Lazy Sunday

The Dolomites

Having surpassed the four year mark of my time living here in Europe, I must say that I have encountered more than my fair share of beautiful places. From the sandy beaches of the Latvian coast to the rolling hills of Scotland dotted with bleating flocks of sheep, there is a diversity of travel experience awaiting anybody brave enough to venture through the circus tents that double as rural airports, or the archaic train stations of the former communist bloc. (why is it spelled with one "r" anyway?)

What has been missing from this traveler's dossier was a trek through some quintessentially Tyrollean mountain landscapes, the kind of territory associated with felt hats, high top leather hiking boots, and the cries of Ricola! After living near the always accessible highlands of majestic Idaho for seven years, I had an itch for the kind of views that make one's butt cheeks clench in fear, peaks of such colossal enormity they make you wish you had wings and a case of Red Bull. Like this guy.

The daunting task of planning such a trip, from the lengthy gear list to plotting our route from four star refugios to lung burning precipices and back down again, fell on the meticulously capable (read: OCD) hands of my former endurance sport compatriot, Jen Stover from Boise. All I had to do was find out which budget airline would get me near the Italian province of Belluno, two hours north of Venice. That and purchase all of the stuff on the aforementioned lengthy gear list so I wouldn't look like a total newb and embarrass my gearhead friends. Not the type of gearheads that my brothers are, with at least four snowmobiles, two motorcycles, a four-wheeler, and a coffin hoist in the garage, but the type of adventure seeker who owns three different Gore-tex windbreakers lined with polypropylene, titanium trekking poles, a variety of backpacks, all equipped with hydration systems, and shock-proof digital cameras that are water-proof to a depth of 100 meters.

Just for some perspective, here's the list Jen sent me:

Pack -midsize
bladder - camel back type
harness
leather or cycling type gloves
2-3 locking carabiners
3-4 18 inch tethers/slings
Pack towel
small headlamp
trekking poles
gaiters - to keep small rubble & rocks out of shoes
short sleeve wicking shirt
long sleeve wicking shirt or Hind Type
cycling arm warmers
compression / running shorts
over shorts ( hiking type with pockets)
underwear
socks - 5 pair
tights or long pants
waterproof windbreaker jacket
beanie
gloves
light weight fleece
trail shoes
sleep sheet
small dop kit > contact lenses, eyeglasses, deoderant, soap, toothbrush etc
blister kit / 1st aid

*Jen also packed her husband, Nic, and adventure racing teammate, Brad, who is also trained in mountain search and rescue. A good guy to bring along in case you fall off a cliff and shatter a femur or need any extra gear since he brings two of everything.

To further complicate matters, Wizzair (for my favorite cheap flights) only allows 10 kg (22 lbs) for a carry-on, or else you pay and extra 50 Euro to check your bag upon arrival at the airport. Wearing the same clothes for seven straight days of gut-busting hikes leaves one emanating the same odors as the display case at a French cheese shop. No, that's not Mimolette cheese you smell, it's Fromunda Bleu. (ask your nearest teenager to explain that joke if you don't get it)

This latest adventure far surpassed my lofty expectations, in terms of astonishing scenery, mouthwatering cuisine, and the animated jocularity and storytelling that ensues when old friends reunite. To share this expedition with some fellow thrill seekers from back in the Boise years, the previous chapter in my book of life, made it that much more satisfying. Here's to hoping we can do it again sooner rather than later.

The last day of a life-changing summer . . .

A recent houseguest, my friend Walt from back in Hibbing, inspired me to come out of hiding on cyberspace and get back to writing. So this entry will be dedicated to him as he lounges on my couch devouring a book that chronicles the methodologies and reasoning behind the development of the Auschwitz death camp. Quite timely since after living here in Poland for the last four years, and urging many a visitor to take the tour, I finally made the journey. But I'll save those thoughts for another time since I'm feeling a bit wistful and introspective about the last 9 weeks of summer.

One could make the case for it being the "best summer ever" but that would be like asking my mother which of her three boys is the favorite. I love all summers equally since each are special in their own way. But this one will always hold a special place in my heart since I became engaged to the woman of my dreams.

Do you ever notice that when magazines want to ramp up circulation, they always employ the "Top Ten List" gimmick? Every few months, Men's Health will reveal it's never before published (if you haven't read the mag before), Top Ten Ab-Blasting, Washboard-Building Exercises, or Outside Magazine's Top Ten Best Places to Live Right Now! (my former home of Boise topped the most recent list). So without further adieu, I give you the The Kielbasa Chronicle's Top Ten Pictures of Summer:




The beginning of June brought the Sonisphere Festival to town. 100,000 metalheads converged on an airport runway on the outskirts of Warsaw to see the four pillars of thrash metal (Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer, and Anthrax) rev it up to jet-engine decibel level.







It's the Iron Sheik, one of the World Wrestling Federation's most famous villains, in LAX airport. "Excuse me Mr. Sheik, I am a big fan from back in the eighties. Can I get a picture?" He was more than accommodating, a true gentleman.











The big family picture on the 4th of July. Can you count how many of us there is? And Luiza got to meet all of them.











Family Fun Time rolls into Nashwauk for the 4th of July Parade.











The ladies in the family enjoy some 4th of July Polish Punch as they watch some lawn games. Nobody fell out of their chair, much to my surprise.











It was really nice to share the beauty of outdoor Idaho with my big city girl from Poland.













On the last leg of our three week odyssey, my old friend and fellow chlorinated warrior, Steve showed us around in San Diego.











More fun on the Fourth with Steve and my brother Dave. Yes, we make it look easy, but this is harder than it looks.











Two of my very favorite people in the world came over at the same time in the beginning of August. Walt, all the way from Minnesota, and Carri from Boise, joined me in Warsaw for a big Euro-sized beer. We then went on to Krakow and Prague.






Joined three friends from Boise (Brad, Jen, and Nic) for a week in the majestic Dolomites on the Austria / Italy border. This is just one of the many jaw-dropping views we encountered during our many lung-busting treks up and down the peaks.

Election Day!

Today is the day for a special election to determine who will replace the former President Lech Kaczynski, who was one of 96 victims in an April plane crash. Things are a bit different here, since there were at least ten candidates from various parties on the ballot. But the real race is between two men, acting prez, Bronislaw Komorowski and the late President's twin brother, Jaroslaw. He is the former prime minister and had achieved meager levels of popularity when he was voted out in 2007.

He represents the far-right, anti-Euro nationalist movement and has campaigned under the imaginative slogan: "Poland is most important". SuTprisingly, he has gained in the polls thanks to the country being in a time of crisis. Due to the undending torrents of rainfall in the countryside, the Vistula river has overflowed its banks and left many small villages underwater. The current interim government has provided about $1800 per citizen displaced by the floods, yet Kaczynski has played armchair crisis manager in calling for the payments to be doubled.

Pundits predict that "Bronek" (Komorowski) will fail to win the 50% majority for outright victory today. That means the inevitable run-off between the two leading vote-getters on July 4th. Definitely some historic moments going on here in Poland.

Goodbye Dad . . .

James Gaspersich, age 69, passed away at home in Hibbing on May 13, surrounded by family. He is finally at peace after a 7 1/2 year battle with chondrosarcoma that never extinguished his dynamic spirit and zest for life.

He was born February 27, 1941, in Virginia, MN to Frank and Angela Gaspersich and graduated from Mt. Iron High School in 1959. After a short-lived career as a plumber, he attended St. Mary's School of Nursing in Milwaukee and graduated as a registered nurse in 1965. Commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in the U.S. Army, he served in the Army nurse corp at Letterman General Hospital in San Francisco. After his discharge from the service, he returned to the Iron Range in 1968 and continued his education at Hibbing School of Anesthesia, becoming a certified nurse anesthetist.

From there, he commenced a career in anesthesia, beginning at Hibbing General Hospital, becoming chief of the department at Mesabi Regional Medical Center, and retiring from Fairview Range Regional Health Services in 2002 due to his illness. Along the way, he found his true calling, easing the pain of others. He cherished the friendships he made with his colleagues, and was truly blessed to work in such a compassionate environment.

While employed at Hibbing General Hospital, he met his true love, Janet Nelson, on May 25, 1968. They were united in marriage two years later, on June 6th, devoting a lifetime to raising their three sons and pursuing a passion for gardening and holiday yard decorations. He was also an active part of St. Leo's parish, serving for many years on the board of trustees, and was a member of the Knights of Columbus. Throughout his retirement, he cultivated his love of woodworking, constructing countless treasures for friends and family, but still found time to enjoy the peaceful solitude of yard work or plowing the driveways of Highway 37.

James is preceded in death by his parents, Frank and Angela Gaspersich. He is survived by his wife Janet; three sisters, Angela Bauer of Milwaukee, WI, Vivian (Herb) Schur of Rochester, MN, and Dolores (Ted) Huska of Hibbing; son Paul, daughter-in-law Jennifer and their two children Griffin and Lauren, of Blaine, MN; son Mark of Warsaw, Poland; and son David of Isanti, MN; and mother-in-law Edith Nelson, of Pengilly; and numerous nieces, nephews, and cousins.

National Tragedy . . .

The whole country is in a state of complete shock as we mourn the loss of 96 government officials, including the President and first lady of Poland. Several times this past weekend, I walked down to the Presidential Palace which is about a 1/2 mile from my apartment to both pay my respects and marvel at the outpouring of emotion from what seemed like hundreds of thousands as they made the trek down to the official residence of Lech Kaczynski. This is a short video of the memorial only a few short hours after the country was given word of the catastrophe.



This shrine has now mushroomed in size since that afternoon, as most who pay their respects place a votive candle or a flower near the entrance to the grounds. You can feel the heat emanating from all the flickering torches within a hundred feet of the shrine. A view from above is the only way to get true sense of how many Poles have made the pilgrimage to mourn their leader. This video was taken yesterday at noon as the country observe two minutes of silence as sirens and bells rang through the streets.



Yesterday the President's body was driven from the airport to the palace where it will lie in state all week until the funeral on Saturday. Everything in the city came to a standstill as thousands lined the streets watching the motorcade pass by and throwing flowers at the foot of the hearse. City buses ringed the center as their normal routes were clogged with mourners and their vehicles. Hundreds on motorcycles and bicycles followed the procession after it went by.

There has been endless speculation about the cause of the accident and both black boxes have reportedly been recovered in good condition. Some point to an incident in 2008 when Kaczynski threatened a pilot after refusing to land in Tbilisi, Georgia and the political pressure to be at the ceremony commemorating the Katyn massacre. Whatever the cause, be it mechanical failure, pilot error, or a president under pressure, any efforts to establish blame won't bring back 96 people to their families.

World Cross Country Championships in Poland

I witnessed some truly breath-taking performances last weekend at the World Cross Country Championships in Bydgoszcz (BID-gohshch), Poland. This middle sized city in the northwest quadrant, located at the confluence of the Vistula and Brda Rivers, somehow landed the bid to host runners from over 50 nations in a competition to see who was the best off-road, middle-distance runner. In actuality, it ended up to be a competition to see which teams could produce the second best harriers worldwide since Kenya swept all four individual race titles, and won all four team championships at the junior and senior levels. These guys were FAST! And the U.S. women's team finished with the bronze medal in the women's senior division, but were definitely gold medalists in the aesthetically pleasing division.

Is that you John Wayne?

Again, one of those extraordinary opportunities came knocking at my door a few months ago. And by extraordinary, I mean this to be a virtually impossible occurrence for me if I was back stateside. But here in Polska, it is the land of opportunity if you happen to have the right accent. An almost surreal experience it was, but for unmentionable reasons, I decided to let this simmer for a time before publishing in the Chronicle.

Prior to getting the call up to the big show on the silver screen, my acting resume consisted of only this. My one blazing moment of profanity, err, I mean, glory. This had been a spinoff of a magazine shoot for the Warsaw Frogs rugby team, and was one of those "right place, right time" lucky breaks.

Last November, a casting agent stopped by one of our practice sessions looking for American voices for a film. Apparently there is a shortage of them here in Warsaw, or agencies just don't know where to look. In any case, this makes my terrible acting abilities in high demand as long as I can remember my lines and not take two many photos for the Chronicle while on the set. Fortunately, this role only required me to give a campy rendition of an American soldier leading his troops on a search for an escaped terrorist. My lines: "You are surrounded. There is no escape. Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up!" Later, this struck me as odd, being that the dangerous man we were on the hunt for, Muhammad, probably only spoke Arabic. But I guess you have to suspend disbelief at some point for any movie. There was also a command into a walkie-talkie "Roger that. 13.2 west." which I couldn't quite say without sounding too much like John Wayne. At least this is what the director's assistant said. What the hell does he know about John Wayne anyway? The guy grew up here. Besides, as I explained, all American soldiers think they are John Wayne anyway. I'm guessing they'll do a voiceover on that one.

Me as a commanding officer in the Marines. Now that was a stretch. But once again, throw all that logic stuff out the window when watching action movies. If Arnold can play a kindergarten teacher (Kindergarten Cop), Sly Stallone a cabbie turned country singer (He was overlooked by the Academy for Rhinestone opposite Dolly Parton), and Bruce Willis, a sperm (Look Who's Talking!), then surely I can have a turn at being a soldier.

You saw the Bourne movies right? A friend of mine, upon seeing me in these pictures, quipped: "Is this the fourth installmet in the Jason Bourne series, entitiled Bourne Retarded?" Pretty clever. I must say that I felt pretty awkward in this getup but as long as the check clears, I'm just going with it.

This filmshoot was apparently the real deal, a movie that should actually see the big screen outside Poland. It also was directed by Roman Polanski's contemporary, Jerzy Skolimowski, who was a pretty nice guy. I tried to bond with him over coffee in the make-up trailer, but he really wasn't one for small talk. Really the only thing we have in common is that we both like Poland. So we got that goin'. I'm sure he'll invite me to be his guest at Cannes.

I never got to meet the star of the show, Vincent Gallo, but apparently he really throws himself into a role and there is no limit to how far he will go to push a scene past the limits of good taste. I won't elaborate any further but this film should be pretty shocking. I'm doubting it will hit the big screen at a megaplex near you but there is some footage from when they shot the first part of the movie in Israel.

My scene consisted of me commanding a platoon of 22 Marines, including two snipers and eight German Shepherds. It was the only light moment of the whole film and if I don't end up on the cutting room floor, I will get ahold of the DVD and hope to post some footage, if for only the opportunity for my buddy Joe to heap more merciless criticism on top of my pseudo-thespian abilities. Weird times, as usual over here in Polska.

In the news . . .

Lately things have been a bit slow around here for news in Polska. We had a few people have their cars destroyed by falling icicles, right around the corner from where we live. These old buildings aren't so efficient in their insulation so you get a situation that looks like this.

People worldwide are falling in love with a wayward pooch that stowed away on an ice flow in the middle of the Baltic:

One of Poland's greatest heroes, more famous for being the world's most accomplished lifter of heavy objects (a.k.a. World's Strongest Man on ESPN) has gotten bored with the fact that giant steel balls and kegs of sand do not put up much of a fight. So Mariusz Pudzianowski, a.k.a. "Pudzian" to those familiar with his work, has entered the world of Mixed Martial Arts, or "Ultimate Fighting". Here's footage of his first fight, that was mercifully stopped before he could crack this poor guy's skull. As they as say before every episode of Desperate Housewives, viewer discretion is advised. That means you Mom!


Although we have had a harsh winter with copious amounts of fluffy white stuff, we don't tend to mix our snowsports with a healthy portion of vodka. Our opressed neighbors to the east of us, however, tend to become a bit depressed during the dark days of winter and take some drastic measures to entertain themselves. I remember doing something similar as a youngster but I was never so drunk and definitely not as high (pun intended).

Ice Capades . . .

Remember the Ice Capades? I vaguely remember attending a show at the Duluth Arena when I was a youngster. This was back when I was still harboring dreams of one day becoming a real hockey player like my heroes on the 1982 Hibbing High School hockey team. The stark realization that I was far behind my peers in the ability to streak down the ice at high speeds came to fruition during the Winter Frolic skating races during my sixth grade year. (January of 1986?)

The only reason I made the finals against the much more coordinated kids from the public schools was a pile-up in the final turn of the qualifying race that I somehow avoided being swept into. The clear-cut favorite, a gifted skater that went by the moniker "Duke", crashed and burned on that fateful day, allowing me to skate to victory, not unlike the miracle gold medal finish of Australian speedskater Steven Bradbury in the 2002 Olympics.

The other kids at St. Leo's school knew that I would be inevitably and soundly defeated the next week during the finals. The Duke had been the best hope for our tiny Catholic school to achieve vicarious glory. Their fears were confirmed. I wasn't even close, finishing a distant sixth place, but being awarded the miniscule courtesy medal that soon found its way to the bottom of my dresser drawer. Not long after suffering this crushing embarrassment, I decided to hang up my skates in favor of spending the next 6 years competing in a Speedo.

Fast forward 23 years to the recognition that only the love of a good woman could get me to put on another set of blades. What little skill I had back in the day has severely deteriorated into what one might envision if Fred Flinstone were crossed with one of the Hanson brothers. Fortunately I had the Polish Peggy Fleming to distract anyone's attention to my robotic movements.

How I took all the available sheets of ice for granted growing up. I can remember having no fewer than 6 city rinks to carve up either indoors or outdoors. This isn't quite the case here in Warsaw. Check out how unbelievably crowded open skating can be! You need to have your head on a swivel out there, lest you be taken out by another novice flailing about.

Happy Birthday Mom!

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!