Travel - Food in Budapest

On the streets we found grilled chicken, grilled pork, grilled sausages or grilled kabobs. These are roasted on iron grills over wood fires. There are also huge flat skillets full of vegetables sitting on beautiful porcelain wood stoves. Sometimes the stoves hold vats of mulled wine. There are several such booths at the center of town where the cooking -and eating - seems to go on all day.

I haven’t tried any of the sausages but Rick had a few - 12 inches long with lots of garlic. They are served with a creamy, brown mustard and sliced bread or fried potatoes.

I’ve had potatoes, the chicken (pink with paprika) and the pork – also with mustard.

The whole town smells like pastry and it seems there are strudel shops in every subway center of any size. Rick got an apple strudel at the Great Market and I stole two bites of it- no small feat. It was flavored with cinnamon and brown sugar and melted nicely on the tongue.

Rick also had some ice cream in Rome – coffee flavored in a small cone with a pizzelle proudly standing at the top. Rome was also where we found roasted chestnuts –big, fat ones nicely split and easy to peel. They were great.

In Budapest we twice had lunch at a place called Paprika which is a thatched roof hut built inside of a stately Hungarian building. The furniture is something out of a log cabin but the food is great. I had a chicken salad and Rick tried the bacon wrapped chicken livers as well as the veal paprika which seemed like beef stroganoff and was served with macaroni and cheese flavored with bacon pieces. He also had a cucumber salad but couldn’t eat the whole thing though he made a stomach-poofing effort.

The pubs and internet bars are so smoke filled that it is barely possible to push through the fumes to get inside. Cigarette butts are plentiful and hazy, green, plumes of tainted air cling to the body after a visit but it is the only source of wifi.

Chocolate is everywhere and so I ate industrial quantities of it, just to keep my strength up with all the walking and staring agog at the magnificent buildings.

Our morning breakfast included orange juice redder than the apples and a wonderful dark brown bread with nuts and grains on the top.

The thing that Rick seemed to like best was the potato soup. Soups seem popular especially at this tiny restaurant where people stood in line during lunch hour to get bowls of creamy pea or spinach or potato soup. These were carried outdoors to the tables on the sidewalk and eaten with huge slices of bread and fried foods with a crispy coating. I'm not sure what all the somethings were under the coatings. Chicken and pork are likely candidates and some of the things were definitely mushrooms. I even have a mushroom story.

When were were there Rick ordered the potato soup (easy to do by pointing) and I asked for a breaded chicken (also available for pointing) and mustard (not in view). Mustard in English must sound like mushroom in Hungarian because the server pointed to the mushrooms but I said no, not that. Then it occurred to me to copy the word mustard. I could see it on the menu board but had no idea how to say it. (The Hungarians have a plethora of vowels.) Writing it on a slip of paper solved my problem but slowed progress in the serving line by several seconds.

We ate on the sidewalk sharing a table with two beautiful girls while the cars and the trolley passed by.

Travel - more Budapest and beyond

Sunday
We crossed the Danube River from Pest to Buda to see the castle and walk up and down little streets taking photos of houses and doors and cute little cars. At the Matthias Church we read about the extensive renovations being made to the building – about 700- years old. It has been studied extensively to find weak points in the walls and in the foundation. Piles of dirt are stacked on one side so that the structure beneath can be reinforced where it was built on a now-shifting clay surface. The tile roof has been replaced and work is ongoing to replace the metal, wood, stone and marble surfaces with attention to getting everything back to the original plans but allowing for modernization and stability.

The castle has been reworked also. It took about 60 years to figure out how to deal with it. During the communist rule there were plans to make it into party headquarters. Many centuries-old structures around the castle were torn down just to clear the area. They could have been renovated but during Soviet rule the preservation of Hungarian history was not valued by those in charge. Eventually the castle was renovated to hold three separate museums for art and heritage of the Hungarian tribes.
Hungary only elected its first democratic parliament in 1990 and it was admitted to the EU shortly afterwards. It still uses its own currency and not the Euro though many shops will take Euros, British pounds, US dollars and maybe occasionally other currencies. For a country recently out of communism, the economy seems well developed.

Some buildings have what look like gun shot damage and I read today about the revolution in the 50s when the Hungarians fought for independence and the world didn't help them. Many buildings were damaged (no mention made of the people) and the uprising ended when the people were given some autonomous rule. Maybe that’s why the people are doing well now. They’ve had more practice than some other Soviet Bloc countries.

All the people look very stylish, particularly I notice their shoes and boots while Rick sees the mini skirts and boots together. The people seem fond of pastries and cigarettes and sausages and opera and theater. A bomb feel on the stage of the opera house during WW II but it didn’t explode so the majority of the building was undamaged while many buildings around it were destroyed.

The opera house was renovated about 20 years ago for its 100th anniversary. We toured the building but didn’t see an opera. Gone with the Wind was on last night and tonight was Macbeth.
I guess that we spent most of the day walking and looking at things and being thankful that the rain stopped. We also spent some time reading guide books to plan out our last days here.
I took photos of the Metro 1 line, a feature we will miss. Trains come every 2 or 3 minutes to these quaint, little, clean stations. When the train arrives it plays a very short and happy tune just before the doors open. The cars supposedly hold 16 seated passengers and 50 standing but I counted 24 standing when the seats were full and couldn’t see another 26 people worth of space between all the bags and elbows.




Monday was another glorious spring day so we went to Szentendre by train. It was a touristy place for sure but with cute little buildings and streets. The buildings in this town and for several kilometers along the way are built of yellow, red or orange stucco with red tile roofs – except that we saw some roof repair going on and they aren’t tile but rather fiberglass. What a disappointment.

The colors of the houses are surprising because the colors of the tablecloths, pottery and traditional outfits explode in every direction. We can’t look 2 inches without seeing the entire color wheel so certainly people here like color. I guess it just goes in the houses and not on them though the occasional house was roofed in a cheeky green with pistachio stucco.

There’s a famous ceramic museum there – closed on Mondays – and a Marzipan Museum where one can see a life-sized Michael Jackson or miniatures of many fairy tale creatures as well as Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy, Fozzy Bear and members of the Hungarian Monarchy – all in tons of very colorful Marzipan.

We met Kathy and Russ who are significant because her sister is married to John Nenos and they lived in Alfred for several years. We don’t know John Nenos but we do know his brother Jim and his wife Karrie Edwards and we know where their old house is so that was a little surprising.

On the way back we got off the train twice not knowing if that is allowed with this ticket but since nobody checked our tickets when we jumped back on it worked out okay. We stopped to see ancient Roman ruins. There are two amphitheatres – one smaller than Rome’s coliseum and the other larger. They are said to be “resting” which means that nobody is tearing them down but nobody is restoring or protecting them either.

The Roman Coliseum is a huge tourist draw and money conduit if not money maker. The first amphitheatre we stopped at was Aquincum in OBuda or ancient Buda. It is visible from the train track so no problem finding it. The town was a military garrison in the first century AD and was also the seat of the Roman province of the time.

The amphitheatre was for the general public. The gate of death is to the west – named as it was used to carry slain gladiators from the ring. Now one might accurately describe it as a pit with rusted grocery carts and corners full of trash. Behind it appears to be a squatter’s village built of plastic tents.

Our next leap off the train was at the site of a military amphitheatre built in the second century to hold up to 15,000 spectators. Larger than the facility in Rome, it has a full circle around a grassy pit, one lion’s cage still intact and some of the seating levels are in place. It does not have the tall walls of the coliseum or the Roman guards (with or without fox skins) or the food stalls, the guides and the throngs of people. A few students sat here and there talking or reading and a woman walked her dog where lions once shredded gladiators for the entertainment of thousands. Rick and I ate oranges in the breezy Hungarian sun.

Travel - Budapest One

Budapest

On our first day in Budapest, we explored the neighborhood – full of photo-worthy building after photo-worthy building. The Delibab Hotel is across the street from Hero’s square (built to commemorate the 1,000^th anniversary of Hungary), two art museums (one with a Van Gough exhibit) and a huge park (with a spring time status of the skating rink now melted and the canoe pond drained).

The Delibab was originally constructed for orphaned Jewish girls and each little room has a little bathroom and two closets and two cupboards. The ceilings are tall and the banister is a narrow metal affair with a regular series of bumps which we guess were to discourage unlady-like sliding.

We saved the nearby museums for a possible rainy day and walked around the park where we found what Rick thought was a huge pocket watch. He was almost right. It’s a sculpture called Time Wheel, the world’s largest hour glass. So large in fact that it takes not an hour to transfer its sand from one side to the other but rather a year. On the last day of the year, pulleys and cranes work to roll Time Wheel on its base so it can start again.

St. Augustine is quoted on the dedication plaque, “What is time then? If nobody asks me, I know; if I have to explain it, I do not.”

We rode the subway into the center city and looked at the Danube in the moonlight. The castle was shining on the opposite bank while a ferry chugged gently in the water.

We also searched for the pater-noster, a lift that carries people only upward, never stopping but letting passengers hop on or off as it slowly makes its way up the building. It drops in darkness to the basement and starts up again. Named for the similarity to a chain of rosary beads, it is an outdated conveyance and is now so outdated that, apparently, the last buildings that had it are gone and shiny new structures are growing behind scaffolding.

We ate at a picnic table in the center of “downtown” and listed to a soprano sax at the corner.

Friday, March 23, 2007

The rain started just in time for our morning excursion so we went to one of the art museums. My favorite piece was by Franz von Lenback . Titled “Triumphal Arch of Titus, Rome” it was more like photo than painting. Everything was in perfect proportion, the shadows were just as they might be seen, the clothing was detailed, the backgrounds were what we took photos of on Wednesday.

There was a gypsy family walking under the arch with a donkey while two little boys rolled in the dirt at the edge of the road and goats watched them. It was nice to see something other than Jesus, Mary and Joseph surrounded by saints and angles and speaking of saints it appears that Barthomew was flayed. He looked at first as if he was standing in his red union suit with a white scarf but that scarf had hands and feet and his right hand held a knife. He had quite the serene look for someone standing skinless and one might wonder what he did to deserve such treatment.

In the afternoon we went to The Great Market Hall. It had stalls full of garlic, peppers, veggies, beef, fish, and the aroma of superior sauerkraut. We took photos and looked at crafts. The local crafts include very expensive and colorful tablecloths and blouses as well as very colorful porcelain and very colorful painted eggs and toys. Color was big on the list. It was nicely done work but just too colorful.

We took the metro to the train station to see what Emilie and Josh said was the most beautiful McDonalds ever. It certainly was gorgeous. It seemed that the old train station was larger than needed for train business so there were stores and clubs and a huge McDonalds. A McDonalds of majesty built in the remnants of the old train station restaurant.

We walked some dark and empty streets to see Parliament at night. There were lots of cars but not many walkers. We went back to the hotel with plans to make it out there again,

Back at the hotel we checked the weather on the internet to learn of continuing rain that will give way to four days of sun by evening. Yippee,

Saturday

At about 3:30 people moved into the room next to ours though it sounded as if they were in our our two little closet moving refrigerators, stomping and yelling. It went on for about 20 minutes – TV, talking, music, clomping, banging. It didn't seem there was enough stuff in the room to make that much noise.

We had breakfast and took off for the Saturday flea market – a place that like supermarkets often shows tremendous variety and unexpected sights. If we were into Smurfs or Star Wars we would have thought we’d gone to shopper’s heaven. In addition to those toys we found CDs, Playstation games, toys, sundries, food, and lots of geodes and crystals too. We bought nothing. Actually we didn’t buy anything but food here until Saturday afternoon.

We walked to the Amusement park to see the carousel, now a national treasure. It’s in a glass building at the road side so we didn't have to enter the park. It has horses on platforms that seemed to be positioned to lift and rock but though the park had been supposedly open for an hour nobody was there to ride. This was perfectly reasonable since it was so cold and damp.

We took photos of the museums in the area and of the Anonymous Monk. Aspiring writers touch his quill for inspiration. The monk wrote the history of the area but I guess he never signed his name.

We strolled around the bathhouse and tried to understand what it offers and what it costs. It seemed we should try this famous and popular Hungarian activity but getting wet on such a cold damp day does not sound inviting. The building is beautiful – ornate, yellow, large, clean, holding lots more people than the Amusement Park.

The bathhouse offers massages and carbolic acid baths as well as mud wraps and steam baths.
Em and Josh though about going inside when they came here last year but they didn't actually bathe.

We did find our way into a grocery store where we found lots of sliced meats. It was interesting how many processed, sliced meats there were. The raw meats too were stacked tall and shiny in the cooler. In the great market we found smoked meats – hams, bacon, sausages – salt-crusted and dark brown hanging on hooks above the clerks. Some of the hams and cheeses looked as if they would need a forklift to get them down.

We went downtown and chanced upon a peasant dancing troupe with a band consisting of hammered dulcimer, two violins and a bass and then went to the Opera House in time to miss the 3 o’clock tour so we went to St. Stephen’s Basilica and rode the elevator to the dome. Well, part way to the dome after which we labored up winding staircases to the top where we could walk around the dome on the outside and see the whole city while being whipped by vicious winds.

The Basilica took 50+ years to build and made its way through three architects in the process. It is loaded with gold leaf and has the desiccated right hand of St. Stephen near the main altar. It also has the largest organ in Hungary. I’ll bet Laurel Buckwalter could play it and wonder what Where Sheep Safely Graze would sound like there.

We traveled back on the subway to the center of town and actually bought two things: a soprano recorder (almond wood) and a spoon (apple wood). The flute maker was a flute player and he could really rock on anything –shepherd’s flute, double flute, recorder, ocarina.

We found the chain bridge and the funicular railroad but tomorrow is supposed to be 15 degrees warmer and much drier so we are waiting for that before we cross the river. The Danube, by the by, is not blue in this city though it may be elsewhere.

Travel - Six hours in Rome

Rome

Our first view of Rome made us think of a cold Thailand. It was the combination of palm trees, small cars, construction, tile roofs, brick and concrete houses in tropical colors, tall grasses, debris near work areas, foreign languages floating around us and people in uniforms. During our train ride we saw open fields, farm areas and condos with laundry waving from balconies.

As we neared the city, buildings sprouted forests of prickly antennas and peering satellite dishes while ditches took on color from smashed plastic bottles and flattened, dirt-creased plastic bags.

We didn’t have time for much of a visit in Rome. One plane landed after 11 a.m. and our ongoing plane had a check in time at about 6. The first order of business after landing was food. Sometimes airplane food just isn't wonderful.

After searching the airport restaurants and finding pastries or pizza (I can't eat any form of milk.), we stopped at a deli where Rick had cheese cake and I dug in my bag for tofu jerky and water while we debated a long, long airport sit down vs. the chance of getting lost and missing our next flight. Luckily, we saw an information booth through the window and the person on duty had the perfect idea.

The suggestion was to take a train to the metro and have a quick visit to the Coliseum. "You can't get lost," he assured us. While his guarantee sounded iffy, he proved correct.

As he promised, the Coliseum is directly across from the metro. We found Roman guards eating pizza and coke and smoking cigarettes at the entry. I thought that they were ticket takers or such at the Coliseum but not quite. They offer their images in a photo for 8 Euros. Eight Euros!

Later I heard one say to an American, “It’s 8 Euros – not 8,000 Euros. The photo will last a lifetime.” She went for it. They did put on a show with fierce growling faces and swords at the ready and it takes some guts to dress like that in the chill air but it wasn't anything I wanted to be part of.

Two guards were with a family. The older boy stepped right up on the platform and grabbed both shield and sword and willingly buried his head in the man’s huge feathered helmet. The father snapped photos, the mother laughed. Next the younger boy stepped up. He was offered sword and shield and a laurel wreath for his head but no deal. He gave a mama-come-save-me wail.

An imposing man wore a fox skin – head on feathered-helmet, paws on shoulders, body and tail trailing behind. With his tunic, helmet, tattoos, tights, and boots, his pixels were nearly worth 8 Euros.

We walked around the Coliseum and the Roman Forum while snapping photos of buildings and ruins and a flowering vine deeply rooted in an ancient wall. We also found the Coliseum cat lady and made a donation for her effort of feeding the wild cats.

The Coliseum and forum weren’t as impressive as Machu Picchu or some of the other ruins we’ve seen. Rather than reverence for the past there are cigarette butts and souvenir stands.

There seems to be a cavalier attitude toward the site. Stones lay about, plastic mesh fences defined areas, weeds have taken root in dirt piles and people stand on carved stones to take photos. These stones were once adorning buildings with Fleur-de-leis or flowers or faces and people just walk on them.

The Coliseum itself has huge cracks and is peppered with holes. I supposed we’d know more about it if we had taken the tour but we had little time so we didn’t go in. Most others didn’t walk around outside. Who knows which of us missed more.

An American woman asked if we were American or British. The British never hire guides but Americans sometimes do in her experience. She knows the history of the area she called the center of the world. She said that she only spoke 4 languages so was limited in her opportunities but has been speaking of the history of Rome for 30 years, smoking cigarettes when not employed.

To say she seemed unhappy would be kind. She said that most of the visitors were “garbage” and her meager living disappointing. We disappointed her further by leaving her puffing on her cigarette, leaning against a broken wall.

We walked around and found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant where we ate kabobs. The owner knew English and recited his extensive vocabulary – yogurt, spicy, tomato, cheese, pizza, chicken. After that we took the metro back to the Pyramid station. We passed a spider web dress that Emilie might have liked and took photos of teeny, tiny Smart cars.

There’s a pyramid in Rome. Did you know? It’s not as large as an Egyptian pyramid but it’s the size of a building and it protects what looks like a cemetery. When we left the Coliseum we took the metro back to the pyramid stop so took a short excursion around the area. The cemetery behind the pyramid was locked but through the fence we could see piles of bricks and piles of dirt and plastic mesh fences. Orange plastic mesh fences will now make me think of Rome.

From the metro stop we need the train back to the airport so we wound our way through tunnels looking for it. There was one little airplane sign and then there were no more and we were “lost” in a gentle sense of the word so I asked a man who had the misfortune of standing still and he showed me an electric signboard that flashed the name of the airport and track 12. Back on our way, we climbed onto the train, a smooth riding transport with a welcomed toilet. (A mystery toilet. I couldn’t see how to flush it. My apologies to Rome.)

We were a little later getting back to the airport than we planned because I got us off at the wrong stop so we had to sit in the windy station for 15 minutes for the next train. No matter though. The flight to Budapest was delayed too so we were fine.

We arrived late and the ATMs were out of money. I changed some money getting 177 Hungarian units per $. Em and Josh had gotten 211 per $ last year. We took the mini bus to the hotel and intending to get a fresh start the next day.

Story Jar - The ever-changing taxi from Chinchero

Story Jar - a bi-weekly column published in the Patriot and Free Press, Cuba, NY

Published in two segments, Copyright 2007 Elaine Hardman

Going to Chinchero – the local bus

If you’re ever a tourist in Cusco, Peru wanting to make an excursion to Chinchero, you’ll be offered two transportation choices. You can hire a taxi or take the Urabamba bus.

The taxi gives private transportation and leaves immediately but carries a price of about 50 soles each way. The bus leaves every 15 minutes and, for 3 soles, offers local color, company and the opportunity to say “Urabamba” – a name that bounces nicely off the tongue. We took the bus.

Our hotel receptionist gave us a map to the Chinchero/Urabamba bus station. In addition to sending us off the “tourist” track, the map was full of errors.

No matter. We asked someone for directions and experienced an explosion of Spanish of which we understood only the hand gestures. Asking a couple more times, we finally zeroed in on the place. Our last request brought a grunt and a thumb over the shoulder pointing to a fence. Behind the fence were buses.

Rick bought tickets for seats 5 and 6. Well, this didn’t seem so bad. People filed on and sat down, the bus rumbled to life, shot a parting cloud of black diesel smoke and took off with the conductor hanging on the side.

Just down the street, more people hopped on the bus including a young man who spent several minutes lecturing, it seemed, and repeatedly saying “Amigos.” People ignored him and he eventually sat down.

It seemed that those jumping on the bus along the route didn’t pay but maybe they slipped a sole to the conductor faster than I could see. It wouldn't make sense if they didn't pay. The conductor has his metal tube full of tickets and a change bag. Besides, why would anyone (other than the odd tourist) go to the bus station if they could hop on for free a block or two later?

The conductor was clearly in charge of where and when people go on or off and how much time they were allotted to do so which was not much.

As we traveled, people stuffed into the aisle including one Andean woman whose ample posterior spent about 20 minutes shoving Rick against me. Eventually, a seat opened up for her and Rick relaxed a little.

We passed pigs foraging on the roadside and two girls harvesting a forsythia-like flower used in dying wool. We passed perfect photo after perfect photo but the bus rattled and roared faster than the camera could shutter through the dusty windows.

Rick got the conductor’s attention about 30 minutes into the ride and told him that we wanted Chinchero. No doubt everyone one the bus figured that’s where we clearly-non-Andean people were going. Rick stood when he saw a sign for Chinchero about 20 minutes later but several people made it clear that we weren’t there yet. Eventually the bus stopped, the people nodded, and the conductor gave us time to climb over a large, heavy, blanket-wrapped parcel to stumble out the door. The bus riders were quite kind considering they likely figured we should have taken a taxi.

A man got off with us and made us understand that he was going to the church plaza so we walked with him. He was a vendor who happily sold us a weaving along the way.

Outside, the church is a sweet, simple adornment on a hill but inside it is about as ornate as any country chapel can be and then some. With six altars and a separate room for a carved, stone, baptismal font, it is the gold-leafed and brightly-painted definition of ostentatious. A statue of Saint someone (James?) on horseback, trampling an Inca King tells the story of Andean sadness built into every church here. Sacred Incan places and symbols (such as the puma) were destroyed and the people were enslaved - forced to build Catholic churches and Spanish forts.

The Chinchero church is built on the ruins of a huge Incan temple. It is surrounded by terraced farm land. In the valley that day an Andean woman herded her horses while cows and sheep grazed. A field of beans on the hill looked ready for harvest. The view of distant fields and snow-capped mountains was as impressive as one might expect at 3855 meters above sea level.

We walked and shopped and looked and then went to the banos. This was an expensive facility, priced at one Sole but it had toilets with seats, toilet paper, soap and even paper towels. Very clean and new. Worth every centavo. We crossed the parking lot and looked for a sign that would tell us where to find the bus down the hill to Cusco.

Chinchero part 2 – The Ever-changing Taxi

After our morning in Chinchero we walked out to the main road to get the bus back to Cusco but ended up in a taxi. After asking a uniformed (police? army? transportation?) officer where we would find the bus to Cusco. He brought us to taxis. No, we said, bus.

Rick pulled out a ticket stub and acted out a little this-ticket-got-us-here-on-the-bus-and-we-want-to-go-back-on-a-bus dance but a taxi driver said that he would take us for 3 soles per person, the bus rate. That was puzzling but we said okay.

We climbed into the back seat of a Toyota station wagon expecting a leisurely ride to somewhere in town. Immediately, a woman with a blanket-pack and a basket full of cardboard got in behind the seat with an elderly man and his pack. The uniformed guy slipped in the front seat and a teenager appeared from nowhere to sit next to Rick. Aha – this would be a shared taxi. That's why it was a bargain.

Not far down the hill, the lady got out and collected more cardboard from some people behind a fence. Her blanket pack and cardboard stash were put on top of the car with a thud that made us appreciate her strength. Another stop let the uniformed guy out and the next released the man from his cramped position behind us.

A ten year old boy jumped in the front seat at the next stop and, after he shut the door, his dog did a prance along side for a while. The teenager got out next but only to let a girl in the back seat while the small boy scooted over to let the teenager in the front with him and the driver. The taxi driver charged down the mountain with the car in neutral between stops, wind whistling through the windows.

At the next stop the boy left the front seat making room there for a smartly-dressed woman while the boy and a few little girls got in back. Reasonable expectations aside, there were six people behind the back seat by then. Should you wonder about it, there were no conversations directing these moves. Not one word.

A man and another woman were passed by to my relief and we coasted, at break neck speed past cows, sheep, pigs and other disappointed would-be passengers. The sun was hot, the air cold and the choreography of the ride fascinating.

We stopped for gas, not much, and the driver was given a glass of juice. Juiced and gassed, we pulled out into the road in front of a dump truck but it was going up hill and so we had plenty of time though I did watch with a bit of concern from my seat at the dump-tuck side of the taxi.

The teenager jumped out and there was a to-do over finding change for him. He had a 5 sole piece rather than the proper small change. The cardboard-toting woman wanted out next, a move that required shuffling children and scraping noises on the roof.

All of this time we had no idea where in Cusco the taxi would leave us but were thrilled with the ever changing passengers and didn't care. We rode along, sailing past buses for a number of kilometers listening to little girls giggle and talk behind us.

Eventually the taxi stopped at the bus station – the very place we had trouble finding that morning - and everyone piled out. Rick paid 6 soles and everyone else paid one. It costs more to keep the same seat for the whole ride, I guess.

The girls, dressed in gray pleated skirts and blue sweaters with yellow ribbons in their bouncy hair headed toward the school while we found our way to hot miso soup and soothing flute music at a Japanese restaurant. During lunch, I poured over my scribbled notes in order to preserve this memory.

Story Jar - Bamboo in China

Story Jar, a bi-weekly column published in the Patriot and Free Press, Cuba, NY

Published February 21, copyright 2007, Elaine Hardman

People say that bamboo is China. It weaves through the history and lives of the people as much as through the soil. Chinese, rich and poor, eat bamboo and so it becomes their muscle and blood. In China, food is about beauty as well as taste. Lacy, pale green, sprouts of bamboo give color, texture and flavor to dishes.

Bamboo leaves are wrapped around sticky rice, seasoned with fermented soy beans and steamed so that the rice takes the triangular shape of the folded packet. This food is sold everywhere – the back of a bicycle cart or on silver trays at a five star hotel.

In restaurants, a short bamboo log is used as a serving dish. A portion of the top is removed revealing rice, vegetables and meat, all staying warm inside the bamboo during a leisurely meal.

Bamboo grows as grass does, not as individual plants, but from a network of rhizomes. A grove of bamboo is really one large plant. In the spring, shoots come out of the ground in different diameters. A young root system will put out canes of small diameter but an established system can put out large canes. Some canes, or culms, grow nearly an inch an hour and can stretch sixty-five feet. Bamboo’s roots are its family and growth is its work. China’s families are linked the same way, extensively, endlessly.

Bamboo works constantly to extend its rhizomes. When one sees Chinese people, they are working. Workers move heavy loads in wheelbarrows, carts, baskets or on bikes and motorcycles. There are ever-vigilant taxi drivers scanning traffic to move quickly or scanning pedestrians for their next fare. Fruit vendors wash and peel between customers. Bus and truck drivers move through some city streets with nearly constant horn beeps, not in anger or frustration but as notice to slow-moving bicyclist who might be virtually covered under a load of boxes, depending on what they hear to guide them safely through the streaming traffic.

In the country, I watched a team of men put a tunnel through a mountain with shovels, picks and baskets. This is the way that Chinese workers of centuries ago dug a lake for of the Emperor’s Summer Palace and lugged the soil to create towering hills around it.

Buildings are torn down by hand and concrete is moved bucket by bucket. Bricks are carried in baskets, one at each end of a bamboo stick. Workers balance the stick on a shoulder and walk with a loping gait to match the bouncing baskets.

After a moment of rest and food, a sip of tea or water, the work begins again and goes on from early morning until night. In the cities, construction crews work under lights and through all weather. Construction workers live in the buildings being created. Sometimes, home is a mat on the floor, a clean shirt on a hook and a pair of sandals at the door.

Young bamboo culms wear a slight, fuzzy, green coat. The fuzz easily rubs off of the soft, new culm which turns from green to brown with time. The greens and browns of the culm and the lacy leaves give hills a distinctive and elegant texture. This makes me think of the clothing of the workers. Even those who have hot, dirty, messy jobs, dress nicely. Construction workers have black dress pants and clean shirts. Often, a row of suit jackets hangs near the work site. Women factory workers wear wet, flowered, cloths on their heads to keep the dust off.

Bamboo inspires art and poetry. Ceramic pieces are adorned with bamboo. In Jingdezhen, the porcelain city, white bowls have blue bamboo designs. In Yixing, the famous purple clay teapots have bamboo shaped handles or raised bamboo leaves on the side. Chinese painters use bamboo-handled brushes to paint scenes of bamboo or pagodas or the many animals of China on tiles or rice paper.

Bamboo is flexible and China takes that lesson well. Sleek, new trains glide past rice paddies where water buffalo pull wooden plows. An Internet café in Jingdezhen is hidden behind an alley full of fruit and noodle vendors.

Bamboo blooms once every seven to one-hundred-twenty years depending on the species. After flowering, bamboo dies or at least shrinks and rests for a time, a shadow of its former strength. The culture of China has bloomed and hidden going from times of binding the feet and minds of women to allowing women to grow, live and study freely.

The main lesson in bamboo is that developed roots and good soil allow the plants to grow straight, strong and beautiful. China’s roots are in the architecture, art and customs of thousands of years and its challenge is to grow an economy to move its people out of poverty and into security while retaining enough of the past to keep the beauty and mystery that makes China unique.

This trip gave me, in the words of some who study porcelain, a door open on a view of mountains.

Story Jar - One Night in Bangkok

Story Jar - a biweekly column in the Patriot and Free Press, Cuba, NY
copyright 2007, Elaine Hardman

One night in Bangkok

We are now in a hotel in Bangkok. We hadn’t planned to visit Bangkok outside the airport. We left Cambodia this morning at 7 and flew to Bangkok. We found our bags and checked them on a domestic flight to Sukhothai. Then, boarding passes in hand, we spent 4 hours wandering this gorgeous new airport. Eventually we went to our departure gate. Lots of other people were there so we figured that was good but then our boarding approached and our flight wasn’t called and that was bad.
We had passed through security and our boarding passes said we belonged where we were so the guards wouldn’t let us out and that was bad. There were no Bangkok Air people in the area and that was also bad but finally the boarding time passed and a security guard understood that something was amiss so she took us out and that was good.
We discovered that the boarding gate had been changed so we rushed to the new gate but our plane had taken off without us and that was bad. The airlines found our bags and that was very good and they booked us on a flight scheduled for the next morning and that was also good and they offered us an inexpensive hotel room so we said, “Well, that’s good.”
The taxi driver, however, neither knew where the hotel was or how to find it or how to ask. You might think that the dispatcher on his radio could help. We thought so. She couldn’t. All that was bad.
He took us to a hotel and thought we should be happy but it was a $$$$$ fancy-pants hotel and we were wearing pants suitable for climbing over temple ruins. That is to say, it was not our kind of hotel so that was bad. But, the people there spoke English and Thai and knew where the target hotel was and talked with the driver so we thought that was good but he still didn’t find it and that was bad again.
He asked directions three or four times more and drove 80 minutes for a 20 minute ride and then we found it. Good. We didn’t pay him all that was charged on the meter but he accepted our offer and that was also good.
We put our things in the hotel and called the guest house in Sukothai and the owners said that the new airport opened just one month ago and was a constant mess. We shouldn’t worry. Our rooms would be held for us and that was excellent.
We went out of the hotel and there was a grocery store right there. Great – well, almost great. We found many things that we could not identify. Soy milk looked familiar but there was a note on the box - cow milk protein added for enrichment. I often take soy milk while traveling because it’s a great snack but milk protein is worse than bad for me so the English warning was very good.
We found food for our 5 a.m. breakfast. Rick would have sweet cashews - tasting of coconut milk, an apple, yogurt and peanuts. I would skip the yogurt and substitute a carrot and we could share a chocolate chip cookie and water. When we get to the airport we will hold tight to our departure passes and will check the board 95 times.
It was dark and late so we went in search of dinner. We went to a mall food court thinking that it would be easier than trying to find a food stall in the streets where, if the Taxi driver could get lost, we’d be in trouble. Our good idea went bad when we found that, as with the grocery store, nearly all the signs were in Thai.
We found one stall with a sign in beautiful English letters and ordered. With a mixture of Thai and demonstrations we were instructed to buy a coupon to pay for our food. The mall, the hotel and we were considerably away from the tourist areas of Bangkok and therefore without Western conventions or language. We managed to buy the appropriate coupon, get the food, eat and find our way back to the hotel. Small tasks become large accomplishments sometimes. Amazingly, I have no photos of this place. How unlike me.
Now it is really late. Jet lag is keeping me up but Rick is sleeping. Good for him. Outside the hotel, the city bristles with noise from people, trucks, cars and something constantly bangs all seeming as awake as I am but probably not wondering as much about how things will go tomorrow.

Story Jar - Wooden Spoons

Story Jar - a bi-weekly column published in the Patriot and Free Press, Cuba, NY
copyright 2007 Elaine Hardman

Wooden Spoons

There was, in the French Quarter of New Orleans, an odd little store full of wooden toys and clocks. From the ceiling hung sculptures - dolls nested in junk - though that description cannot begin to give the picture of the fantasy and frolic within their creation. This store, The Idea Factory, also offered hand-carved wooden spoons and, of all the fancy in the store, these plains appealed to me most.

I wanted to buy one of those spoons, a cherry piece with curving handle and gentle bowl. Cherry is a wonderful rosy brown color. It has the feel of silk and a tight grain that resists moisture.

Rick said that he had a short of cherry at home that would become a spoon if I needed one. Need? Now there’s word of varied definition.

I have a small collection of spoons in one of my favorite pots. Though the pot holds many spoons and only one spurtle, I call the pot a “Spurtle Jar.”

My spurtle was found in a small shop in London, not nearly as curious as The Idea Factory. Both tool and name are Scottish. The spurtle is designed to stir porridge. Made of a white wood and holding a smooth finish after a decade of oatmeal service, my spurtle is a caricature of a tall, skinny, armless person with a round head and funnel hat.

Spurtle. What a great word. I bought every spurtle there and sprinkled them on my friends at home with liberal repetition of the word. Spurtle.

Towering above the spurtle is a sadza spoon from Zimbabwe. When we were in Zimbabwe it was a friendly country able to supply its people with sadza, corn porridge. Building-sized piles of sacks of corn were throughout the country. Their situation of plenty left these piles unguarded by fence or weapon because everyone was able to buy grain and stir huge pots of sadza with such a spoon. Shona people ate sadza as a warm cereal, cooled it and fed it to the village dogs or chilled it, so that as a congealed slab, the slices could be fried in a pan with spices.

This spoon is a paddle with no hollow bowl. The wood has become dark like the soil of the country and rough like the political climate that eliminated knowledgable farmers.

Huddling under the sadza spoon are common spoons, factory made, utilitarian pieces with no personality. I use them sometimes, when it seems not to matter but I really like the old spoons. These have come from antique shops or rummage sales, sometimes from the “free” boxes. They are heavier, smoother and darker than the new stuff.

I like to think that farmers made them while resting their bodies but using their hands. They were made for work in the kitchen so, while they might have a rounded bulge in the handle or a notch at the end for a string, the shoulders of the bowls are unfinished. They are strong spoons, a bit out of symmetry and darkened by years of soup and sauce.

There is one that is unwisely short. Stirring much of anything puts the hand in reach of the steam and popping bubbles but this spoon reminds me of my Aunt Genevieve, born December 1, 1912. Aunt Jay was fifty-two inches tall, a powerhouse of energy and a no-need-to-measure kind of cook. She would have had a spoon like this with a stout little handle that swells just at the center. She would have used it for stirring, tasting and pointing while she talked.

The bowl of this spoon is nicked in two places. It has been stirred flat on one edge, worn by age and discarded by its last owner. I like using it and the other old, damaged spoons with all their history and character.

Need or not, Rick made a new cherry spoon for me and hid it away until Christmas Eve to slip it into my stocking on the mantle. I hope to stir it flat on one side over the next many years so that someday a caring hand will admire its shape and ponder its creation.

An introduction to a few spoons from left to right: The cherry spoon Rick made, the bamboo spoon from SanBao in China, a rice spoon from Peru, a rummage sale spoon, a Peruvian spoon, the spurtle, a coconut shell spoon from Thailand, a coconut spoon from Malaysia, the newest spoon from Budapest. Photo at the beginning is of The Idea Factory, then there's a photo of some favorite spoons on the mantle in some favorite pottery and finally you can see the jumble of wooden tools in a market in Cusco, Peru.

Story Jar - Doll with the Yellow Dress

The Story Jar- a bi-weekly column published in the Patriot and Free Press
Copyright 2006 Elaine Hardman

The Doll with the Yellow Dress

When I was young, I had two special dolls. The first was made of rubber, soft and smooth. The doll had a hole in its mouth and could drink from its bottle. On the other end a second hole allowed it to wet diapers. This was fairly high-tech for dolls in 1950.
The doll could easily be dressed because her one purple plaid dress was large. Getting the dress on was easy - keeping the dress on was the problem. It needed to be tied around the middle with an old shoelace for security. From my point of view, the doll and her dress were perfect.
My Aunt Jay saw the doll differently, noticing what the doll didn’t have. The doll had no hair and the dress didn’t fit, and Aunt Jay said, the real problem was that the doll had only one arm. The lack of an arm was, I supposed, why that doll ended up in a trashcan enabling its rescue and subsequent home with me. How could that be bad?
The Christmas that I turned six, Aunt Jay decided that she would solve my doll problem. She came to the house with a large, wrapped box. Inside the box was a doll so beautiful that I couldn’t even see other people in the room once I opened the package. The doll had curly, dark brown hair, a yellow hat and dress with blue ribbons and underpants with lace! There were shoes and socks and the smell of new cloth and rubber. It was an absolutely new doll!
This doll could also drink and wet and, listen to this, when she was placed on her back, her eyes closed and when she was picked up she said, “Mama.” It was too much to believe.
My mother scolded Aunt Jay for giving me such a doll saying that I would mess up her hair, rip the dress and lose the socks and shoes (all true) but Aunt Jay said that she had no daughters to give dolls to and my mother should, quite simply, “Shut up.”
Shocked at such words, but smiling, I knew that was a command and the doll would stay with me.
It was wrong to keep it since there were no gifts to give my cousins. Still, every second that I looked at it, my little hands tightened their grip. It was just too much to believe that I had still-in-the-box, never-used-by-another-child doll, just for me. Barefoot with hair awry and full of memories of Aunt Jay, that doll is in our cedar chest with its one-armed sister and the coonskin “Davy Crocket” hat Rick's mom made for him.

Story Jar - Ox Cart and Rice Noodles

The Story Jar - a biweekly column in the Patriot and Free Press, Cuba, New York

- Copyright Elaine Hardman 2006

Ox Cart and Rice Noodles

On our last day in Cambodia in 2006 we took a van to two outlying temples. Our group included Ari and Kate (law grads who were volunteering at the war crimes commission while waiting to hear if they’d passed the bar in New York), Dave (our Guest House manager), Elaine and Rick, and Melania (a Bulgarian from Belgium).

Mr. Chhang was our guide but Dave generally took over saying where the light was prime for photos and which was the best path through the ruins. Dave has lived in Siem Reap for two years and they both reckoned he’d been at the ruins more times than Chhang. It was hard to tell who to follow during the tour but on the way back, Chhang said that we might stop anywhere for photos. I felt a little shy about asking everyone to stop for me but I really wanted a photo of one of the ox carts used in that area so I asked.

Chhang passed the request to the driver who insisted that the animals wouldn’t be at work in the late afternoon so we would find none. No problem to me. I would be happy to photograph an empty ox cart parked along the road. Chhang seemed to think that silly but he spotted one and directed the driver to stop.

My intention was to leap out, snap a photo, jump back in and allow the trip to resume with barely a flutter but Chhang followed me and while I stood at the cart he started talking to the family across the ditch. Then Ari, Dave and Melania came for a photo of the cart so that pretty well emptied the van. When Chhang called everyone to walk across the bridge to join him, the driver climbed out of the van to look at all of us with displeasure.

At first Mr. Chhang thought that the family was making rice wine and he was excited to show us the process. He saw the rice wine still, or whatever one might call it, in a shed at the side but he learned that it was too soon to make rice wine. Instead, it was time for making rice noodles, a process that Chhang had never seen himself and his excitement was infectious. He shouted for us to join him to see the people work the ancient way.

Ari beat me over the bridge but not by much. On the other side, a woman squatted gracefully in the dusty grass near a basket of brown rice and a small wok balanced on three bricks over a fire. A tiny girl sometimes watched the rice toast in the wok where small kernels would jump and fly open like miniature pop corn. The woman in her red hat constantly stirred the bouncing kernels with a long twig.

When the rice cooled a bit it went into a pestle, a nearly-hollow chunk of tree about 2 feet tall and 14 inches across.

One woman beat the rice with a pole taller than she wasy and about as big around as one hand could reach. The business end of a pole was rounded and as she thumped the rice - to flake it- Chhang said, she sometimes used her other hand to scrape the sides of the log with a long, flat, wooden stick.

A second woman stood on the other side pounding with the same sort of pole but holding it in two hands and keeping time with her colleague. Sometimes the pounding poles sent flakes or grains of rice leaping over the side of the log and I wished they would collect them. After all, much work had gone into possessing the rice. But there were ducks and chickens all about so the rice was not wasted.

Off to the left was a hut – pigs on one side and cooking projects on the other separated by a half wall and a work table that doubled as bench.

Inside, a huge metal pot full of milky water boiled, nested in a clay dome with a fire underneath and two long poles above. The pot held 40-50 gallons of water and poured steam into the already humid air.

Since we had interrupted their work, the fire died back a bit so they pushed long sticks of firewood further under the pot and stirred both fire and water back to life.

The water, already used for boiling noodles, had lumpy foam on the top and this was skimmed away with a long handled, plastic cooking pot.

The rice flakes were mixed with water to make a thick white paste. This was packed tightly into a cylinder a bout 8 inches tall and 4 inches wide with an open top and a pierced bottom.

Two polls on the top of the cooking pot were part of a noodle press and this cylinder fitted into it. Chhang took the cylinder of paste to the press and got it positioned under the plunger and said he’d like to press the lever to push the paste into strands of noodles. The ladies laughed and pushed him aside. They were right. Chhang would never have done it.

One woman climbed up to sit on the poll, her skirt hiked up to keep it from the water and her bottom exposed to ferocious steam. Then another woman climbed on the pole beside her. Noodles began to come out slowly when a third woman put her weight on the end of the poll and pulled it down.

It seemed difficult and dangerous work. As the women perched on that narrow pole the strands grew and entered the water. One of the two oldest women reached across to stir the noodles to keep them separated as they cooked. When the plunger reached the bottom of the cylinder, she used that long stick to scrape the bottom of the cylinder cutting the noodles free.

After ten minutes, she scooped them from the pot with a garden basket and took them to a plastic bucket and then a wooden bucket to wash them. The noodles were dumped into a metal pot on the table top next to the oldest of all the women where she pulled out clumps of them, wound them around her fingers and laid the rings in neat rows in a shallow basket where they would dry.

I took short videos and photos of all the processes and showed them to the women who would look, turn away laughing and look again and again. It had to seem strange, this chasm between our tools. Mine the digital camera; theirs the wooden implements and fire. I’m sure they’d seen videos on TV. Most villages have a communal TV sets that are plugged into car batteries but these videos were of them so maybe that was too much.

Before we left I wanted to give the people money for their time but Dave thought that would be insulting to them - a sort of begging. He said he’d rather give them photos of themselves. Photos are important to Dave - more valuable to him than money is but Dave can buy and eat whatever he wants without working for hours in the sun to set stores for future meals.

Here were 8 women slaving to make a few pots of noodles. They didn’t ask us to interrupt them or draw us into their area. We asked them. I tried to make their case to Dave though it was clear he didn’t like the idea of giving people money. I pushed a little but intended to leave some of my dollars behind whether he approved or not. He reluctantly contributed a few pieces of local currency and Chhang passed it on with our appreciation. The men took the money and the women bowed as we took our photos back to the van and its impatient driver.