budget costume, felt a bit out of place since hers was cut comparatively high, eliciting more than a few stares and catcalls. Feeling self conscious and a bit allergenic, the dress lasted a few hours before being jettisoned, but the pictures were worth the price.

The weekend went by fast, a blur of hoisted beer steins and the ooompah of brass polka bands. This was one trip I won't soon forget. Hope to be there in 2010!

Field Trippin!

Took the always fun "Discover Poland" expedition with my 6th graders a couple weeks back. Here are some highlights:

Part II: Think positive. At least now you have zero chance of dying!

Back in the friendly confines of the Polskaland and taking time to savor the little day-to-day intricacies that make working and living here a true pleasure. School has started, the kids have been rejuvenated by a full summer of doing nothing and the editor of the KC has been newly minted as a master of education, whatever that means. Take it with a grain of salt since this is only year 10 of what I feel might be a Ripkenesque career as an educator.

Or maybe I should use a Brett Favre analogy? Here's hoping I don't need a veritable cocktail of painkillers to make it through my day when I'm in my early 40's. By the way, I really have no feelings about the Vikings' signing of the scourge of Green Bay since the boys in purple have been dead to me since the ruinous end of the 1998 season, which you can relive in painful, raw detail here. It almost brought me to tears all over again, but some masochistic part of me watched it until the bitter end. Damn you Gary Anderson! Or maybe I should be thanking him since the last 11 years of Sundays have seen me anesthetized toward any feeling of living vicariously through grossly overpaid athletes that couldn't care less about the average fan. But I'm NOT bitter.

Anyway . . . I never did finish my story about Pamplona. I will let the rest of it pour forth in the hope that it will provide some catharsis and rationalization. Where was I?

The running takes place at 8:00 AM every day for the whole 8 day festival. The average time it takes for the bulls to get through the 850 meter course (about 1/2 mile) is around 3 1/2 minutes. At around 6:30, I was lined up at where I thought would be an ideal spot (see video), midway between point 5 and 6 on the map. My thinking was that I would only be faced with a short 200 meter pants-filled dash into the bullfighting arena where I would bask for a few seconds in the admiration of the cheering throngs while simultaneously getting the hell outta the way of 1,500 pounds of pissed off hamburger. The rest of my traveling party had retreated to a balcony overlooking the course, for which they each paid 40 Euros, including breakfast.

About 6:45, Juan Law (Spanish cousin of Johnny Law), started clearing the streets. They had an ingenious method of closing the gates on each cross street to divide the course into one block sections, separating the crowd that was trying to do the same thing I was doing. Us glory-hounds were quickly surrounded by cops in nasty-looking berets and forcibly removed from the course. Oops. Didn't read anything in my research about that. Back to the drawing board. So I had been pushed off the course around point #6. I then needed to hightail it all the way back to the start, fighting my way through drunken cowards the whole time. I made it all the way back to #3 in the main plaza about 200 meters from where they release the bulls. There was a huge crowd assembled and all of them had that "What the eff have I gotten myself into?" look of terror on their face. In fact, there was even a procession of people lined up behind the cops who marched them out of the plaza after they elected to "use better judgement" as my mom would say. Pansies.

So all runners are packed in between points 3 and 4, but around 7:30 they swing open the gate (#4) that confined us to that area. This gives us 30 minutes to spread out along the course and take our positions from which we will attempt to avoid getting trampled by not only bulls but each other. At this point, there is no turning back. Foremost on my mind was the fact that one of the bulls scored a kill the day before when it was turned around going the wrong way on the course. It proceeded to gore anything in his path including an unlucky Spaniard who took a horn in the lung and jugular. Medical personnel pulled him under a gate only a few seconds after he was hit but he bled out in an instant was declared dead soon after.

As luck would have it, I ended up camped in the same position I had been in one hour previously. The adrenaline was pumping and, as per my nature in situations such as these, I wanted to capture the scene, bringing some of the sights and sounds of Pamplona home with me on my camera. Where I went wrong at 7:52 on that fateful day is anybody's guess. But after making a short video of the minutes leading up to one of those "gotta do it before you die" moments, one of Pamplona's finest spotted me from his perch on one of the wooden gates that seals off the course from any overzealous spectators. He barked at me in Spanish, which I took to mean "Sir, could you kindly put your camera away since the bulls will be released in just a few short minutes. I know you wanna capture this momentous occasion but you should really pay attention while trying to tempt death."

Alright, it's been 17 years since my last Spanish class so forgive me if I got the translation wrong. Soon enough, I felt like John Hinkley at the Washington Hilton in 1981. Surrounded by four of Juan Law's cousins as my heart pounded with fear, there was no escape and all I could think about was how stupid I was for not running into the crowd as soon as he had singled me out. I showed them that I had put my camera away and was ready to dodge bulls. But instead of congratulating me on my courage and my desire to showcase their fine city, they shoved me to the ground and under the gate. Not only was my dream of running with the bulls crushed but my brand new white pants bought specifically for this occasion were stained with the dirt, grime, and fluids of an all-night Spanish bender. As I frantically scrambled to run back to the start of course and fight again, the fireworks signaling the start went off and I wasn't even in a position to watch others get gored. Was it the blonde hair and blue eyes that made me the victim of police brutality? Or maybe stupidity? I guess I'll never know, but at least it makes for a good story.

Last few hours in Madrid . . .

Sitting here in Plaza Santa Domingo, enjoying my last few hours in Madrid. It's really nice when a city has the foresight to provide free WiFi points for its citizens. Anyway, I should be sitting by a pool at the "fabulous" Hotel Wellington that was rated five stars. LJ and I booked this as a treat for our last night here before we got on separate flights back to WAW. Imagine our shock and utter disappointment when we stepped out into the courtyard under the blazing afternoon sun to discover that the whole pool area was shut down for remodeling. Dreams shattered. Depression ensues. After conferring with the hotel manager, we were informed that the hotel website states that the pool is shut down for the summer and it was our fault for not checking this out. Who the hell books directly with the hotel anymore? Are you kidding me? The site we went through, kayak.com which directed us to gtahotels.com, clearly stated that they had a pool and jacuzzi. So we dropped a bit more than we usually spend in hope of enjoying some super relaxation time the night before reality hit. I certainly expressed my outrage in no uncertain terms and was told that there was nothing they could do in the way of compensation. I did manage to put up a big enough stink to get us a room upgrade but you can't have a nice cool soak in a kingsized bed. Anyway, more writings about the last few weeks in Spain are to come when I get back home . . . until then, adios from Spain!