Myanmar (Burma): Our First Day

We have attempted to "catch up" the blog with the countries we have been to since we last wrote: Turkey, Israel, Jordan, India, Nepal, Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia, but unfortunately we have not yet done so because the iPad was stolen and we lost al of our progress. Thus, we will begin at our current location: Myanmar.

We arrived in Burma yesterday morning, after a three hour night sleep. We exited the plane into a small but modern airport that was quite crowded. We were greeted at the visa on arrival services by a woman with a sign with our names. After waiting in lengthy lines to get into the city, we left the airport. It was hot and musty. Our cab driver spoke English. After watching the documentary Burma VJ, we expected that any talk of politics would be taboo, but the movie was from 2007 and outdated. Chen, our driver, almost immediately launched into talk of the first free elections consumated one day before our arrival. The government loosened its restrictions on censorship of the media only in the past year, and numerous men roamed the roads selling papers with large color photos of Aung San Su Kyi, the recently liberated opposition leader whose party took 44 our of the 45 available seats in the previous day's election. The country is being liberated and we bought a paper as a keepsake.

It's truly interesting being in Yangoon. Everything about it is like a capital city, except for the government itself. It has an international airport, the largest population, etc, but no skyscrapers. This used to be the capital, but after numerous demonstrations and pro-democracy ambushes, the government built a new city strictly for government officials, that they dubbed "The City of Kings." (Naypyidaw) Yangoon is the first city we have visited in Southeast Asia without motorbikes, normally the preferred method of transportation. Motorbikes were outlawed in the city as a result of ambush attacks on government vehicles. Drivers would approach a vehicle, bash it with a pipe, and disappear into the crowd. Additionally, the student body of the university has been moved out of Yangon as they had a history of protests and dissent.

However, things are changing here in Yangoon. The liberalization of the media and free elections are two large steps forward in the social progress, and optimism is palpable. Walking through the streets, everyone greets us and many stop to talk to us. Our jaws hurt from smiling at everyone so much. We think our visit, and other westerners' visits, are a sign of the good change that is coming. In every shop, there is a picture of Aung San Su Kyi, and in our guest house there is a photo of her shaking hands with Hilary Clinton. She is the first Secretary of State to visit Burma in over 50 years.

Drinking tea on the street after dinner, we were approached by local students who spoke perfect English. One told us about his life: he grew up as an orphan and was separated from his sister for most of his life. Now as a college student, he returns to the orphanage to teach English on his holidays. He lives in a monastery and invited us to visit the head monk the following day. This monastery was closed during the 2007 protests (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2007_Burmese_anti-government_protests), known as the Saffron Revolution because of the monks' involvement. He was incarcerated at this time for 6 months for his role in the protests. The monastery was just reopened a few months ago. We are excited to go and visit tomorrow.

Cyprus- Completing the Impossible

We escaped the wrath of the Greek proletariat, fleeing to Cyprus to meet with a friend of mine, the fabulous Taylor Kanzler, who teaches there in an American international school. We arrived in the immaculately new airport and immediately felt a sense of relief after having just fled from the craziness in Athens.

In Greece, the locals made Cyprus out to be a bit of a war zone, warning us not to “go near the Turkish Cyprus border or you will shot or kidnapped or worse.” Upon our arrival at Taylor's apartment in the split Turkish Cyprus/Greek Cyprus capitol of Nicosia, we found this to be inordinately inaccurate. The Greek side of Nicosia was far and away the most cosmopolitan city we visited thus far into our trip. We spent the first few days jogging in the park in the morning, exploring the old beautiful streets and stores in the afternoon, then meeting with Taylor after work to dine on a gourmands dream of any type of food you wanted including tapas, sushi, steak…truly whatever your palate desired. It was so first world I felt for a bit like we were in America.

After the first few days of western pampering, we were ready to hit the road again. We borrowed Taylor's car (thanks Taylor!!) and headed to the south eastern corner of the island to a beach right on the border with Turkish Cyprus named Ayia Napa. Despite the warships patrolling the underwater border, the beach was rife with English, Russian, and other European tourists. It felt a bit like Cancun. It wasn’t really our scene, but we enjoyed relaxing on the beach and reading our books.



The next day we headed to Paphpos on the south western corner of the island to the mythical location of Aphrodite’s birth called Petra Tou Romiou (Rock of the Greek). The locale was stunning, breathtaking, and magnificent. We sat on a cliff looking down over a single rock spire protruding from a white pebble beach. The spire is said to be the place where Aphrodite was born.



Locals and tourists alike construct large hearts in white stones on the beach where the love goddess was born. On one section of the pebbles, a French tourist posed the question to his lover in these white stones “will you marry me?” We were left to speculate as to what her answer was but given the stunning, and romantic surroundings I can only imagine she said “oui.”



After our initial observations, we went on a nice jog on a hilly foot path through the surrounding cliffs. The parks service labeled the plants along the path by name and species. This is how we learned that the country Cyprus is named after a tree and not the late great rap group Cyprus Hill. Sufficiently heated at the end of our jog so we then went for a dip in the loving drink and watched the sunset over the Mediterranean.



The next day, we awoke at Taylor’s house and decided we would head to the entirely opposite side of the island, the northeast corner and the renowned Karpis Peninsula. This entailed crossing from Greek Cyprus into Turkish Cyprus, a feat which the Greek locals assured us was certain doom. It turned out to be the easiest border crossing we experienced. No line. No hassle. No problem, and also, no stamp in the passport—just a piece of paper. My dad always used to say “a wise man believes none of what he hears and only half of what he sees.” I can’t tell you how many times this seems to have been the case in our travels. After the ohh so easy border crossing, Nicosia loses its cosmopolitan feel. It is a bit more run down on the Turkish side but it is still a pleasant and functional city. All the signs switch from Turkish to Greek and you find yourself staring up at two of the largest Turkish flags I've ever seen etched into the side of the mountain. There is no subtle change. You certainly know which side you are on.

After finding our way to the highway using Turkish signs, we drove two hours into the east, away from the setting Cypriot sun, before arriving at the Karpis Peninsula. Because Turkey and Azerbaijan are the only two countries that recognize Turkish Cyprus’s Independence, foreign investors are incredibly leery of purchasing land or investing in infrastructure on this side of the island or even close associations with the no mans land (hence the no passport stamp). The local population is too small to make a huge economic contribution. The result is an almost completely undeveloped, pristine Mediterranean peninsula, the Karpis Peninsula.

A gentleman named Burhon grew up in Karpis as the son of some local shepherds. He began shepherding, as well, but also commuted to a nearby college to pursue a degree in accounting. After working the dual job of both sheperd and accountant, Burhon took on a third occupation. He purchased some land on a pristine beach on the Karpis Peninsula and aptly named the beach “Burhon’s Golden Beach.” He built some bungalows along Burhon's Golden Beach and became a shepard/accountant/hotelier. As the years grew on, Burhon realized how wonderful it was to be able to spend all his spring, summer, and fall months at the beach, and then travel in the winter. So, he dropped the sheperd/accountant gigs and became a full time hotelier.



We arrived to Burhon's small bungalow getaway to find him sipping some Cypriot wine. We asked how much it would be to pitch a tent on his land. He said there would be no charge. So there we were, camping for free on a beautiful secluded golden beach in a land that didn’t technically exist. The days at Burhon’s place were fantastic. We jogged in the morning, read on the beach during the day, and hung out with Burhon and his staff at night. One particular gentleman working for Burhon, Ali Kaba, became our good friend and, I hope, he is reading this blog post right now!! After only a few days at Burhon’s place, we felt so welcome that it was difficult to leave and we were already planning our next trip back.








Driving back to the Greek side of Cyprus, we reflected on just how different the two sides are. On the Greek side, because the area was a British commonwealth, signs are in Greek and English, nearly everyone speaks English, there are floods of English tourists, and the area is much more western. Turkish Cyprus was our first taste of Islamic hospitality. Our western readers might think I am making a slight; but, in truth, the majority of the most hospitable places we’ve been have been predominately Islamic.

After returning to Taylor’s place in the middle of the island for a night, we decided to head to what the Greek Cypriot Tourist Board touted as their untouched piece of nature—their answer to the Turkish Cypriot Karpis Peninsula—We headed towards the Northwestern point of the island, the Akamas Peninsula. The Akamas Peninsula was untouched by some standards, but, after Burhon’s place, I think we were a bit spoiled.



We camped on the Akamas for free amidst a field of goats and camper vans (some of which had been abandoned long ago and some of which were falling to pieces yet still housed locals). It was kind of like a camper van hospice & graveyard/goat pasture.



There are many wild donkeys--our car in the morning after camping

We went on two excellent day hikes along the brook where Aphrodite & Adonis mythicaly first made whoopie.






It was gorgeous and serene; but, after Burhon's place, it was a scosch too mainstream for our liking. We decided to head back to Burhon’s as soon as possible.

The following day, a Friday, the wonderful Ms. Taylor Kanzler, was off from school and we all went to Burhon's together. After 2 more perfect day’s at Burhon’s Golden Beach, we flew from the Turkish Cypriot airport, Ercan.



Before arriving in Cyprus, we were assured by Greek mainlanders that flying into Larnaca (on the Greek side) and out of Ercan (on the Turkish side) would be impossible. That night we flew from Ercan to Istanbul where my family was scheduled to arrive and meet us the next day. I guess we completed the impossible.

Montenegro, Albania and Greece

Montenegro

The border crossing by bus from Croatia into Montenegro was quite easy. This was surprising because so recently the countries had been in a bitter war with each other. We took a taxi that night to an eerily dark, abandoned campground on a beautiful, long sandy beach. Remnants of cigarettes littered the ashtrays on the patio, but even though we had called ahead and been assured someone would be there to greet us, nary a soul was in sight. The taxi dropped us off and left, unconcerned with our well-being. A line of flags stood on the beach, some in good condition: Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia; some in bad condition and ripped to the point of tatters: United States, Germany, Spain.







We explored the grounds for signs of life. While walking around the back of the dark, empty building, we saw a parked car. Ferocious barking erupted. I could scarcely make it out but in the shadows of the night was a large, dark guard dog. I ran a few steps, my fear taking over, before my mind caught up and I realized that my action had been stupid. Meanwhile, Jon wisely picked up some stones. I copied him, and slowly we backed away. I could still see the dog tracking our movement, my adrenaline pumped furiously on these deserted grounds, with no phone, no connection to the outside world, and a ravenous dog tracking our steps. We walked on until we jumped onto an elevated garden, giving us a height advantage. At that moment we heard a whistle and the dog retreated. My body visibly relaxed and even Jon let out a sigh of relief.

It was a cold, windy night, and our food supply was scarce at best: four hard boiled eggs, two slices of cheese, seven grapes, one old banana, and a dollop of nutella. There were no toilets, but we were lucky enough to find running water. After setting up our tent, we watched Schindler’s List on the ipad, providing closure to our earlier travels through Poland, and fell asleep

In the morning, we took a short walk along the empty beach, encountering an old, skinny, naked man in a decrepit shack. It was quite odd, like the rest of the campground, and so we hefted our packs onto our backs and headed out along the dirt road the mile back to the main road.



We stopped to ask directions, and one of the good Samaritans providing instruction offered Jon euros—we took this as sign that we were in desperate need of showers and laundry. Declining the euros, we set off in the direction of the bus station, more than ten miles away. We were back to hitchhiking, and I for one did not want to have to walk the whole way back with a fifty pound pack on my back. The roads were eerily empty, every store closed permanently for the season and barely a driver out. After hoofing it for around fifteen minutes, a car stopped. I thought we were saved! Yet the car was full of men; where would we fit, and where would we put our bags?

The driver asked us if we had stayed at Tropicana. As that was the campground we believed we were at, I said “yes.” His response: “you owe me 10 euros each.” Our jaws must have dropped. $26 for no toilets, no food, and no facilities whatsoever? No way! An argument ensued. He insisted there was an attendant there and that the toilets were available. I assured him that this was not the case, therefore we must not have been at his campground. He turned red in the face, while the other four men in the car remained calm. Finally, he sputtered at us: “You are not tourists. You are bastards!” And with that, he drove away. I was afraid he would return to hurt us, but luck was on our side. Less than two minutes later, two kind men, Jacob and Rocky, picked us up and drove us to the bus station, just in time to catch our bus to Albania.

Albania

After our short-lived yet exhilarating travels through the deserted yet hostile land of Montenegro, we boarded an early morning bus to the oh so mysterious land of Albania. The book I was reading talked extensively about how the people of an area are mirrors of the land they inhabit. This is so true of Albania. A land shrouded in mystery and content with its furtive culture and history, Albania’s culture is mirrored in its isolated topography. As far back as the ottoman rule, brigands and outlaws sought refuge in the rugged mountains of the country. When tax collectors from the Ottoman Empire arrived, whole villages disappeared into the mountains and awaited there approach. If the collectors were bold enough to continue pursuit, the villagers frequently ambushed and robbed them. The ottomans assumed the mantra “if you can’t beat them, join them” and made many of the most famous brigands pashas in their empirical rule. Any who, this culture was manifest in our brief yet illuminating encounters with the people.
While on the first bus to Tirana, we passed a café called café bushi, and some folks in the bus started applauding. When I inquired why, they informed me that this was the location where Bush visited when, during his second term, he came to Albania- the only Arab nation willing to host him. They love Bush and hate Obama. In all my travels over the past 10 years this is the only nation I’ve been to outside of the US where this seems to be the resounding sentiment.



Bus one continued on and dropped us on the side of the road. This is another interesting insider tidbit about Albania. Despite the reliance on busses by a goodly number of locals, there are no bus stations and no bus stops. Busses drop you off on the side of the road at seemingly nondescript locations. It’s like going to a club in NYC with no sign. Only instead of having to be in the know to rub elbows with the rich and famous, you have to be in the know just to catch the local bus. When we arrived in Tirana on the side of an nondescript road, the bus driver unloaded our bags and drove off without any sort of explanation as to where we were. We found a local travel agent nearby and inquired about bus tickets to Greece. We were planning to spend the night in Tirana but the travel agent informed us that because of the looming financial crisis and strikes in their southern neighbor nation, there was a good chance that the border would be closed tomorrow. We should’ve seen this as a warning sign but naively thought that Greece would be orderly….that is another chapter of the saga altogether though.
We purchased tickets for the bus that evening. Despite the relatively short 400 km trip, the travel time would be an estimated 18 hours because of the rough terrain in Albania. We had a bit of a wait before the bus left and decided to grind on some local eats. We picked up an entire delicious rotisserie chicken, two large beers, a loaf of bread, some greek yogurt, and a greek salad from a street cafe for about $5. Needless to say, the country was inexpensive.

Following our meal, we befriended a local drunk outside the TA who, after a bit of chat began to shed pearls of wisdom on us about our time in Albania. He informed us to “never carry more than 20 dollars in this country,” and, not realizing he was someone, also informed us “not to trust anyone.” As a token of our unending friendship of all of 30 minutes, he kindly insisted that I untie the cross bracelet from his wrist and tie it to mine. Although it made me uncomfortable I obliged. Our bus arrived at an nondescript corner on the side of the road and as quickly and simply as we’d entered Albania, we were off.

Greece

The 23 hour bus ride from Albania to Greece is one that we both look back on as one of the worst rides of our lives. Even though every passenger had a seat, unlike most other buses we have previously taken, the Albanian passengers were so incredibly loud that sleep was out of the question. Although the distance from Tirana to Athens is not so great, the mountainous terrain of Albania and its multitude of hairpin turns creates slow going, as did the passport control at the border. We waited for more than two and a half hours behind other buses to cross the border. Once we finally crossed, we thought hooray, we are off to Greece! But no, the bus made, what we thought would be, a quick pit stop. However, the obnoxious and loud men sitting behind us deemed this an appropriate time to order coffee and sandwiches and sit inside a fast food restaurant while the rest of the passengers waited. Jon was at his wits end at this point, as the bus honked at the casual passengers. It was useless. We all waited impatiently until they were properly satiated before heading off into Greece.

Surprise surprise, not one hour into our journey, one of the coffee guzzling men had to use the bathroom. The bus driver pulled over on the side of the road and the pink shirted man exited the bus. At this point, I wish I had averted my gaze. The man took no more than ten steps, remaining immediately adjacent to the side of the bus, and began his business. Literally, right outside my window! Why he did not have the decency to take a few more steps and go beyond sight of the bus is beyond me but speaks to his lewd behavior.

After the episode, as I like to call it, the bus continued on through Greece until we reached Athens. It dropped us off on the side of the road, per usual, in a neighborhood we later learned was one of the most dangerous of the city. Ignorant of the fact at this point, we positioned ourselves at a dirty coffee shop. Initially, we tried to book a ferry to one of the Greek islands, our intended destination, but were told that the boats were on strike for the day but should be back on schedule tomorrow. With that, we spent the next few hours on our computer and ipad searching for a hostel. I look back now and am grateful we were not robbed, or worse. We stayed at a hostel in the Syntagma neighborhood, near Syntagma Square, where the Parliament building stands. The hostel was also conveniently located near the Acropolis and Zeus’s Temple.



During any other week of the year, it would have been a gem location. We took a long nap and then wandered out to eat some gyros. On our way , we noticed a small protest outside the Parliament building. We did not realize it at the time but the protest foreshadowed what was to come.

The next morning, we set out to see the Acropolis. It is an amazing, ancient structure that towers on a hill above the rest of Athens, as zoning laws do not permit any buildings to be built as high or higher than it.






The ruins themselves are under constant restoration. Jon noted that the scaffolding he had seen when he visited the Acropolis with his family at the age of eight is exactly same today. This observation was our first clue to the working culture of Greece. For example, try to go to the bank at ten o’clock on a weekday and you have a 50% chance of it being open. We also visited the Agora, the archeological site of the commercial center of Athens in B.C. times. I particularly enjoyed the Agora because I was reading a book on the history of the Mediterranean that devoted pages to the pottery from 2,000 to 1,000 bc.



That evening, on the advice of our interesting hostel employee Stratos, we visited a man named George at a travel agency to see about booking some ferries to the Greek islands. George was a stereotypical Greek salesman, a smooth talker who brushed over questions he did not want to answer and wooed us with Greek coffee, a thick sweet substance that sticks to the back of your throat, and soothing words that everything would work out. He proposed a relaxing, 17 day trip that would have had us take a ferry from the islands of Santorini to Paxos to Naxos to Lesvos, where we could then take a boat over to Turkey where we would be meeting Jon’s parents. He assured us that the boats would be running the following day, but when we returned at eight pm to pick up our tickets, the ferries had declared another strike. Fine, we thought, it is worth the wait. We did not yet understand the magnitude of the protests or the undirected anger of the Greek populous that would alter the rest of our stay.

We awoke in the morning to learn that all public transportation, taxis, museums, shops and restaurants were on strike. This predicament left us with little to do in a city overflowing with garbage, (the garbage men had already been on strike for quite some time as the streets demonstrated).



We eventually decided to rent a car, the only manner in which to escape the city and its all-consuming strike. After a lot of haggling with salesmen over prices, we accepted a deal and headed out onto the crazy streets of Athens to the Temple of Poseidon. Jon drove like a pro through the narrow, winding roads of the capital where the motorcyclists appear not be held to the same traffic laws as the rest of us. But it was well worth it, because two hours later we had arrived at a beautiful, tranquil beach looking up at the Temple of Poseidon. We ate grilled octopus and watched the sun set over the ocean.





That night we returned to the hostel to discover that protests had raged all day. As we drove around the city looking for a parking spot, we inadvertently drove directly through Sintago Square where a fresh wave of tear gas wafted through our open windows, causing our eyes to water, noses to run and sneezing galore. Jon found our quickest way out, passing many police who had no time to give us directions as they attempted to keep the peace. Eventually we parked in a lot to avoid the craziness in the streets.

The following morning we drove to Delphi, the famous oracle, who leaders from around the Mediterranean had sought out for thousands of years. The drive took us up and down mountains offering breathtaking views.



Of course, the oracle of Delphi was closed due to the strikes. It was curious to see, however, that all of the employees had still come to work. They holed themselves up inside the museum, socializing and drinking while we stood outside, helpless after the long drive. Fortunately, one employee had opened his section of Delphi, the gymnasium where the precursors to the Olympics were held. We meandered through this section, eating lunch on a rock under the sun in front of the beautiful ruins of the Temple of Athena.






This experience allowed us a glimpse of Greece’s financial problems. A man and a woman sat in chair by the temple, ensuring that no one littered near it. A noble job, but probably more suited to a trashcan. Instead, the museum had hired not just one but two employees to protect the ground from litter. More than a bit excessive, we thought.

Upon our arrival back to Athens, the protests raged on uncontrollably. After what seemed like an eternity sitting in traffic, we neared the main street. However, we realized we could not reach the car rental shop to return our car because it had been blocked off by the protesters. While Jon illegally idled the car on a side street, I went by foot to the company and led a salesman back to the car.

Happy to have rid ourselves of the car, we resumed our journey by foot back to our hostel. The main street was in chaos. Fires dotted the road, including a large bonfire in a dumpster. Almost as soon as we turned onto the street, a hoard of protestors wearing gas masks, goggles and/or white paint, which we later learned was liquid Maalox, an antacid to mitigate the effects of tear gas, came running at us, clearly away from something or someone. With no clue as to what was going on, we turned and ran as well, falling into step with the crowd until it was clear there was no imminent danger. Jon took out the camera to photograph the chaos until one man, wearing an old soviet gas mask, sauntered over, a bat in his hand, and said in a deep voice, “no pictures.” Jon complied apologetically. The man, realizing that we meant no harm, clarified in a kinder voice, “just no photos of faces.” A bit on edge, we continued to walk in the direction of our hostel as well as the large bonfire, into which people were throwing anything they could get their hands on, including government property such as park benches. Other young men and women were taking sledge hammers to the stairs of government buildings, and we later learned that the IRS building, just blocks from our hostel, was burned to the ground that day.



Shielding from tear gas



We stopped for a bit to observe the riots. There was little to no organization, and one nice Greek teenager stopped to attempt to explain the madness to us. He said that some of the protesters were truly trying to make a point, that the government must address the economic needs of the people, including higher wages and lower taxes. Others, he said, were merely anarchists taking advantage of a politically volatile situation to create pandemonium. He told us that he and many others believed the most violent protestors were policeman in plain clothes disguised in order to stir up trouble and detract from the weight of the peaceful protestors’ message. In fact, the locals primarily thought that government officials themselves burned down the IRS building to destroy the records of their dastardly accounting. We just shook our heads and thanked him for his help. For a country that is billions of dollars in debt and in fear of financial collapse, neither Jon nor I could understand how the mass destruction was helping their cause.

Jon had a very interesting conversation one evening with our hostel employee Stratros, regarding the economic situation. Stratros was complaining that a famous politician’s wife making millions of dollars was not paying her taxes. He argued the injustice of such inaction. Boldly, Jon asked, “do you pay your taxes?” “Of course not!” Stratos replied. Herein lies the terrible predicament of the Greek people, as we see it. They want to have their cake and it too. They do not want to work hard, they do not want to pay many taxes, and yet they want their wages increased and they do not want the retirement age to rise past its present age of 55.

That night, we had had enough. The tear gas was leaking into our hostel and everyone was exhibiting symptoms. We could not even leave to get dinner. After ordering delivery pizza, we forced ourselves to walk over to George’s place to get our money back and cancel our trip. We had spent five days in Athens waiting for the ferry—enough was enough. Unfortunately, we had already paid for the 17 day vacation (a stupid mistake: never pay for anything in advance!) and getting our money back was no easy task. When we arrived, there was a fire raging in the streets and one of George’s cronies leaned out the door with a garden hose, fruitlessly attempting to put it out. Jon and I pointed to the fire as evidence of why we were leaving Greece. George, however, kept reassuring us that it was “2 billion percent safe!” and kept offering us more Greek coffee. Between the two of us, we presented a strong case, trading back and forth the good cop/bad cop scenario. George reluctantly admitted that he spent the cash we had entrusted to him to pay for our ferries, despite the fact that we had no ferry tickets. George continued to refuse to give us our money, but we would not budge. The Greek islands trip had been a huge splurge for us and there was no way we were leaving Greece without that money. Finally, Jon began forewarning the other customers in the office, informing them of George’s bad business practices. At that point, George told us that if we came back in the morning he would have our money. And he did! Score for Jon and Amanda.

For our last night in Athens, we treated ourselves to a proper Greek dinner, complete with rounds of Ouzo, a Greek alcohol that tastes like licorice but is extremely strong. We chose a cute narrow street on a hill looking up at the Acropolis and made our way from taverna to taverna, drinking and nibbling. At each place, we would concoct a deal that left us quite satiated even before dinner. We finally settled on a place to eat, complete with live Greek music.



The music was wonderful, but what we enjoyed most was an old couple who took the stage. The man was old and couldn’t move well, but he stood in a bent over position toward his wife, clapping a strong rhythm while she slowly danced around him, showing an ankle here or a wrist there. It was subtle but seductive, and very sweet to watch the two of them still so in love. It was a lovely way to end a very interesting but tumultuous trip to an ancient land. We were happy to be on our way to Cyprus!

Croatia

It's unclear how we set our sights on Croatia but early into the process of planning our trip back in the States, Jon and I both decided on Croatia as a destination. We were a bit hesitant in traveling there due to the fairly recent Yugoslavia War of 1991-1995. When we mentioned Croatia as one of our destinations to inquirers, they all asked us, "Why would you go there? Is it safe??" The war is still on everyone's minds. The brutality and ethnic cleansing of the war led to the collapse of Yugoslavia and then to the creation of a series of sovereign countries: Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Slovenia. I can remember hearing about the war as a child and it was with these images in our minds that we entered the country.

Upon landing in Zagreb, our first activity was to book our train tickets to Split, a city further south on the Mediterranean coast. After our hallowing tour of the Holocaust, we were looking forward to some nice Mediterranean beaches to ease our souls.

After entering the city, however, we regretted buying those train tickets. Lesson #1: don't pay for things in advance, a mistake we would repeat again, and much worse, in Athens. It was not just any one thing to see in Zagreb, but rather a unique culture to soak in. Unlike the rest of Eastern Europe we had visited, where people listen to American music and try to dress like their western counterparts, the people of Zagreb had adopted their own style, somewhere between Western and funk and a lot Croatia. The people are extremely tall and very good looking.

Jon and I walked around doing a self-guided tour of the "things to see." Our favorite spot was known as the most colorful street in Zagreb, where we spent the rest of the evening drinking beers and eating kebabs. The street was devoid of cars and lined with funky cafes and restaurants. As night fell, we boarded the tram back to the train station and headed on our overnight to Split, seats only as our budget permitted.

Split was exactly the gorgeous, red-tiled roofs, Mediterranean coast that I had imagined. We stayed at a campsite on the water, choosing a tent site immediately adjacent to the beach. On our first day, while reading in our crazy creeks at the beach, we met an Irish couple around our age. We began our tradition of cooking dinners and exploring Croatia together for the next week.
The next day was quite eventful. First, I got stung by a bee while doing yoga on the docks in the water. I had achieved a meditative state with my legs crossed when, all of a sudden, I experienced a sharp and then throbbing pain in my hand. My hand began to swell, but my breathing was fine (I'm allergic) so we continued on with our plan of hiking to the top of the mountain we could see across the bay. For the rest of the week, Jon referred to my poor, swollen as my "meat patty," as it resembled a massive meat patty.

The hike began with a vague idea of how to approach the mountain but with little clue as to how to find our structure. We began hiking up through a town at the base of the mountain, and as pavement disappeared into a wide dirt road, that began to narrow into a steep hiking trail that mapped directly up the mountain until we were breathing so heavily that we had to stop and rest. An hour or two in, Mary and Sean decided to turn around. Jon and I continued alone, picking our way up the trail. Soon it evened out as it crossed across the mountain, depicting striking and impressive views of the Mediterranean. The landscape was dry vegetation, littered with pomegranate trees. After another hour or two of gradual uphill, we suddenly entered an ancient village in the midst of the mountain. Ruins half hidden under grass popped out of the land among lived-in houses and an old church lay at one end. We passed through the town and headed up a narrow and steep switch back, guided by large white crosses next to the path. The path led us to the top of the mountain and a small ancient church, where we ate a picnic lunch. From the church we continued across the ridge towards our structure, on the way passing an enormous cross, a large mountain goat that had definitely never encountered humans before, and a long rocky path before we made it in view of our structure. It was reaching late afternoon and I was worried about making it home before dark, but we pressed on, determined to reach our goal. The end was a steep bit over loose rocks, leading up to another ancient Christian structure. On the way home, we got lost, bushwhacked through spiky plants, viewed a poisonous snake, and witnessed a forest fire being combatted by small planes dropping ocean water. Passing through the old village midway down, Jon met a man who had fought in the war, and with reluctant pride showed him a bullet wound on his leg. Jon and I both agreed it was one of the best day hikes we had ever done.

We ate dinner a few nights at a restaurant near our campsite where we made friends with owner, Miro. One of our first nights, we stumbled upon restaurant with our Irish friends. We drank wine and ate delicious food late into the night. Around midnight, the restaurant was closing but we were still in the middle of a bottle of wine and in the throes of laughter. One of the owners approached us and told us he had to drive his cook home, but would we look after the restaurant while he was gone? Leaving us with a free bottle of wine, he took off, putting his trust in us. Upon his return, he sat down and drank with us. He was a very interesting character, and spoke frankly with us about the war and its repercussions. Most Croats are reluctant to talk about the war, but that night allowed us to bond with Miro and develop a repoirt with him that allowed him to open up to us over the next few days.

From Split we headed further down the coast to Dubrovnik, accompanying Mary and Sean in their camper. Along the way we drove briefly through Bosnia, where we received a thorough search. They discovered some dirt wrapped in a small plastic bag that Jon had taken from Wroclaw, his father's birth place. The bag closely resembled heroine and led them to believe that we were trafficking drugs. Of course we were not, but they proceeded to spend the next two hours ransacking the camper and our bags. The border patrol officers, at first suspicious, soon became kind and even joked around with us, in contrast to our later experience being searched in Israel. Finally, they let us go and we continued to Dubrovnik.

Dubrovnik, historically known as Ragusa, gained its significance as a port city in the late in the twelfth century. With its strategic trading location between the east and west, the city remained self-governing until Napoleon briefly conquered it. Dubrovnik was the most beautiful city I've ever been to.

After one night of camping in what I think was the most unattractive spot in Dubrovnik, we met a woman at the bus station who offered us a room in her aunt's house for the same price. After seeing the room, in a small red-roofed house on the mountain side looking out over the new port and harbor, we took it. Anilla was an elderly woman who made us cappuccino and spoke very little English. "No problem," she would always say and smile. One night, we brought home fresh fish from the fish market, along with produce to create a light, Mediterranean meal. The moment we stepped into the kitchen, however, she looked at the ingredients, confiscated them and began cooking it herself. "No problem," she said and smiled. I sat back and helped her to chop garlic and peel potatoes while she added ingredients to the stew. On the one hand, I felt frustrated at the idea of not being able to prepare my well thought out meal. I love to cook and had not had such a well-equipped kitchen or such fresh ingredients. On the other hand, it was pleasant and comforting to be taken care of.

For anyone who has not yet visited Croatia, and particularly Dubrovnik, I highly recommend it! It will be joining the EU in 2013, and tourism is sure to spike, so get there before everyone else does! Tune in for Montenegro and Albania!

Location:Croatia

Wroclaw to Praga

First off, sorry to any of you who have been awaiting a blog update for a couple of months give or take. We wanted to keep you all in suspense. Joke. Actually, I think after the weight of our travels in Poland, Amanda and I needed a bit of time to absorb our thoughts and actually get lost as the name of our blog implies. After finishing writing about Poland, we talked ad nauseum about how we could keep our writing coined to a theme. We decided to read extensively about the countries we were traveling through, all of which have been shaped by the atrocities of human on human violence, and to incorporate anecdotes or quotes from our readings into the blog. We read and wrote and wrote and read.

In hindsight, not only did we decide this was vastly beyond our ability and understanding, but we also viewed it as a mistaken interpretation of what this trip is about for us. I think we came here to get lost in other cultures and, in a significant way, use our experience to shed light on who we are. In short, we want to use this experience to learn about ourselves by learning about others. Our time in Poland, in no small part, was incredibly informative in this exercise. In following my family's journey to find peace and happiness, we found importance on aspects of life which make us proud and happy.

On to our next journey…following our time in Wroclaw, we decided to hitchhike the 6 hour trip from Wroclaw to Prague or Praga, Praha, as it is written in that neck of the woods. We made up some borscht on our camp stoves for the trip the night before and began what we hoped would be an expedient and economically prudent endeavor. We boarded the free (?) tram and rode to the outskirts of town where we posted up with a cardboard sign boasting our destination with our borscht, a dozen eggs, and about $5 at our disposal.






Having read about hitchhiking from Poland to Prague on the internet, we assumed it wouldn’t be too long before an upstanding individual picked us up and took us on our way. After all, we are a relatively attractive, young couple and presumably don’t appear threatening.






Two hours later we hadn’t moved an inch and the sun was beating down on us on the side of the road. Finally, a car stopped and told us he was going 45km down the road. This was only a tiny fraction of the nearly 600km we aimed to travel, but we figured every bit helps and hopped in. The gentleman was extraordinarily nice and 30 minutes later he dropped us in a small town 45km closer to our desired destination. We were happy to be on our way.

In a rural town in Poland, our bizarre appearance attracted the attention of locals and it wasn’t long before there were quite a few locals attempting to dispense advice. Unfortunately, none of the small mass spoke English and as we waited on the side of the road thumbing by passing cars, the small masses appeals continually grew louder. One gentlemen went so far as to grab onto Amanda and begin pushing her in the direction to the spot where he wanted us to stand in. Needless to say, we were relieved when moments later another good Samaritan stopped to pick us up. This fine gentleman drove us nearly 100km and we were hopeful we would make our destination before nightfall. The gent dropped us at the bus station in a town just short of the Polish-Czech Republic border. Amanda and I attempted to board a bus that would take us the rest of the way. Unfortunately, we immediately realized we were unable to pay as we only had $5 and the bus cost $8.

After making our way back to the main thoroughfare, a nice young woman and her mother stopped and offered to take us the rest of the way to the border. Upon seeing our large packs the two inquired in broken English “did you two fall from the sky?” At first we had no idea what the women were asking but quickly realized that, because of the enormity of the packs on our backs, they thought we were sky divers. We were not. The two dropped us at the border around 5pm just before sunset. Standing in no mans land between Poland and the Czech-Republic, the trickle of cars slowed as day gave way to evening. As evening turned to night, the flow all but stopped. We realized we were stuck somewhere that might as well have been nowhere. With no refuge in sight, we decided to pitch our tent behind a thicket of bushes in a nearby farmers field.






We cooked some eggs I'd been schlepping along for the journey on the side of the road and clandestinely set up our tent. It was a cold night and an eerie fog settled over the field. We were both uncomfortable staying on someone's private property without permission, but, alas, there was nary a soul to ask and nary a manger to seek shelter. After one of the more restless nights of sleep I can remember, interrupted by dreams of all sorts of atrocities that our would be discoverers would reap upon our trespassing selves, Amanda and I awoke at the crack of dawn. I think we both would’ve been in a cold sweat but it was about 10 degrees Fahrenheit so there was no sweat to be had. We decided to immediately get up and move the tent to the road before dismantling it and steal any time possible away from the aforementioned would be discoverers. No more than five minutes after we arrived at the road side, while we were dismantling our tent, our hearts raced as two Czech police officers approached. Had someone complained? Would we be thrown in a Czech Jail? No. They were simply setting up a speed trap and couldn’t have cared less about us.

At this point, we decided no one would pick us up on the side of the highway in front of police officers and opted to walk into a small village nearby to find public transport. As we walked, I held the sign behind me with my thumb out with no real belief that anyone would stop. Then, about 1km from the bus station, someone did.

He was an apple farmer in a minivan that was brimming with apples. We climbed into his car and, through pointing and speaking, exchanged names. The farmer spoke no English whatsoever and we communicated how grateful we were for the ride as best we could. The man, Paul, had about four teeth in his mouth yet astonishingly was able to polish down apples with reckless abandon. He offered us apples and they were delicious. The man listened to the static noise of the radio with intermittent musical interludes on full blasts. The cacophony was interrupted for what sounded like a news break. “Pryskeszjilku bobzer Momar Qadaffi pryskilili kryzylu.” The man turned up the radio and listened intently to the news break. In America, it seemed, that people changed the dial to a new pop song when the news came on. Here, this apple farmer from rural Czech Republic tuned in to the news of Momar Qadaffi like it was religion. It was astonishing and awesome. In vain, we longed to know what the news said.

Two hours later we were a mere 45km outside of Praga when Paul dropped us on the side of the road. Exhausted and waterless, we sat parched in the scorching sun on the shelterless, shadeless road for two hours watching countless cars whiz by before deciding this just wasn’t going to pan out. There were buildings on the horizon and we decided to trek to them with our packs down the side of the highway. After a couple mile walk, we were once again in a small town looking for a bus station, feeling like our hitch hiking hopes were hopeless. Once again I held the sign in tow as we walked and once again a nice gentleman picked us up when we thought all was hopeless. Waterless for the last 12hours, the man offered me a beer and I gratefully gulped it down while Amanda napped leaning against some rolled up rugs in the back seat. He drove us into the outskirts of Prague and we boarded a tram headed for the city center.


When we arrived in the center we were greeted by the famous one of a kind clock built by the Prussians. In order to be sure the clock remained one of a kind, the Prussian Kaiser had insisted the maker’s eyes be skewered out upon completion. This sort of hospitality is mildly indicative of how, in our experience, the Czechs treat outsiders.






We made our way to a tourist information center to find out about hostels only to find, they didn’t help with hostels only hotels. We would need to go to a different info center a decent walk away. We schlepped our bags there and the info people gave us a list of hostels and addresses without prices or amenities listed. When we asked the woman if she might be able to call for us, she said that this wasn’t part of her job description. After nearly 24 hours of hitchhiking and a sleepless night on the Polish Czech border this was not the type of warm welcome we had hoped for. After searching the streets for a couple of the hostels, we ended up overpaying (nearly $60 US for a dorm room) just to be able to put our bags down.

The city was beautiful and we walked around a bit as the sun set. We asked our hostel worker for an inexpensive place to nosh on some inexpensive local grinds. He didn’t respond at first so we asked again. Dumbfounded he looked at us for a second with frustration and then sent us down the street to a restaurant that was incredibly expensive. The prices were inversely correlated to the quality of the food. We were underwhelmed to say the least.

After dinner we walked around the old city and crossed over the oh so beautiful Charles bridge. We walked for a couple of hours and I dare say that I may never have and may never again see such a beautiful city. It was astounding. I think this is probably why the people are so unfriendly to tourists. They know that no matter how discourteous they are, people will keep on coming back in droves to witness the splendor of the city.
























When we got back to the hostel, we decided we were in a fairy tale land that was a bit to ill mannered and over priced for our tastes and bought plane tickets to Croatia leaving the following morning.

Lessons Learned from this leg of the journey:
• Always assume you will get stuck and have a back up plan of where to stay
• Always carry clean drinking water and refill when the opportunity arrises
• Hitch hiking, although seemingly cost efficient, can end up being more expensive because it is exhausting and can lead to poor decision making upon arrival

Katowice, Gliwice, Czestechowa and Wroclaw- Where The East Moves West and the West Moves East

After Krakow, we intended to go to Gliwice but found that camping was closed for the season. Apparently 55 degrees is too cold to sleep outside in Poland. We were, however, able to find a campground in Katowice, about three quarters of the way there. When we disembarked from the train in Katowice, we found ourselves in the town center, surrounded by banks, large new buildings and a new stadium. This city had been part of Eastern Germany and was destroyed during the war. After the war, the land was "gifted" to Poland and the city was rebuilt to appear as it had before. We went to the bus stop and showed the first bus driver the address of the campground we wanted to go to. He told us a bus number and a few minutes later we thought we were on our way. Unbeknownst to us, however, we had omitted a letter from the name of the street in the address. We ended up on the completely opposite end of town and had to ride the bus straight back to the train station. After walking for a bit, we found a camp store in the very western city. This was the first camp store we had found on our journeys. A nice gentleman from the store showed us to the bus we needed to be on a good distance away. We bought food at a grocery store and ate at the campground with the sun setting on a lake overlooking the town.







The next day, we boarded the train for Gliwice, a small town of important significance to my family. After finishing medical school and working in a prestigious position, my dziadiu's circumstances surrounding his occupation changed. Because of his faith, the communist party took away his job and my family was driven into poverty. He was forced to "place (my uncle and father) with (his) in-laws in Gliwice," while he and my babcia lived in a neighboring town.

We were told Gliwice would be "industrial and less beautiful" than Katowice by the man at the camp store. When we arrived, we found it to be much like Katowice- very western. Gliwice was also a German town destroyed in the war, gifted to Poland and rebuilt in an attempt to recreate its original facade. The result is a somewhat Epcot centerish trip into the past. There are Chase banks, along with many other western financial institutions, lining the main drag. We walked down the main street carrying our massive packs where nearly sixty years ago, my dad lived in an apartment with his dziadziu Leon Miszel.

Thanks to Amanda's sympathetic appeals, a local hotelier took pity on us and allowed us to drop off our bags while we searched the town. We found the hospital my great-grandfather worked in and found the middle school my father attended, but were unable to find the second home my father lived in with his grandfather because, post-Soviet collapse, the street names were changed and Plaz Wosnicki, or Peace Square, no longer exists. My dad still finds this street name highly ironic.





















In the evening, we boarded a train for Czestochowa, the town my dziadziu and babcia stumbled upon after the Warsaw Uprising. Following the Uprising, my dziadziu and babcia were put on a train that Amanda and I discovered was most likely bound for Auschwitz. They, however, had no idea that this was the destination. From my dziadziu's memoirs:

We were put on open cattle cars and the train was moving southward...at a speed of about fifteen miles per hour going to an unknown destination. I believed that we were taking an enormous risk by staying on this train and after sunset, I begged Halina to jump with me off the train. I tried to explain with her, that even if we sustained some injury, we would avoid being housed in the same camp together with many people and being recognized as Jews. Halina could not overwhelm her instinctive fear of jumping off from the moving train. This was a blessed fear because all of a sudden the train stopped. Now, without any delay, I forced her to climb over the railing with me and to jump down three yards into a ditch...We heard several rifle shots...we got out of the ditch and ran through the fields without knowing where we were or what we should do. We kept (going until)...we heard the barking of a dog and we noticed a peasant's hut. We knocked on the window and were allowed to enter...(The peasants) were hospitable, nice people. Obviously, they did not know we were Jewish. They let us sleep in the straw. The next morning...we learned we were in the village of Koniecpol, not far from Czestochowa...In the afternoon, when we were having a nap in the hayloft of the barn, we heard the German language which paralyzed us, but it turned out that these were just soldiers passing by and asking some harmless questions. We had very little choice but to move to Czestochowa and find some apartment there...(The next day) we boarded the train and within a few hours reached Czestochowa uneventfully.

My dziadziu was reunited with his mother in Czestochowa and lived clandestinely with my babcia and her until the end of the war.

When we arrived in Czestochowa, we stopped in a beer garden just outside the station to have a drink and orient ourselves. The establishment was playing great music, which was a relief from the top ten billboard chart BS they seem to play everywhere else. The owner of the establishment took notice of us, and in broken English, started trying to convince us to go to his "nightclub." His pitch wreaked of desperation. It seemed one akin to a Greek restaurant caller, as we later learned. We respectfully declined but after a few beers, Amanda needed a restroom and he offered his facilities. This time we accepted. When we arrived, he unlocked the door to the completely unpopulated nightclub and we realized our interpretation of his pitch was woefully inaccurate. This man was an artist. He had recorded music with jazz greats including Miles Davis and Buddy Guy. He wasn't trying to sell us anything, he just wanted us to see his pride and joy "nightclub," which was regrettably in financial despair. His vision was for his club to serve as a cultural beacon for the city, hosting poetry slams, music and dance clinics and gallery walks. It was a gorgeous space and one that Amanda and I truly believe would have thrived in a more western metropolis such as Paris, London, New York City or Chicago. Unfortunately, this man was in Czestochowa where the locals crave westernization and long for the U.S. Billboard top ten. He was tragically ahead of his time and told us he'd be closing shop in a few months. He gifted us a CD he had composed with some jazz greats, and pointed us towards our campground behind the famous Jasna Gora monastery and provided us with his websites for more information.

www.tamtammusic.pl

The next morning, we toured the monastery complete with ornate golden statutes, an oration booth overlooking a massive field where John Paul II had lead multiple masses, a bell tower presiding over the entire city, and a renowned black Virgin Mary who had once upon a time delivered the Poles from Swedish invasion.































It was gorgeous, but as a common theme of our trip, mildly off putting to see people so immensely absorbed by religion. All across the acres-wide campus, there were people singing in various languages- Latin, Spanish, Polish, etc- praises of Jesus. They led communion everyday. One family we encountered had travelled across Europe with their son in a wheelchair, encumbered by serious birth defects, to place him in front of the black Virgin Mary and pray for healing. Amanda and I had an interesting conversation about faith, healing and the power of hope. We discussed means versus ends, and whether the origin of hope can justify the ends even if it is misplaced and the faith can contribute to the segregation of peoples who all have the same basic wants and needs to the point where they can hate and even kill each other. We came to no conclusions, but would love to hear your opinions on this matter.







The papal cannon in C(zestochowa)

The conversation was especially fitting. As we left the monastery, we walked down the main street of Czestochowa. Sixty seven years ago, my dziadziu and babcia walked down this street when the Russians "liberated" Poland. I recalled my Dziadziu's memiors,

On January 6, 1945, my mother brought the news. "People are saying that the Russians broke the front and are moving towards Czestochowa."...On the fourteenth, Russian reconnaissance units were noted in Czestochowa and the Germans were fleeing. On the sixteenth, Czestochowa was already filled with Russian tanks...the mood of the Polish population was rather sober. Most people wanted to be liberated by the Polish Home Army or otherwise by the Western Allies and were less than happy to see the Soviet liberators. I vividly remember walking toward downtown on January 16. I encountered an elderly Polish lady. She told me that the Russians were in, and added in the same breath in an unhappy voice, "and the Jews are already roaming the city."

It really makes me wonder why we emphasize these so called differences when nearly every religion preaches the same beliefs of love and tolerance. How these words are perverted into endorsements of violence and hate is something I will never understand. We passed back through the square in front of the train station and back by our friend's depressed attempt at a cultural revolution. We boarded a train for Wroclaw, the city of my dad and uncle's birth, and our last stop on our tour of Poland and my familial heritage.

Following the war, after treaties were in place, Eastern Poland became Western Ukraine and Eastern Germany became Western Poland. Cities like L'vov and Drogobych, so integral to my family's past, were no longer part of their homeland. The ruling powers enacted a translocation of people, and Poles living in now Ukrainian L'vov, were transferred to now Polish Wroclaw (formerly German Breslau) and the surrounding area. The medical school in L'vov followed this translocation as well, and my dziadziu and babcia, after a mandatory but brief stop in Lublin to enlist as doctors with the communist government, went to Wroclaw to finish their medical training. From my dziadziu's memoirs: "What occurred under the auspices of the Soviet Union was a gigantic well-organized 'ethnic cleansing' that admittedly did not involve any extreme brutalities and did not cause many casualties. Still this was a monstrous translocation of about ten million people. Whatever estate Halina and I would have inherited from our parents and relatives was lost in the east behind the present border of Poland...With the millions of people repatriated from the eastern part of former Poland, also came Halina's parents. They settled in Gliwice."

In Wroclaw, under the peaceful guise of communism, my dziadziu and babcia experienced some wonderful life changes: my dad and then my uncle martin were born, my dziadziu and babcia finished medical school, and my dziadziu found employment and mentorship under the internationally renowned biologist Ludwig Hirszfeld. My dziadziu "came to be very close to Hirszfeld, he became like a second father to (him) and he treated (him) as if (he) were his own son." This was followed by some terrifying historical repetitions: the communist regime supported certain elements of religious and scientific dogma and after Hirszfeld passed away, my dziadziu had no protection and was chased out of his post.

We set out to find my dad's birth home, the apartment he lived in with my family during grades 1-5 before moving to Gliwice, his elementary school, and my dziadziu and babcia's medical school and professional academies. First we found my dad's birth home. I can't for a moment explain why that I felt so happy at the site I nearly cried. It was here on Henryka Sienkiewicza Street that sixty five years, ten months and six days ago little Henry Milgrom came to be. From my dziadziu's memoirs:

Since the hospitals were still in quite inadequate condition, we decided to have the delivery at home...labor started the night of December 15 and continued through all the morning and afternoon of December 16. Around 4:00 pm, the electricity went off which was not a rare occurrence in Wroclaw at that time. Around 4:30 pm, Halina delivered a healthy boy by the light of a carbide lamp...The arrival of the baby caused the visit of my in-laws (the Miszels) as well as Edek and Lila with whom we celebrated this addition to the family. The young man was named Henry in memory of my father.

I took some pictures and collected some dirt from the playground across the street. I wondered if my dad had played on those swing sets.

After spending his first few years of life in this apartment, Henry's brother Martin Louis Milgrom was born.

Our second son was born in October, 1951. We named him Martin, a modified name for Max, my uncle murdered during the Warsaw uprising. When I told Hirszfeld about this name, he felt hurt that I did not name him Ludwig. I explained to him that with the tradition preserved by many Jewish families, a child is not named after a living person. He said that this is a superstition and I hastened to give my newborn son the middle name of Louis.

The family decided to move to a new apartment that was bigger and closer to my grandfather's work and my dad and uncle's school. We found the apartment on Pastera Street. Fortuitously, a current tenant was leaving just as we arrived and I was able to catch the door. Inside, I took pictures of the stairs and doorways, imagining my dad carrying his backpack home from school.














We then crossed the street and and went over a bridge to find my dad's elementary school. When we saw a school on Parkova Street, a street my dad had mentioned, we thought we'd found the place. We couldn't be sure because when my dad attended under the communist regime, the school was called Rosenberg's in tribute to the executed cold war era Soviet spies, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. That name has long since been discarded. I'm embarrassed to say this, but as we walked across the campus, Amanda and I were struck by the awkward physical and behavioral appearance of the kids in attendance. We approached a woman who seemed to be in charge. I explained that my father had attended this school a little over fifty five years ago. She looked a bit puzzled, and said, "Hmmm...are you sure this is the place?" I said, "I believe so." She responded, "You know this is a school for 'special' kids, right? There's another school just down the street." We were embarrassed and immediately understood the awkwardness we had observed. We were at a school for mentally handicapped kids. We apologized and went on our way. Down the street, we found the school I'm pretty sure my dad actually attended. It was full of less awkward looking children. We took some photos.















The next stop was Wroclaw Medical School, where my grandparents got their medical degrees and went on to work as professors. There was no central campus so we began perusing the grounds and looking at signs. We found the Department of Dermotology and Venerology, where my babcia received her M.D. In Dermotology. We entered the building and immediately encountered a security guard who spoke no English. Fortunately there were two students passing by who were able to relay that we were there because my babcia had attended sixty years prior. He let us look around a bit but the building was mostly locked up and no one was around. It was still nice to see though.















We left in search of the Department of Microbiology where my grandfather studied and worked under the tutelage of the renowned Ludwig Hirszfeld. Together, they published numerous scientific papers supporting Mendelian genetics and other controversial topics at that time not supported by the communist regime. From my dziadziu's memoirs:

In 1951...the Soviet Union entered into what was most likely the lowest ebb in the history of her scientific pursuits. Biology became dominated by the infamous Trofin Lysenko and his group. They denied the existence of genes and propogated the antiquated and absurd idea of inheritance of acquired traits. Stalin himself gave support to Lysenko, stating that his teachings were in agreement with Marxism-Leninism. This was quite a blow to Hirszfeld, who was a prominant geneticist, as the co-discover of Mendelian inheritance of human ABO blood groups. Even though the terms 'Mendelian inheritance' and 'Mendelian traits' became anethema, Hirszfeld...was lecturing about this inheritance and the authorities in someway still tolerated it. Also, Hirszfeld's studies which applied to blood groups and anthropology were considered reactionary. Orthodox communists believed that the studies of differences between various human ethnic groups represented racism. I vividly remember a visit of two Soviet hematologists to the blood transfusion center in Wroclaw in 1951. They noticed Hirszfeld's table showing the frequency of blood groups A and B in various races. This table showed that blood group A is very frequent in the west of Europe and that going eastward to Asia, it decreases in frequency. On the other hand, group B is frequent in the East Indies and then, going westward...it decreases in frequency. In such a way, the Russians were listed on this table far away from Englishman and close to East Indians. The Russian visitors took this as an insult and loudly expressed their dissatisfaction with Hirszfeld's racism. My admiration for Hirszfeld at this time reached its peak. This world famous scientist, in his late sixties, was challenged and insulted by ignorami about his greatest scientific achievements. He wrote a strong rebuttal in Russian to our two visitors. Also, whenever he could, he stressed the correctness of formal genetics as well as the importance of anthropology. Once, in a scientific meeting, Hirszfeld was...kindly asked to raise a toast...in honor of the Russian bacteriologist Boshian. Boshian represented an extreme, biased, dishonest and insane trend in Russian microbiology...Hirszfeld firmly refused to give any credits to Boshian. The man from the ministry tried the usual totalitarian procedure of intimidation and insisted on the toast. Then Hirszfeld said, 'Please stop it, otherwise I will toast Boshian as one of the greatest fakers in this history of world microbiology.'

As time progressed, Hirszfeld's and our situation became precarious. The usual snake of anti-semitism began creeping out more and more. In the winter of 1952-53, Stalin fabricated the infamous accusation against Moscow doctors for poisoning their patients, top Soviet officials. The accused were a group of the most prominent positions, all but one of them Jews...We were all quite nervous...we were going through revival of the Nazi nightmare and we obviously anticipated that Hirszfeld and his associates (including myself) would be the first in line for accusations if the Soviet example was followed by the People's Republics, as was usually the case...At this time, I regretted very much that I had not left Poland and avoided exposing myself and my family to this ordeal. Then, out of the blue, came the news about Stalin's death. Unfortunately, Hirszfeld did not live long enough to see enjoy the changed atmosphere.

Because of Hirszfeld's prominence prior to World War II, the communist regime couldn't shake his resolve or stifle his scientific influence. This however was destined to change after he passed away.

When we found the Department of Microbiology, we opened the door expecting the same occurrence as the Department of Dermotology, with locked halls and a security guard. We were immediately greeted by a placard in memory of the late Hirszfeld.















We began taking pictures when a door opened. Out emerged a professional woman who, with briefcase in hand, appeared ready to head home for the weekend. At first she seemed a bit perturbed to see us taking photos in her building. She pointedly asked, "can I help you?" I said, "my Dziadziu worked here and was a mentee of Ludwig Hirszfeld," as I pointed to the placard. "His name was Felix Milgrom." I didn't expect her to know who he was, but her face immediately lit up and she invited us into her office. The inside of her office was like a shrine to Hirszfeld's memory, with his pictures and his honorary degrees adorning the walls. Apparently, she was the head dean of the medical school and had inherited the office that had once belonged to Hirszfeld. This very room was where my dziadiu and Hirszfeld had met thousands of times.















She explained that, although she never personally knew my dziadziu or Hirszfeld, she had read much of their work and had photos and even a short video documenting the work they did together. There was a lady still working in the department who had worked with my dziadziu, but unfortunately, she was on sabbatical. The head dean walked us through the old library, now closed to students and the public, where my dziadziu and Hirszfeld had led seminars and conferences. I was completely in awe. After numerous questions and pictures, we thanked her profusely for her time and she left for the weekend.








We exited the building and sat in the courtyard where my dziadiu once walked every day on his way to work. We reflected for a bit. During an era when so many people fought to pass on their memory and, unfortunately, so few succeeded, it was humbling and liberating that this woman, now director of the medical school working in Hirszfeld's old office, knew of and remembered my dziadziu. It illuminated the fighting spirit of perseverance, unyielding persistence, and stubborn optimism my dziadziu exuded to not only survive the worst atrocities known to man, but to thrive professionally and foster a loving, caring and intelligent family in a community that despised his kind. Somehow, this closing experience made everything feel right.

After Hirszfeld's death, without any professional protection from his prestigious mentor and despite the fact that "the last letter that Hirszfeld signed...requested (my dziadziu) be appointed (his) successor...as Director of the Institute," my dziadziu was chased out of his academic position because of his heritage and beliefs and my family was driven into poverty. My father and uncle went to live with their dziadziu in Gliwice, while my dziadzu and babcia eked out a living in a nearby town. They continually endured harassment. After subsisting for a few years in this circumstance, "in July 1957, practically peniless, (they decided to leave) Poland, the country in which our ancestors had lived since the middle ages." They appealed to the communist government for visas. "As a final insult," my family was granted one way visas conditional on the provision that they never return to Poland. It was a cold slap in the face that symbolized their tragic endurance and embodied the bigotry and anti-semitism of that community. They left, jumping through Europe and South America and finally landing in the States, and never looked back. My dziadziu worked as a medical professor at the University of Buffalo until he passed away on September 2, 2007 at age 87. It has been a humbling honor for me to return to the land my family endured and to share their story. I have never been more proud to be a Milgrom. Today, I am humbled and honored to say to my dziadziu that all those who tried to take everything from you, even now after you have passed on, can never take away your legacy. I love you Dziadziu. In memorium eterni.

For more pictures from this section of our journey, please visit:


Katowice, Gliwice, and Czestochowa

Wroclaw

Location:Where the East becomes West and the West becomes East (Katowice, Gliwice, and Wroslaw