The planets are still aligned . . .

Did I honestly think that I would wake up this morning, wipe the sleep out of my eyes, fire up the laptop, and read the news that the Vikings were headed to the Super Bowl? I was only 2 1/2 years old the last time Fran Tarkenton led them there in 1977. Surely this would be the year that they would make a triumphant return and try to exorcise the demons that have made them the Buffalo Bills of the NFC.

Alas, it was not to be. But after watching the highlights, I am so glad that I stopped emotionally investing in this team way back in 1998, after Gary Andersen shanked a 39 yard field goal and denied me a road trip to Miami with my fellow bartenders from the Green Mill in Fargo. There was no wailing and gnashing of teeth as I stared plaintively at the glow of the screen this morning. No "Damn you and your interceptions, Favre!" or cursing to myself, thinking "How can you fumble the ball so much? You're supposed to be the best running back in the league!" Nope. None of it. Okay, there may have been a flicker of hope, deep in the recesses of my mind, some dormant brain cells that hadn't been stimulated since the Randall Cunningham, Robert Smith, Randy Moss "most prolific offense ever" season in 1998. But now they have finally been put to death with this last epic failure, a textbook display of how to lose a game that you seemingly have in control.

I feel for all of you that still hold onto hope, thinking every year that just maybe it will be different. But let me tell you that it's so much easier when you just give up hope and realize that the Vikes will always find a way to lose. It stings a lot less when the reality that it just doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things somehow crystallizes. However, if you derive some sort of masochistic pleasure from always coming up short, check out this video:

Attention prospective visitors . . .

It has been a couple months since we moved in, but we at the Chronicle thought we would let you know that we have relocated our offices downtown, right in the heart of the Polish capital. After much deliberation, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of living in a pre-war building near the hustle and bustle of the city center, we decided to take the plunge. After all, as a friend of mine said during my decision-making process, "When are you ever going to get another chance to live right in the middle of a European capital?" (click on the pic for a high-resolution image)

The place is around 1000 sq. feet (sounds small to Americans, but it's huge by European standards) with two bedrooms, so we are hoping that we'll see an uptick in the number of visitors coming from across the pond. A lot of you have made it over here to the land of cheap beer, hearty food, and beautiful women, but there are still quite a few who have talked wistfully about a visit, yet there is always something that gets in the way of them buying the plane ticket. (Usually time and/or money) Yes, Europe is expensive, especially now with the Euro costing $1.50, but remember that Poland is still not moving to this currency in the foreseeable future, despite many politicians' claims. Only one of this country's neighbor's has made the switch in hopes of hedging their bets against any future financial crisis, Slovakia. Travel there is still a bargain, though, as it is in Hungary, the Czech Republic, and the Baltic states. So come on over!

We'd like to extend a hearty "gratulacje" to our fellow international educator, Kit, living down in Quito, Ecuador. She just tied the knot with her Ecuadorian boyfriend, Holger. If you recall from this entry, back in February of 2008, Kit relocated from her job as an elementary teacher out in California. We wish her and her new husband a lifetime of happiness and many more years of cross-cultural romance.







Also, a happy belated birthday (yesterday) to my Auntie Lori in Elk River, MN. She's the one of the left : ) .






The last three years of mild Polish winters have come to an abrupt halt as Old Man Winter has struck with a vengeance the last couple weeks here in Warsaw. We've been experiencing some northern Minnesota-like temps as the mercury has plummeted well below zero (which is really cold when you use the Celsius scale!). Add that to the substantial snowfall within the Warsaw metro area and you have yourself one big mess. Somehow, despite a relatively small army of snow removal equipment, the city has dug itself out. The lion's share of the work falls on city employees armed with nothing more than a piece of plywood with a wooden handle attached. I wish I could've found a picture since it really is a primitive looking but surprisingly effect method. No polished steel snowscrapers here. Do widzenia!

Family fun time

Glad to be back in Warsaw after a couple weeks on the other side of the pond celebrating the holidays with the family. As many have said to me, "You're so lucky that you have a big family where everybody gets along with each other." I consider it more the product of our easy-going natures, honed over many years. It wasn't always like this ya know. There was more than a decade of tantrums, brawls, and declarations of "I hate you!" before the natural détente that accompanies the transition into adulthood (see: maturity).

Some of us, myself excluded, have arrived at the point in our lives when we can sit back and laugh (or be horrified) as we see ourselves reflected in our own kids doing battle with their siblings and cousins. I certainly found it amusing to be a curious onlooker watching my brother wrangle his two youngsters for the duration of the Christmas break. He failed to see the humor and was more than willing to point out how "relaxed" my lifestyle was and that coming home to witness the "family circus" was a potent form of subconscious birth control.

I must admit that observing two of my cousins (both 4-5 year old girls) wrestle over a sled with the end result being one kicking the other in the "privates" does not send one scurrying to the nearest Barnes and Noble for baby books. But it is always amazing that we can eschew all other commitments (i.e. in-laws) to coordinate our three-ring Christmas Eve. It gets tougher every year but this year's version was the biggest in history. 37 people, one fetus, and a couple dogs:

Two days later, most of us were able to reconvene back at my brother's cabin, or as I like to call it, The Family Funtime Resort. The occasion we were celebrating was my grandmother's 86th birthday, along with the arrival of a huge dump of snow on Christmas day. Paul, Dave, and I spent the afternoon excavating and constructing our own luge track which ran from the cabin, past the gigantic snowman, all the way to the lake. It was well worth all the effort as we spent hours outside recapturing the glory days.

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!