To get to
our next house, after leaving the hostel, Pavlos and I took the metro to the
end of the line and tried to find the bus.
Unsure really of the bus allotment system, we went to a café in the
bottom story of the station. Pavlos
bought a pastry and a drink and told me to ask her where “Chvaly” was. I did just that. Using the little Czech I knew, I ordered a
coffee and asked her which bus went to Chvaly.
“I am not the information,” she told me back. “Upstairs is the information.”
“But do you know?”
“I am not the information!” she said. She handed me my coffee and nodded her head, signaling the finality of the conversation and our contact with each other.
“What did she say?” Pavlos asked.
“She said the information desk is upstairs,” I replied. I put the sugar and cream into my coffee and stirred it with a knife I picked up out of the silverware tray. They were lacking in spoons and I wasn’t sure what they expected me to stir my coffee with.
“Ask her if she knows where bus #225 is.”
“She’s not going to tell us, Pavlos,” I said.
“Just ask her.”
“It’s really no good. Even if she did know, she wouldn’t tell us. She’s not the information desk,” I shrugged. When we stepped back out into the cold Prague day, we saw the bus coming up one lane over. We quickly hurried over the bars and jumped onto the platform to catch the bus.
We met our hostess, Martina, at her house. She was friendly and told us some advice about where to go; that we should see Karlstejn Castle and how to get to the ossuary (see previous post to read about those places). Her house was simple in décor, with many picture montages of different places she had been, like Southeast Asia, Turkey or Australia. She told us that maybe we had enough time to see Karlstejn Castle that day. We jumped back on the metro and went to see the castle, coming back in just enough time to take her to a nearby café for dinner. We walked outside, around a wall and into a large yard, with a tree trunk and a large pit for bonfires. The tree trunk had been carved so that each branch looked like the foot of a different animal.
“It got so cold,” Martina said. It was cold. We were all dressed in heavy coats or layers, scarves and hats and had our hands stuffed into our pockets. But the sky was clear and the stars were out.
“It was still warm because it was cloudy,” I said. “The clouds acts like a blanket, trapping in any of the old heat and when the clouds blow away, the heat lifts off. And now it’s clear and cold.”
“That’s wrong,” Pavlos said. “It has to do with the high pressure system. A high pressure system moves in and the pressure makes the heat and it makes the clouds.”
“That can –“
“No, you’re wrong. I’m telling you how it works and you’re wrong.”
Martina ordered a crepe, Pavlos ordered dumplings, which seemed to be his favorite meal, and I ordered a gallete. Pavlos had wanted to order a crepe or galette too, but all of them were with cheese. He was allergic to dairy products himself, finding that he swelled up and got pimples if he ate it. “Now when I have a little bit of cheese,” he told us, “I just feel all this mucous around my mouth and throat. That’s what cheese does for you. Seriously, just stop eating cheese for a month and then eat it again and you’ll feel all the mucous.”
“I don’t think I’ll stop,” Kristina said, “I like cheese.”
“Yeah, why would we stop for a month and start just to feel mucous?” I asked.
“I’m being serious, that’s what cheese does. You’re sniffing your nose right now, right? That’s because of dairy products.”
“That’s because I have a cold,” I said.
“It’s because the amount of mucous created by the cheese, plus the amount of mucous created by your cold, adds up and makes your nose stuffy,” Pavlos explained. “When you’re sick, you shouldn’t have any dairy products.”
“Sure,” I said, taking a sip of my dark beer.
“What kind of beer is that?” he asked.
“It’s a dark beer. You want to try some?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’d like a taste.”
“Just be careful not to catch my milk allergies,” I said, handing him the glass and laughing.
“I’m the one allergic to milk.”
“Right. My point was – nevermind.”
We continued to eat. The galette I ordered was something right near delicious. It was covered in mucous forming cheese, spinach and mushrooms, spread about a crepe like someone had thought the crepe were a pizza. My mouth salivated with every bite. “What is this thing called again?”
“A galette,” Pavlos said.
“Tell me about your guys’ time in Jordan,” Martina said.
We talked about how we met on the border of Israel and Jordan, along with my Peace Corps friend Edith. We had sat there, outside a liquor store and the passport control, how we discovered that we were all planning on staying in a cave in the desert near Petra. We spent a week altogether, exploring the deserts of Jordan, until finally Pavlos left and was replaced by a German guy named Nils, whom I had visited back in Hamburg.
Next, Pavlos talked about his time in Israel. “I stayed with this Greek Orthodox monk in Nablus,” he told us. “This monk lived in this shrine there that was built around Jacob’s Well, a site holy to both Jews and Christians. He had wanted to rebuild a shrine there, so he need to raise money. Arafat wanted to give money to his cause, but he didn’t want to allow Arafat to use it politically, so he refused the money. He went around the Mediterranean to raise money for the project. He got enough and then worked on the place with his own hands.
“The Greek Orthodox had possessed the area for about a thousand years. They had built one shrine after another on it. There was a monk murdered there, and during his murder the shrine was damaged, which is why this monk I had met had decided to work on repairing it. In 1979, some Jewish Orthodox guys had come in to the shrine, threatening the then caretaker to leave. They told him that if he didn’t leave and let the Jews take the site, then they would kill him. He refused to leave. The Jewish guys came back, axes and grenades in hand, and chopped his feet, hands and penis off before finally ending his life and chopping his head off. Then they threw the grenades into the shrine, blowing up the ikons, the pictures of Christ, Mary and the Saints. The police caught the Jewish guys and put them on trial, but they got off on a plea of insanity, not even serving a year in jail.
“This new guy took over and decided to rebuild it. The Jewish guys came to him and made the same threats. He ignored him. The guys came back, again with axes. The monk fought back this time, with the long staff of a candelabrum. He managed to break one guys arm and another’s leg and finally a guard had come in to chase them off. The police only caught one guy who was again released on insanity.”
“That’s terrible,” Martina said.
“Yeah, it is,” Pavlos said. “But that place is so peaceful and so nice now. I’d really like to go back and spend more time in Nablus. When I was there, I couldn’t just help myself to go to the souk and just buy one thing after another and eat and eat and eat. Everything was so fresh and delicious.”
Our meals were finished after Pavlos’s story. We finished our beers and left, back into the cold night, to get back to Martina’s apartment.
“I am not the information,” she told me back. “Upstairs is the information.”
“But do you know?”
“I am not the information!” she said. She handed me my coffee and nodded her head, signaling the finality of the conversation and our contact with each other.
“What did she say?” Pavlos asked.
“She said the information desk is upstairs,” I replied. I put the sugar and cream into my coffee and stirred it with a knife I picked up out of the silverware tray. They were lacking in spoons and I wasn’t sure what they expected me to stir my coffee with.
“Ask her if she knows where bus #225 is.”
“She’s not going to tell us, Pavlos,” I said.
“Just ask her.”
“It’s really no good. Even if she did know, she wouldn’t tell us. She’s not the information desk,” I shrugged. When we stepped back out into the cold Prague day, we saw the bus coming up one lane over. We quickly hurried over the bars and jumped onto the platform to catch the bus.
We met our hostess, Martina, at her house. She was friendly and told us some advice about where to go; that we should see Karlstejn Castle and how to get to the ossuary (see previous post to read about those places). Her house was simple in décor, with many picture montages of different places she had been, like Southeast Asia, Turkey or Australia. She told us that maybe we had enough time to see Karlstejn Castle that day. We jumped back on the metro and went to see the castle, coming back in just enough time to take her to a nearby café for dinner. We walked outside, around a wall and into a large yard, with a tree trunk and a large pit for bonfires. The tree trunk had been carved so that each branch looked like the foot of a different animal.
“It got so cold,” Martina said. It was cold. We were all dressed in heavy coats or layers, scarves and hats and had our hands stuffed into our pockets. But the sky was clear and the stars were out.
“It was still warm because it was cloudy,” I said. “The clouds acts like a blanket, trapping in any of the old heat and when the clouds blow away, the heat lifts off. And now it’s clear and cold.”
“That’s wrong,” Pavlos said. “It has to do with the high pressure system. A high pressure system moves in and the pressure makes the heat and it makes the clouds.”
“That can –“
“No, you’re wrong. I’m telling you how it works and you’re wrong.”
Martina ordered a crepe, Pavlos ordered dumplings, which seemed to be his favorite meal, and I ordered a gallete. Pavlos had wanted to order a crepe or galette too, but all of them were with cheese. He was allergic to dairy products himself, finding that he swelled up and got pimples if he ate it. “Now when I have a little bit of cheese,” he told us, “I just feel all this mucous around my mouth and throat. That’s what cheese does for you. Seriously, just stop eating cheese for a month and then eat it again and you’ll feel all the mucous.”
“I don’t think I’ll stop,” Kristina said, “I like cheese.”
“Yeah, why would we stop for a month and start just to feel mucous?” I asked.
“I’m being serious, that’s what cheese does. You’re sniffing your nose right now, right? That’s because of dairy products.”
“That’s because I have a cold,” I said.
“It’s because the amount of mucous created by the cheese, plus the amount of mucous created by your cold, adds up and makes your nose stuffy,” Pavlos explained. “When you’re sick, you shouldn’t have any dairy products.”
“Sure,” I said, taking a sip of my dark beer.
“What kind of beer is that?” he asked.
“It’s a dark beer. You want to try some?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’d like a taste.”
“Just be careful not to catch my milk allergies,” I said, handing him the glass and laughing.
“I’m the one allergic to milk.”
“Right. My point was – nevermind.”
We continued to eat. The galette I ordered was something right near delicious. It was covered in mucous forming cheese, spinach and mushrooms, spread about a crepe like someone had thought the crepe were a pizza. My mouth salivated with every bite. “What is this thing called again?”
“A galette,” Pavlos said.
“Tell me about your guys’ time in Jordan,” Martina said.
We talked about how we met on the border of Israel and Jordan, along with my Peace Corps friend Edith. We had sat there, outside a liquor store and the passport control, how we discovered that we were all planning on staying in a cave in the desert near Petra. We spent a week altogether, exploring the deserts of Jordan, until finally Pavlos left and was replaced by a German guy named Nils, whom I had visited back in Hamburg.
Next, Pavlos talked about his time in Israel. “I stayed with this Greek Orthodox monk in Nablus,” he told us. “This monk lived in this shrine there that was built around Jacob’s Well, a site holy to both Jews and Christians. He had wanted to rebuild a shrine there, so he need to raise money. Arafat wanted to give money to his cause, but he didn’t want to allow Arafat to use it politically, so he refused the money. He went around the Mediterranean to raise money for the project. He got enough and then worked on the place with his own hands.
“The Greek Orthodox had possessed the area for about a thousand years. They had built one shrine after another on it. There was a monk murdered there, and during his murder the shrine was damaged, which is why this monk I had met had decided to work on repairing it. In 1979, some Jewish Orthodox guys had come in to the shrine, threatening the then caretaker to leave. They told him that if he didn’t leave and let the Jews take the site, then they would kill him. He refused to leave. The Jewish guys came back, axes and grenades in hand, and chopped his feet, hands and penis off before finally ending his life and chopping his head off. Then they threw the grenades into the shrine, blowing up the ikons, the pictures of Christ, Mary and the Saints. The police caught the Jewish guys and put them on trial, but they got off on a plea of insanity, not even serving a year in jail.
“This new guy took over and decided to rebuild it. The Jewish guys came to him and made the same threats. He ignored him. The guys came back, again with axes. The monk fought back this time, with the long staff of a candelabrum. He managed to break one guys arm and another’s leg and finally a guard had come in to chase them off. The police only caught one guy who was again released on insanity.”
“That’s terrible,” Martina said.
“Yeah, it is,” Pavlos said. “But that place is so peaceful and so nice now. I’d really like to go back and spend more time in Nablus. When I was there, I couldn’t just help myself to go to the souk and just buy one thing after another and eat and eat and eat. Everything was so fresh and delicious.”
Our meals were finished after Pavlos’s story. We finished our beers and left, back into the cold night, to get back to Martina’s apartment.
0 comments:
Post a Comment