Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he lives in the North Pole, but where exactly does he live? Many countries claim Santa as one of their own and nowhere is the dispute over where Santa hangs his stocking more apparent than among the Nordic nations with each country staking some special relationship with him. Over time, Nordic Santas have undergone a metamorphosis from guardians of agriculture to the benevolent little gift givers they are today. Due to their shared agricultural past and common beliefs in Norse mythology, what would morph into modern day Santa was once a gang of mythical gnome like figures who were thought to safeguard farms. Like some sort of elfin mafia, they demanded an annual payment for their protection in the form of a bowl of porridge left out on Christmas Eve. A missed payment might prompt an elfin relation resulting in havoc/shenanigans on the farm or even the revocation of protection for the upcoming year.

Although the first rendering of jolly old St. Nick was created during the 1930s for a coco-cola advertisement by Haddon Sundblom, a Swedish American Artist, Nordic nationals were slow to adopt this Americanized version of Santa. However, the American Santa has begun to appear on the Nordic Christmas circuit as of late and although similar in dress, he is trimmer than his more indulgent American cousin. Additionally, the Nordic Santa avoids a rap sheet of breaking and entering via chimneys, opting for a more direct route through the front door. He arrives via a sleigh, which at various times, has been powered by reindeers, huskies, and even a Yule Goat.

Finns are fanatical about Santa. They believe that Santa or as he’s known locally by his Finnish stage name, Joulupukki, lives with the Mrs. and his helpers, the joulutonttu, in the village of Rovaniemi in Northern Finland. The town of Rovaniemi has received a trademark from the European Union, United States, and Japan designating it as “The Official Hometown of Santa Cause®. His year round residence is conveniently located just a few miles from the airport where tourists from all over the world come to visit Joulupukki at his Arctic Circle headquarters.

Although Joulupukki makes his deliveries via a sleigh drawn by reindeer, his reindeer do not possess the gift of flight. This allows Joulupukki and his entourage to maintain the Christmas spirit by skipping the maddening TSA lines to make it home in time for après-Christmas R&R at a sauna, a popular local Christmas activity.

Danes concede that Julemanden, or as he’s known by his Danish alias, does not live in Denmark proper. He does, however, maintain a pied-à-terre in the Pixie Forest, which he uses when he attends the World Santa Claus Congress, an international conference of professional Santas. The Congress is the United Nations of the Christmas world as it is where official Christmas business, such as declaring Greenland to be Santa’s official residence, is conducted. The event is by invitation only and all members must pass muster on the naught and nice list to gain admission. The Finnish Santa knows this all too well as he once was placed on the naughty list after he declared he would only attend if the Congress acknowledged that he was the one true Santa.

The Swedes claim that Jultomte, Santa’s Swedish nom de plume, lives in Mora, a small town in Northern Sweden where Tomteland, a modest sized Santa theme park is located. Compared to their neighbors, Swedes are the least obsessed with whether Jultomte glides through customs and immigration with the use of a Swedish passport. The Swedes may be less besotted about Santa’s domicile since he shares the spotlight with Donald Duck when Walk Disney’s special “from All of Us to All of You” is televised. This Christmas Eve broadcast brings the country to a standstill as families gather around the television to watch this classic.

As Finland embarks on its quest for world domination, Danes and Greenlanders concur that Julemanden lives in a secret castle on top of a mountain in Greenland where he and his elves make presents with his magic toy machine while debating whether to wish recipients Merry Christmas in Danish, Glædelig Jul, or Juullimi Ukiortaassamilu Pilluarit in Greenlandic. Instead of employing a team of reindeer like his doppelgangers do, he relies upon 12 Greenlandic huskies, each one named after a different month of the year, to pull his sleigh.

Greenland processes approximately 50,000 letters to Santa a year. All letters are delivered to Santa’s giant, red mailbox, which has the distinction of being the world’s largest mailbox. However, even Santa isn’t recession proof in these parts. Like a scene out of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, he recently faced the prospect of being unable to keep up with his Christmas correspondence, as he could not afford the return postage. Luckily, Christmas was saved when a few of his helpers spotted Santa the postage.

Santa Claus, also known as Julenissen in Norway, took up residency in Drøbak, Norway’s Christmas capitol, located 20 miles South of Oslo. His house, known as the Christmas House, is located in the town square, and is open to visitors. Norwegians believe that Julenissen and the Nissen work in tandem to deliver gifts. After Christmas, Julenissen sleeps for weeks to regain his strength. In between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve, when Santa is in deep hibernation mode, children dress incognito as little nissers and go door to door in their neighborhood and sing Christmas carols to receive treats, much the same way American children go trick or treating on Halloween.

Iceland dominates the Santa contest, if for no other reason than because of their sheer numbers. Icelanders lay claim to thirteen Santa Clauses, or Jólasveinar, each of whom is named after their favorite activity or food with such names as Ladle Licker, Door Slammer, and Candle Beggar. The Jólasveinar are believed to be the sons of two trolls, Grýla and Leppaludi, both of whom have been part of Icelandic lore since the 13th century, even making an appearance in the Icelandic sagas. The Jólasveinar were once seen as frightening creatures and were used to elicit good behavior from children by garnering a reputation for eating naughty children. This gnomatic clan instilled such fear in the local populace that in 1746, the King of Denmark, then ruler of Iceland, banned his subjects from recounting their tales.

Over the years, the Jólasveinar have transformed from a nightmarish cartel of trolls into more charitable creatures. Today they arrive one by one each day starting the morning of December 12 until Christmas Day. The Jólasveinar will leave small gifts in the shoes of well-behaved children who place their shoes in their windowsills, while the naughty ones receive a potato.

Although countries that hug the Arctic Circle may have the most meritorious claims to Santa, his lineage is unimportant as he transcends nationalities and borders. What is important is the spirit of generosity and hope in those who dare to still believe.

Waves Crashing along the Malecón at Sunset.

At first glance Cuba seems like the aging starlet in Sunset Boulevard who proclaims to visitors, “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” Although the spotlight has faded, Cuba’s energetic spirit and timeless beauty still beguiles visitors. It’s easy to imagine what Cuba was like in her glitzy heyday, when Havana was the Paris of the Caribbean and the jet setting Hollywood elite, mobsters, and would be presidents frolicked on white sandy beaches and enjoyed Vegas style shows at the Tropicana.

Today, Cuba is a country full of contradictions. It is a country where the world’s most coveted cigars, too expensive for domestic consumption, are stockpiled; where the Bay of Pigs is now a beach resort; and where Dezi Arnaz, is unknown inside his native land. Mostly though, it is a place where in spite of life’s daily struggles, its gregarious and loquacious residents maintain a jovial, fun-loving approach towards life. After all this is a place where the local philosophy can be summarized by the popular toast, “salud y dinero, que belleza sobra” (“to health and money, we already have enough beauty”).

Offering a high concentration of unique museums, art galleries, picturesque colonial Spanish squares, and a vibrant nightlife makes Havana’s charms impossible to resist. The famous Malecón, a 4 km long seawall that snakes along an ocean front boulevard, is the hub of social activity. This is where children play chicken with the waves threatening to cascade over the wall and friends meet to drink rum and watch the sunset. At night the Malecón frequently turns into a makeshift stage as musicians congregate and impromptu salsa dancing breaks out.

The horse drawn wagon taxis trotting along side vintage pre-revolutionary American cars evoke feelings of nostalgia. It seems as if there’s always a “yank tank” turning the corner announcing its arrival with a roar to remind all that Cuba is the only place on earth where time travel is possible. That so many of these mobile museums are still running, without the assistance of proper spare parts, is a testament to the creative spirit and ingenuity of Cubans as replacement parts are cobbled together from Soviet era cars or are fashioned out of ordinary household items.

The absence of drugs and weapons combined with harsh penalties for theft translate into an almost non-existent crime rate. With a remarkably subtle police presence and seemingly relaxed access to the Internet, it’s easy to think that basic freedoms exist. However, the government controls nearly every aspect of life requiring permission before a citizen can purchase a car, sell a home, or even relocate!

With the collapse of the Soviet empire, small cracks in Cuba’s brand of socialism have begun to appear. Since the 1990s, Cuba has been slowly experimenting with private enterprise by allowing Cubans to operate private restaurants out of their homes, known as paladars. Casa particulares, the Cuban equivalent of a B&B, also have emerged permitting owners to rent up to two rooms in their house to tourists. In a country where the government has a history of limiting interaction between Cubans and tourists, a Casa stay provides an opportunity for a more meaningful interaction with locals while also supporting a family instead of a state owned hotel.

Despite the emergence of small private market, there is no need for Don Draper and his fellow Mad Men of the 60s as no visible commercial activity exists. Instead slogans proclaiming revolutionary virtues such as “Patria or muerte,” “Hasta La Victoria Siempre,” “Tu ejemplo vive, tus ideas perdan,” and “Fidel, estamos contigo,” are plastered on highway billboards and town walls.

Life in Cuba is about simple pleasures that center largely on music, dance, and drink. Music is the lifeblood of Cuba. The melodious sounds of the native bolero, rumba, son, and salsa, spill out onto the cobblestone streets as musicians wearing guayaberas and straw hats reminiscent of the Buena Vista Social Club play for tips. Cuba’s lively music scene compliments the rum cocktail culture. It is here that the Cuba Libre, Daiquirí, and Mojito were born. No one is more associated with Cuba’s cocktail culture than Papa Hemingway who once called Cuba home. Some of his favored haunts, still in operation today, include La Bodeguita del Medio, the birthplace of the mojito, and El Floridita where it is rumored that he once consumed 16 daiquirís in one sitting, no doubt lifting his glass in true Cuban spirit offering wishes of “salud y dinero.”

For those who want to experience a taste of Cuba in New York, the ¡Si Cuba! arts and cultural festival will be going on in New York from March 31-June 16th. For more information visit http://sicuba.org/en

Lately, due to the evil marketing geniuses behind these sites, I decided to enroll in several types of dance classes because even though I was on a dance team in high school, somewhere along the way I started to dance like a white girl. You know that girl in the bar who only has one or two moves? Well, I’m her, nice to meet you! And for the record normally she only appears on the dance floor after a few cocktails. When I saw a deal for what I call “stripper school,” also known as pole dancing classes, at NY Pole (www.nypole.com), I didn’t hesitate to throw down the plastic.

In referring to his daughter, Chris Rock once said “my only job in life is to keep her off the pole. I mean, they don’t grade fathers but if your daughter’s a stripper, you (bleep) up.” While that may be true, after tonight I have a new found respect for strippers. Those girls have some wicked upper body strength and they definitely have battle scars by the time they “go public!” Speaking for myself I am bruised and battered from the routine and constantly found myself thinking “yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.” Next time I’m wearing hooker shoes (which appear to be available for purchase at the school). Note to self, buy the hooker shoes.

In the spirit of full disclosure I took one pole class before with friends. Ladies, you have not lived until you and your friends attempt to practice the art of seduction in front of each other. Until you abandon all inhibitions, the Yaya bond isn’t really complete. Acting like an absolute idiot, however, solidifies the bond. It’s the equivalent of becoming blood sisters.

I rolled solo this time around so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The class was filled with normal women looking to “work the pole.” Eavesdropping on the conversation, I learned that most attendees were mothers. There was even one pregnant woman there. At first I thought, oy veh is this what marriage life does to you? Are these women taking the class to add some spice? Or do we have an underground secret culture of wanna be strippers? As it turns out I was a de facto participant in a bachelorette party, a very shy bachelorette party that should’ve had a few pregame tequila shots. The ladies in my class were all scared of the poll, which meant more poll time for me to get jiggy with it. By the end of it I was rocking that pole (or so I thought anyway, which is all that mattered). I was twirling, I was spinning, I was climbing. Generally, I was having my own Flash Dance moment of empowerment. Although I’m not hanging upside down yet, give me a few more lessons and I will be. By the end of class I wanted a stage name and I wanted to tip myself.

The class provided a great workout! I’m adding stripper class to the exercise circuit. The class is so addictive that I nearly signed up for a membership on the spot, which includes a 20% discount for the pole-dancing virgins. I had to remind myself that I have instituted a moratorium on my credit card, which is on the verge of spontaneously combusting any moment, in part due to things like “stripper tuition.” Luckily, I have a few more prepaid classes remaining until I need to reenroll so I can continue to feed my female empowerment buzz for a little while longer while I think of my stage name!

The couple’s movements mesmerized me and for the next few minutes these anonymous dancers were the only two beings that existed for me. I was captivated by the graceful style exhibited by the female dancer. She gave the illusion of floating when she danced as she glided across the floor. Her feet rarely touched the ground when she would perform such moves as the “gancho,” a move in which she would hook her leg around her partner’s leg or a “boleo” where she would perform small quick back kicks as she sashayed from side to side. Her moves were often quick, yet elegant and poised. At other times, she would dance slowly and tantalizingly by performing such moves as sliding her foot down her partner’s body or arching her back as he dipped her.

Watching this couple, it was not hard to imagine a time when the tango was a forbidden dance. Although there is nothing vulgar about it, the Argentine Tango is danced in a close embrace or “abrazo.” It is for this reason when there is chemistry between partners, such as the couple I was watching, that I feel as though I am watching an immensely private moment between two lovers. The couple’s dance conveyed several emotions over the course of a few minutes allowing a voyeuristic glimpse into their relationship. Through their dance steps viewers could catch conflicting moments of flirtation, foreplay, seduction, resistance, passion, rejection and reconciliation. The emotions that we all have in human relationships were summed up in one simple, yet emotionally intricate and complicated dance.

It is said that tango is essentially walking with a partner to music, but such a description misses the essence of tango. To me, the tango is a dance where a couple makes love while fully clothed. It is the most passionate dance I have ever seen performed and it is a dance I knew then I had to learn. It is for this reason that I enrolled in Group Dance classes at “Dance with Me Soho.” I was hoping that I could relive my time in Buenos Aires and learn to dance like the porteña I saw dance so beautifully. Secretly, I was also hoping I would be paired up with an Antonio Banderas type, preferably the Antonio Banderas from “Take the Lead” since that version already knew how to dance the tango, but any iteration of Antonio would do.

When I arrived at the dance studio, I realized that not only would Antonio would not be in attendance, but I would be lucky to dance with a man at all. The ratio of men to women was disappointing as there were eleven women to three men in the class. I tried to overcome this chromosomal imbalance through imagination. When the instructor turned the music on, I transported myself back to Buenos Aires by imagining I was six thousand miles away at a milonga in Palermo Soho, a fashionable neighborhood of Buenos Aires. I imagined Carlos Gardel was signing one of his legendary tango songs, Por Una Cabeza, a song in which he compares his love for gambling on the ponies to his obsession for a particular lady. I pretended that I was the graceful, sensual porteña on Calle Caminito instead of the frustrated woman on Broome Street dancing with an equally frustrated woman where one of us would inevitably stop every so often to ask, “who is leading? Are you leading? Are you pretending to be the boy? Am I the boy? Who is the boy?” The gender confusion was exhausting! After awhile I felt like I was on a bad reality TV show that was experimenting with gender identity.

That night I would learn that at a milonga, a tango dance hall, couples dance counter-clockwise. This was a concept my classmates and I seemed to have had problems grasping as there were several collisions. As someone who would have rallied against banning the tango in its heyday, I would fully support the City of New York outlawing my class ever dancing the tango en masse. What we, as a collective, did to such a graceful dance, should be illegal. While there is a thriving milonga scene in New York City, which I hope to visit one day, I will only do so after I have engaged a private dance instructor to learn the tango. Although I have three more classes left, I have banned myself from taking group tango lessons. For the next three weeks, this gringa can be found dancing salsa in Soho.

I went to an SD event when I first moved to the city after the encouragement of a friend who dated several people from these events. It was only after I attended an event that she confessed that she frequently encountered non-native speakers, which sounds great at first because who doesn’t love a foreign accent and a well-travelled man. What she neglected to tell me was that some of the guys were still in ESL classes and to overcome the language barrier she had to engage in pantomime. Although I had an ESL guy at my event, who didn’t understand the rules of SD and ended our “date” by asking me “we go out again, yes, no?,” he was the most normal of them all. Highlights of my first SD event included a guy who reminded me of Screech from Saved by the Bell, whose first words out of his mouth was “I’m not going to ask you what you do or where you’re from, those will be questions 2 and 3, but if you had to own one, which one would you own, cat or dog and why?” Sweet mother of Allah, aidez-moi! Another guy hid his name tag and made me guess his first name. Seriously guy? We have 5 minutes to talk and you’re making me play “My name is.” The night was salvaged though when I became friends with the girl seated next to me. She has become one of my closest friends and it never gets old telling people that I picked her up at a SD event when we’re asked how we met.

So, it was with memories of Messrs. Screech and Guess My Name in mind that I arrived to the event. My skepticism was evident as my friend remarked, “the look of cynicism on your face right now is priceless.” I apologized and vowed to look like I was happy to be there. Here’s the review:

First up was the “Professional.” It started off with the Professional asking me if I had ever gone to a SD event before and I admitted that I had on one occasion. He then spent the next few minutes giving me his review of all the events he has attended. According to him the events held at the Trump World Bar are the best. He also kept trying to weasel it out of me which company’s SD event I had attended despite my protests that I didn’t remember. The Professional was the best looking out of the lot, but on boring side and I can’t help but wonder if he’s attended so many events then shouldn’t he have met someone by now?

Next up was the “Boob Starer,” who told me I looked like a “sexy robot.” Que? Sexy Robot? Is that a compliment? After two minutes, I have never had such an overwhelming compulsion to snap my fingers to break his trance and say “eyes up here buddy, EYES UP HERE!”). I compared notes with my friends and we all noticed that he was a little too into everyone’s “girls” as we all experienced the same lack of eye contact to boob ratio.

Then I met My Cousin Vinny, who was pushing 50. However, My Cousin Vinny was not the oldest gentleman of the group. That honor was reserved for a man we called Grandpa. Now you might think I’m being mean, but one of the guys gave him the nickname (and here I thought girls were catty). Grandpa was somewhere in his late 60s/early 70s and had children that were our age. Remember the age range was 33-44 not 33 + 44! Hello where is the SD bouncer when you need him? We agreed that if a woman showed up who was so clearly out of the dating age range of the group they wouldn’t let her attend. I thought to myself, I just speed dated a 70 year old, I feel dirty. Although I held my own with him, it was an uncomfortable round and we all intended to write a note to the organizers about the fact that he was in our group.

There were two nice guys, but I found myself wondering what friends I knew to set up with them….not a good sign for a romantic connection. My last date ended with the crowd’s favorite. I felt more of a friend connection with him than a Chuck Woolery Love Connection. Hopefully, one of my girls got matched up with “crowd’s favorite.” Because there weren’t 8 people there, we get to attend another event for free. I may go to another one to try to end on a high note and to prove my theory wrong. I’ll have to take a Chuck Woolery “two and two” break and get back to you.

Then I thought, “why would I have to make a turkey? I have a wedding to go to.” Wedding? What wedding?

Despite my initial sleepy ramblings to myself, I was up and at em. This year, the role of the grumpy early morning riser was played by my understudy, none other than my very own mother. I was in an oddly chipper mood as I tried to rally the troops by bribing them with a trip to Dunkin Donuts. It was with pumpkin donuts and munchkins in hand that we headed crosstown to a little place I like to call tourist hell to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Did someone say Margaritas in the Morning, Followed by Bad Decisions in the Afternoon?

It wasn’t too long after Officer Friendly left the scene, that the parade started. I don’t watch the parade when I’m in the States. I once watched it in Quito while waiting for a flight back to the US later that day, but otherwise I boycott the TV version. The TV version does NOT do it justice. I am now a life long fan of the Macy’s Day Parade in the live version! It is now my secret mission to be in it next year.

Hello Bob!

The Original Snoop Dog!

Don't you just want to poke him?

View of from the Castle District

There are still some cultural things that we’re trying to get used to, however, since my Czech is limited to “Ahoy” (hello/goodbye), “dyekuyi” (thank you), “prosim” (please), and “pivo” (beer), I’ll over look Rule #3 of the trip, i.e., “just stand there and I’ll move around you.” Speaking of the Czech language, how can you not love a country whose greeting makes you sound like a pirate? Ahoy Prague!

Tram 22. End of the line folks!

St. Vitus Cathedral within the Castle compound.

Golden Lane

No. 22, Kafka's former studio.

The wine warmed us up and it was perfect for a cold day. It was here that we developed rule #4, which is “Don’t order more than one mulled wine unless you plan on getting bombed.” It was a bit cold that day and I could have definitely stayed and gotten bombed if it were not for the fact that we had limited sleep the night before and tickets to the opera.

Warm and toasty in a glass.

And now for a little culture. Estates Theater.

If I could only remember the name of this delicious elixir.

Our train from Krakow to Praha

We arrived in Prague at 7 a.m. from Krakow on the night train. The night train was an experience that I will not soon forget. I wanted to take it because I think that there’s something romantic about traveling by train, maybe it is because I am a throw back from another era and I was looking for Cary Grant on the Orient Express. The Orient Express it was not! Although I didn’t think it was that bad, Ahab, the nickname I’ve bestowed upon my travel mate for her map skills, described it as “super creepy.” In fairness she was also afraid we would get gassed and robbed on the overnight train as she had read one too many travel warnings that had morphed into the realms of urban legends. Perhaps, it wasn’t that bad for me because I drugged myself up with a Nyquil and melatonin cocktail so I was too tired to care. However, it didn’t help allay Ahab’s fears when our hot little porter told us to lock our doors because “there are thieves.” So, we triple locked our private sleeper compartment and debated on whether we should even venture out to the WC should the need arise, lest we get clobbered by some thief in the night.

Speaking of our sleeper car, when we first entered the beds were turned down, however, we weren’t ready to retire yet so we had hot porter put the go-go gadget seats up into the “lounge” position, which he happily did and then left.

Our glamorous private sleeper car.

Perhaps the most fun was when somewhere in the middle of the night and in the middle of who knows where Eastern Europe our train stopped for an hour or so due to an engine problem. We didn’t have heat, electric, or water. It was freezing! Ahab was afraid they would kick us off the train, but I just took more melatonin to go back to sleep. At that point I needed the drugs more than ever because with the lack of the engine to power the heating system and the soothing sounds of the train traveling on the tracks, I had a hard time drowning out the sound of the passenger snoring in the compartment next to us.

I think, I can, I think, I can….choo…choo. Thomas the train finally pulled into the main train station in Praha shortly before 7 a.m. We stepped out of the train station on our very short walk to our hotel and our first smell of Prague consisted of some guy smoking pot. Pot at 7 a.m on a Monday morning? Is that the Czech version of the breakfast of champions?

We only had to go about 600 meters to find our charming hotel, the Hotel Chopin. I highly recommend the Hotel Chopin. The staff was friendly, the rooms were clean with modern décor, and it was centrally located. I wouldn’t hesitate to stay there again should I one day find myself in Praha!

The museum at Auschwitz is free and it’s easy to explore on your own, but we hired a guide for 33 PLN (about $11). It’s a group tour where everyone gets a headset and the guide has a microphone and we’re able to hear the guide through the headphones. It’s a great way to give a tour, especially in a place as somber as Auschwitz. Our guide was fantastic. We first watched a very moving documentary on Auschwitz and Auschwitz Birkenau. I had to struggle not to cry during the movie as it was a wonderful demonstration of how brutal the Nazis were. Auschwitz is much smaller than Birkenau. Birkenau is roughly 438 acres whereas Auschwitz is much smaller. In fact, Birkenau was built because Auschwitz was too small to acheive the evil goals of the Nazis. Birkenau was the largest of all the Nazi extermination camps.

If I had only two words to sum up the camps it would be savage and inhumane. Although the Nazis destroyed the massive gas chambers and creamatoriums at Birkenau, the remains are still there to see how large they were. We also walked into a gas chamber and creamatorium in Auschwitz. It was unbelievable and overwhelming to think that we were standing on the exact spot where thousands and thousands met their death unexpectedly. I found that part the most difficult to tolerate as well as looking at pictures of children who had been the victim of experiments. I thought Birkenau was more moving than Auschwitz. It’s weird to say that because Auschwitz had several photographs and items from former prisoners there, but it had a museum like quality to it where everything was roped off and partitioned by glass cases, but at Birkenau visitors are able to roam the grounds freely and explore on their own. You walk along the train tracks that we’ve seen so many times in documentaries which were used to transport people to the camp.

It’s hard to talk about what the visit their meant to me. In fact, it was even difficult for Ahab and I to talk about it afterwards. We were silent for a good part of the car ride back to Krakow, each lost in our own thoughts about what we had witnessed. I was left with the feeling that it only takes a generation, a generation of brainwashing to change an entire culture. That’s a scary thought!

I’m convinced the Russians were friendlier right after the fall when I was there than the native Krakowians. Although beautiful architecturally, if Mr. Rogers wanted to be my neighbor, I’d have to tell the old man, nie! In my two days here, I’ve discerned two rules:

1) Golden Rule-speak only if spoken to. People avoid eye contact, smiling and even speaking. We noticed this when we were at the Cloth Hall, a beautiful building built for the cloth trade back in medival times, but now houses tacky tourist souvenirs. Vendors refused to acknowledge our presence. Is it better for a vendor to follow you around and stare at you as if you’re casing the joint or to act like you’re not there? At this point, I’m no longer sure.

2) “I don’t know” roughly translates into “I don’t want to deal with you.”

Aside from the cold fish, cold war mentality, we’ve had a great time. The city, Old Town in particular, is stunning. In our first 24 hours we accidentally got caught up in a pro-atheist rally. I tried to take a picture of a guy with a Yankees umbrella to show that they really are allied with the Enemy and part of the Evil Empire, but some godless heathen blocked my shot.

We saw the Wawel Castle where we tried to hunt for the Wawel dragon (these people are obsessed with the ancient lore of the dragon who allegedly lived in the castle). Shocker the dragon remained elusive. After our failed dragon hunting, we tried to find a pub to have a polish beer and some perogies, but they’ve strategically hidden their pubs down long alleyways and in basements. We settled on a cute pub in the cellar of a medival building and had some Tyskie beers and perogies for lunch. The beer was pretty tasty, but the bartender was not. It took me butchering “thank you” in Polish to get a smile out of him. After refueling we debated on taking a tour of the city in a golf cart (no joke), but we decided to walk off the beer. For dinner we went to Pod Aniotami (“Under the Angels”), according to Lonely Planet the restaurant, “occupies valuted cellars decorated with traditional folksy knicknacks and offers excellent typical Polish food in an attractive atmosphere.” It was a delicious and the restaurant looked very Sud de France and if it wasn’t for the wait staff we would’ve really loved this place, but with house wine at $3 a glass and two giant glass enclosed wood grilled ovens what’s not to love?

We later partook in the local liquor i.e., lots of flavored Wodka. I tried a 70 proof honey vodka. I’m pretty sure I actually drank honey flavored gasoline. Someone could’ve lit my dragon breathing breath on fire.

We tried to cap off the evening at the Irish Embassy, which is billed as one of the best bars in Krakow and the largest Irish Pub in Poland. We’re convinced it was the largest Irish gay bar as we were the only two women in the multi-level establishment. It was either because some important football game was on or because we found the only gay Irish theme bar in all of Poland. Knowing us, I’m banking on the latter. Either way there are a lot of good looking, tall men here, prompting us to wonder, who let the cougars off their leashes? We are cougars, hear us roar.