tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22464293919064256252024-03-04T20:42:54.917-08:00Our YearTracking Dave and Chrissy's Adventure!David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-3905876709050083132012-04-10T10:48:00.000-07:002012-05-02T06:46:43.380-07:00Roman Holiday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Our final weeks in Rome combined all the aspects of our trip we had come to love. We spent some time with a family, getting a focused glimpse into daily life in a new place, eating delicious food, sharing recipes, drinking the local drink and partaking in the culture. We were also tourists, venturing out to historical sights, navigating public transportation systems, practicing our Italian and soaking up the living historical and cultural sights. In our very final days we were able to share this journey (complete with a night spent in the airport), with Kathi, David's mom. </div>
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Before Kathi's arrival, we took a few day trips to visit Grotta Ferrata (a neighboring town), the ancient city of Pompei and to Rome, the eternal city. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Navigating Italian streets, whether on foot or by car proved to be a scary endeavor. Here, Christina is plastered against the wall, saving herself from the speeding vehicles. It was no wonder the caretaker at Castelli International chuckled, shook his head and murmured something about "you Americans" when we told him we were taking a walk to Grotta Ferrata. These roads are no place for a pedestrian. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grotta Ferrata's claim to fame was this beautiful active monastery. These were not the beer brewing German monks. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trip into Rome always began here, at the Marino Laziale train station, Here, David demonstrates the ubiquitious Italian gesture we wrote about in our last posting. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first day in Rome, we stumbled upon this beautiful basilica, Santa Maria Novona. Here is a picture of the back of the church.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption">Here is a view of the baldachin and knave. Although it's not clear from the picture, the knave is filled with detailed and beautiful mosaics. Below the baldachin we saw our first reliquary.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The reliquary at Santa Maria Novona. According to the guidebook, behind this glass case is an original piece of Jesus' manger.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Before Kathi arrived we took a day trip to visit the ruins of Pompei, an ancient city once buried in the volcanic ash of Mt. Vesuvius. We took the advice of our guidebook and purchased a separate Pompei guide. This was a prudent decision as the ruins are inconsistently and poorly labeled. Many of the more interesting areas were blocked off, but we would not be deterred. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you not entertained?! David in the center of the arena at Pompei. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pompei: A Re-enactment </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After jumping a few barriers, we came upon these preserved bodies in situ. A grisly sight. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early pub and fast food joint in Pompei. The sunken areas on the counter were heated and filled with cooked foods for purchase. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David. A view of Pompei in the background. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The forum. Christina sits on the entryway of a large cloth factory. Just in the entrane were huge containers for collecting urine, which Romans used to launder clothes, and dye and bleach clothes. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A preserved body. According to our guidebook it is likely many Pompeins died from the toxic air and smoke inhalation. Their bodies were preserved in the ash that settled upon the city.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">When Kathi arrived we had just a few days to explore the city and enjoy the final days of our epic journey. Armed with individual museum guides, we hit the pavement, spending countless hours reading about, analyzing, understanding and becoming awe struck by the impressive works of art found all over the city. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina and Kathi at the Vatican Museum pondering a truly breathtaking work of art, Raphael's Transfiguration. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Romans collected Egyptian art and also created a lot of their own Egyptian inspired art. The Vatican Museum has a great collection including the mummy featured here. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathi and David outside of St. Peter's Basilica. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkOgBiH7qjs-2L7olg0_WhKPk7Nx_4234CYj5-3nKVMisdE7JgPkRx5xMufTjUbWustFFG1eEqkSaMVJlnr6U-xtpq7O4a_Me5KoUz3Hz0EEDwj-xnpdec7wrOACIV_yw0vO8eMbReNqo/s1600/IMG_0279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkOgBiH7qjs-2L7olg0_WhKPk7Nx_4234CYj5-3nKVMisdE7JgPkRx5xMufTjUbWustFFG1eEqkSaMVJlnr6U-xtpq7O4a_Me5KoUz3Hz0EEDwj-xnpdec7wrOACIV_yw0vO8eMbReNqo/s320/IMG_0279.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We ended our first day in Rome with a trip to Pizzeria Buffetto. Here they serve deliciously thin pizza hot from the oven, and of course pitchers of delicious Italian wines. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 2 took us to Florence. Here's Kathi, warm and comfortable in first class. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFibQDWl4sg4w0z1rw-0V8iW2kvqnQX0_1hLpU9V2nEAui5CpiGOEtilubMv2WKvuw4UK6-Q-TUhJcDrGinsinxLu6zBw2pHC2JkDvIxHR9c_sQWes605eUck7wzhc-WSwWChngf370Xf/s1600/IMG_0284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFibQDWl4sg4w0z1rw-0V8iW2kvqnQX0_1hLpU9V2nEAui5CpiGOEtilubMv2WKvuw4UK6-Q-TUhJcDrGinsinxLu6zBw2pHC2JkDvIxHR9c_sQWes605eUck7wzhc-WSwWChngf370Xf/s320/IMG_0284.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Legend has it if you touch the boar's nose, you're certain to return to Florence. We'll be back! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyKt1TbCqrDgacvx2gjfNygOAoX5YK3R35VknrESjlujU1Wl14WEXG0PfAXxOFzesw-iXWt473U6Hg-z4fJUOZ8os26NmD2BRrv5-x8L4J55iTvLafX8t8x53tJ3u4I8b8VbreV_Ol0RG/s1600/IMG_0285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyKt1TbCqrDgacvx2gjfNygOAoX5YK3R35VknrESjlujU1Wl14WEXG0PfAXxOFzesw-iXWt473U6Hg-z4fJUOZ8os26NmD2BRrv5-x8L4J55iTvLafX8t8x53tJ3u4I8b8VbreV_Ol0RG/s320/IMG_0285.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Il Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. This square is the site of the orignal bonfire of the vanities when Savonarola, a Dominican priest had books and works of art burned in the name of purity. A year later he was burned alive at the very same site. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David and The David ( a replica). </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2xJbjW0Ce__WPo5GQkPIaqEpooc-68bDbj30zB4hQPXJxSWkgU2TcnkTYACQTPuiZ-gte8qYmWYBbuTKXkP3ZUKoJvWDy1m7MylWW6bS82CQ_MhaQjJYC3OeFpna2W7T89dH8tZKdv1m/s1600/IMG_0300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI2xJbjW0Ce__WPo5GQkPIaqEpooc-68bDbj30zB4hQPXJxSWkgU2TcnkTYACQTPuiZ-gte8qYmWYBbuTKXkP3ZUKoJvWDy1m7MylWW6bS82CQ_MhaQjJYC3OeFpna2W7T89dH8tZKdv1m/s320/IMG_0300.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Il Ponte Vecchio from The Uffizi art museum. This covered bridge was the only bridge in Florence the Germans did not bomb during WWII. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A common site in Rome. Scooter lined streets. We were amazed to see these vehicles speeding past us on highways as well as streets. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our third day into Rome involved a detailed tour of the Forum and the Colosseum. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Kill him!" <br />
Thousands of Romans filled this stadium eager to watch gladiator fights, the slaughtering of exotic animals and epic sea battles. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We ended our final trip into Rome with a taste of delicious gelato. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were able to give Kathi the full experience of Our Year. She was a tourist with us, a worker living with a family and finally a weary traveler. Due to a snow storm, we spent the last night of our trip on the benches in the Manchester airport.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />It has taken us a while to write this final blog entry. Truly we should have written this entry as soon as we returned, but we didn't. The weeks have dragged on and this final entry has loomed. In the last weeks we have tried to process this momentous experience. Writing this final entry meant closure on something we began planning over a year ago and accepting our return to daily life. What we have come to realize as we put together our scrapbook, retell stories and relive moments is that this trip has been more than just a break from the mundane. Our farming experiences have shaped the way we look at food, what we eat and where and how we want to live. The people we met and the stories we heard have shaped the way we hope to influence the world and who we count as family and close friends. The history we learned and the art we enjoyed has inspired us to say more, do more and learn more. As we return to search for jobs, find housing and reconnect with our families and friends, we are ever aware of how fortunate we are to have had this experience and we are ever grateful to our families for supporting us and to the families who shared their lives with us and to the friends who shared moments with us along the way.<br /><br />Although "Our Year" the blog will end with this entry, Our Year continues as we find jobs, housing and communities of which we want to be a part. Thanks for following our journey! </span><br />
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<br /></div>CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-11225045758693368792012-02-20T13:03:00.000-08:002012-02-20T13:03:51.481-08:00Bella Italia Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Comfortable in our overnight cabin on the Barcelona to Milan train, David and I slept soundly. We woke up the next morning, pushed aside our train cabin windows and found, to our surprise, a snow covered Milan. We thought we had left winter behind, and in fact, David had even persuaded me to trash a pair of particularly worn long johns. (At this point in our trip, much of our clothing is worn; small holes are appearing here and there and just the other day, Dave's shoe laces snapped. ) </div>
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A little chilly, but well rested, we thrust ourselves into the Milan train station and promptly joined a very long line at the TrenItalia counter to purchase our tickets from Milan to Rome. Up until this point, buying tickets in European train stations has been fairly easy. In general, you choose a number, like at the deli counter in a busy supermarket, plop yourself on one of the many benches, watch the board and await your turn. This method has clearly not caught on in Italy, where the train lines seem epically long. On account of my Italian language proficiency, I waited in line while David guarded our bags. Before I reached the counter, I watched a man of color get pulled aside and intensely questioned by the police. This same man cut the line and somehow ended up just a few customers ahead of me. I watched as this man emphatically gestured at one teller and then found himself (at the exact same moment) at my teller's window, throwing his money at her and demanding she serve him. The teller was no pushover, however and she slammed the money on the counter and told the man to beat it. This back and forth continued long after my transaction and David and I were all too eager to make our way to the train. To top off our rather brief Milan experience, we stumbled upon a full fledged protest, of what we're not sure, as we were stopped in our tracks by the imposing presence of police in full riot gear. Our first moments in Italy, while unusual and unique would characterize for us a certain emotional response we see quite frequently here. As David noted as we watched a live soccer game at a local field the other day, we've never seen so much shoulder raising and emotional pleading, whether it be in soccer, the train station or the classroom. That seems to be a major gesture to master here in Italy: pinch your thumbs into your other four fingers on both hands, hunch your shoulders up into your ears, bring your hands to the middle of your chest, and then bounce your forearms up and down at the elbow a few times while imploring to somebody (a referee, a cop, an over-charging coffee vendor) about how unreasonable they are being. Throw in a few "mamma mias" and you're there. This is not an exaggeration. </div>
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When our train finally arrived it was a relief to board our first class car and relax for a few hours. Yet again, first class proved quite luxurious. Our privilege earned us a free snack (either salty or sweet), free drinks (including wine) and a choice of any number of free Italian language newspapers! We read, napped and watched the scenery change from blizzard like conditions to green, rolling hills. </div>
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In Rome, we transferred to a regional train for Marino (a suburb of Rome) and were warmly greeted by Natasha, the daughter of our host mom, Marianne Palladino. Earlier this summer, David and I met with Marianne in Acworth to arrange this stay at her home and school, <a href="http://www.castelli-international.it/description/">Castelli International</a> founded by Marianne in 1977. She loved the idea of us coming to visit and promised to put us to work! She's definitely kept up her part of the bargain. During the week we have been helpful floaters, covering for sick teachers, guest teaching and spending some down time outside during recess. It's been a great chance to gear up for our job search and prepare to re-enter the classroom. </div>
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Marianne and her husband Gianni have been wonderfully gracious hosts. Our weekends have been characterized by Gianni's roaring fires and his delicious multi- course feasts; these are true Italian meals beginning with pasta or soup, accompanied on every occasion by a carefully selected bottle of wine, and always ending with a meat dish, salad and finally a serious need for a nap or at least a limoncello or scalding hot espresso. It's been fantastic to sit around the table, bellies full and delicious wine flowing, discussing education with Marianne. Her energy is infectious and she's been instrumental in helping us think about our future as educators. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In our first week here at Castelli, there were four snow days! This area isn't used to snow and even though they received just a few inches over the course of the week, the surrounding towns were clearly not prepared (and we mean that.... they were lacking plows, running out of salt, and every newscast showed folks in Rome speaking gravely and gesticulating wildly amidst very modest snow banks). Roads remained snow covered and later iced over. Of course, that meant school had to close. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If Gianni is home, the fire is roaring. During our first few days, Marianne encouraged David to chop wood as Gianni was known to use the wheelbarrow to load the fire place with enormous logs that burned for hours on end. It's true, left to his own devices, Gianni will chuck a huge tree stump in the fireplace. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcoyd7uNh2yyIdTwr1RxSBwZfzjdoTvrQj3cyFVoqjZgPZf8ZbZIBdXUpYVVeYuY9OO2wnEwwNQMNTfC49VBkQNhswO1ssg5FmznNwZ_jlms_RNCjQNl96_8ZNnKvhW-m-OnFzaDNzZzU1/s1600/100_1629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcoyd7uNh2yyIdTwr1RxSBwZfzjdoTvrQj3cyFVoqjZgPZf8ZbZIBdXUpYVVeYuY9OO2wnEwwNQMNTfC49VBkQNhswO1ssg5FmznNwZ_jlms_RNCjQNl96_8ZNnKvhW-m-OnFzaDNzZzU1/s320/100_1629.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina with Natasha, Marianne's daughter. Natasha and her family also live here on the property. Natasha teaches Middle School English and helps run the school here at Castelli. Christina was happy to hear Natasha was studying Animal Farm with her eight grade English class and Christina was all too eager to teach a few lessons on her favorite book. Natasha also is responsible for changing our diet forever. She lent us a documentary - Forks Over Knives. We haven't looked the same way at animal products since.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's been quite a while since I (Christina) have taught students in the lower school, and while the classroom work was fun, the few times I arranged some games in the "cage," (the fenced in basketball court seen here and below) I was reminded why I am not a PE teacher, and partially why I no longer teach 6 year olds. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the middle school, Dave stepped right into teaching Marianne's Current Events class and teaching a few science courses. He also spent two full days with second graders, which damn near killed him. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castelli sits on a hillside surrounded by vineyards and olive trees. Here is a picture of the elementary school building. The vineyards and olive groves are still productive. In fact, the olive oil we enjoy at meals is made from their olives and the grapes are sold to a local wine producer. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "cage" where David held daily basketball lessons and a final tournament. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those second graders who tired Mr. David out! On this particular day, this young lady brought in a birthday cake complete with an exploding candle. Mamma mia!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ge73f9-7Mav-47Mk0CD68_oJlrM4tQW3suc08RaFB0SntgcMdc-tSV4qWF6dRlJyEMnL-_eGWUsvUfffqEdjTkRy6BPjbGJcdv6KkXm0ntqedEmLiRgZ_JrktfiAVfh-Grzcus3kndfn/s1600/IMG_0016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ge73f9-7Mav-47Mk0CD68_oJlrM4tQW3suc08RaFB0SntgcMdc-tSV4qWF6dRlJyEMnL-_eGWUsvUfffqEdjTkRy6BPjbGJcdv6KkXm0ntqedEmLiRgZ_JrktfiAVfh-Grzcus3kndfn/s320/IMG_0016.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David previewing the rules for the rather short basketball tournament, which was a culmination of two weeks of basketball lessons. The tournament had only three games: two semifinal matches and a final. All games were six minutes and the scores were a whopping 1-0, 2-1, and 1-0. Needless to say - with scores more reminiscent of a soccer game - basketball is NOT an oft-practiced sport in Italy. The kids were dynamite nonetheless. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYnafUV_LPANzhOblZfL4j-cQSXDpDUkYxh9klNWuY2phXcsENLvx0JF9GbC6jVURxE7ENIwcHnWAVRxuGbAkokQkRBSK6KaD_4ZHMzeL_eTEB8R_Qkrgi9QKhVbQscKgIG5FtB7IyzVZ/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYnafUV_LPANzhOblZfL4j-cQSXDpDUkYxh9klNWuY2phXcsENLvx0JF9GbC6jVURxE7ENIwcHnWAVRxuGbAkokQkRBSK6KaD_4ZHMzeL_eTEB8R_Qkrgi9QKhVbQscKgIG5FtB7IyzVZ/s320/IMG_0017.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A scene from one of the semifinal games. There were A LOT of steals and airballs. Team Costa Rosella won this explosive match-up, 1-0. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-18943189803874968262012-02-10T10:26:00.000-08:002012-02-10T10:26:22.553-08:00Barcelona and the Journey EastWe left Portugal on an overnight train to Madrid, then continued on to Barcelona. We spent two days there in order to break up the journey to Rome and to soak up at least one Spanish city. Barcelona proved to be a beautiful and welcoming place, full of friendly old ladies who would give us directions out of the blue anytime we were peering into our city map, delicious bars serving up mounds of tapas, and plenty of green spaces and artistic installations. We stayed at a funky little hostel and had a brief opportunity to take in the sights and use our Spanish, the one language that we both can speak with comfort and ease. After enjoying the city we took another overnight train out of the city to Milan, where we then caught another regional train down to Rome. We'll keep this short and emphasize the pictures instead. Next time we'll share from our first week in Rome. Until the next!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlBe6av2wpWtn5xzNXH0PUhjPu5IBAnPhaeOJBh0MpqHVnqXCltqxRDqQrBw78v4Ji-yWNUi7sAltaj7ffNoNypSnysHF4ZUUkkzOCFGTKQ1_UtbULrvAkAYWYIjp0vo07m9fuO8ZgyA/s1600/IMG_0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlBe6av2wpWtn5xzNXH0PUhjPu5IBAnPhaeOJBh0MpqHVnqXCltqxRDqQrBw78v4Ji-yWNUi7sAltaj7ffNoNypSnysHF4ZUUkkzOCFGTKQ1_UtbULrvAkAYWYIjp0vo07m9fuO8ZgyA/s320/IMG_0058.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sleeping berth on our overnight train from Lisbon to Madrid. Train travel is great and sleeping cabins are the pinnacle. I cannot recommend this enough. The little complimentary overnight kit we were given had us lighting up like it was Christmas morning. We betrayed our business class roots on that one... "it's even got a free sewing kit! And look, a toothbrush!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRcEiRkgzR_Mt_wQhPtSYi9kg_xN2chyphenhyphenR_K5gBCWwmsKEvwqJOqKiygDDuJT5VEs2NT6n1PoMqIby444oJQh2tl3Tc7RvFAJMcOBrEFgTBKRBU5CVaR3b_W3mjUzlkBnN9l5yIi6BEC8/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRcEiRkgzR_Mt_wQhPtSYi9kg_xN2chyphenhyphenR_K5gBCWwmsKEvwqJOqKiygDDuJT5VEs2NT6n1PoMqIby444oJQh2tl3Tc7RvFAJMcOBrEFgTBKRBU5CVaR3b_W3mjUzlkBnN9l5yIi6BEC8/s320/IMG_0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving in Barcelona we realized that the day of our arrival (Sunday) was the day when entry into the Picasso museum was free. Unfortunately every other tourist in the city also knew that apparently, and equally apparent was that even tourists are affected by the economy. We bailed and rationalized the loss. I mean c'mon, it was only his early stuff anyway.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjveuo5PzDWyHSrrj8Ni-R9MXC96CW4AHCZFunO7nqSaQ0wHp1mpX0bgXw_6vnnKCA5Erpq0zrU6J_TBtyzayqZ5Iqh4_nC5Es1yv_OEcT1KbAAJVy4icMAlnYBCrqzSLgzqLeIzUMV7vk/s1600/IMG_0080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjveuo5PzDWyHSrrj8Ni-R9MXC96CW4AHCZFunO7nqSaQ0wHp1mpX0bgXw_6vnnKCA5Erpq0zrU6J_TBtyzayqZ5Iqh4_nC5Es1yv_OEcT1KbAAJVy4icMAlnYBCrqzSLgzqLeIzUMV7vk/s320/IMG_0080.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Certainly one of the greatest, if not THE greatest beer appreciation moments of the trip for Dave. Since Estonia, all beer tastings have been done in a classy fashion, recorded in a moleskin journal with a strict adherence to recording the standard beer tasting criteria (Appearance, Smell, Taste, Mouthfeel, Overall). We found this gem in the Barceloneta section of Barcelona, the '<i>Vaso d'Oro</i>' Bar, and after busting out my book at the bar to record the first offering, the bartender saw what I was doing and latched right on. For the next hour he spoke in rapid spanish about the nuances of the several beers they had on tap. We eventually learned that it was he himself that did the brewing at his own 'microcerveceria,' that it was his last name on the labels ("Fort"), and that he was damned good. When Christina asked him how long he'd been brewing, he replied with a quote of the trip: "<i>una vida." </i>He seemed overjoyed to share his passion with someone who really cared, and the beer shown above represents the highlight; his experimental brew, one he's still tinkering with and which remains unlabeled. Before leaving he tucked two free bottles into my hand and we shook hands before departing. Ask to see Dave's beer journal for the review. A true highlight.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6aGacbuLkV8A-G_RPjuswM3lTFcF3kTqs9simwpWK-cV1XY0c2zqvQ2uru0zJtuCxC68y24WgRLzmBx13mFWAVK-4FmEpL1Lb3Mxx6I_zXE5WTmMqcrUBY1qGJIVdmyrI_An6ydFTj-s/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6aGacbuLkV8A-G_RPjuswM3lTFcF3kTqs9simwpWK-cV1XY0c2zqvQ2uru0zJtuCxC68y24WgRLzmBx13mFWAVK-4FmEpL1Lb3Mxx6I_zXE5WTmMqcrUBY1qGJIVdmyrI_An6ydFTj-s/s320/IMG_0083.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A scene from our first night in Barcelona, a glorious round of tapas-bar-hopping. This was apparently the way to experience Barcelona's cuisine, and the night did not disappoint. Empowered by (finally) both being able to speak the language, we tried to find dives that were several blocks off of the main tourist drags and then looked specifically for ones that looked crowded with locals. This one in particular had fantastic seafood, which lined the bartop in numerous pans. The fried calamari melted in one's mouth.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORftQKWsR_ojaWfsQ8lG7f9uN-UiZh9MyJRF-nQW0YkP8WSX2WI3fOmO5AUajk-tQfg1Z7IDeGsrDJhIjiSr_dab8-9nqjtvEjUZJAQv6HeMLnTn878Ty8mgVSZKqyk3toBm_MgtJEVY/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORftQKWsR_ojaWfsQ8lG7f9uN-UiZh9MyJRF-nQW0YkP8WSX2WI3fOmO5AUajk-tQfg1Z7IDeGsrDJhIjiSr_dab8-9nqjtvEjUZJAQv6HeMLnTn878Ty8mgVSZKqyk3toBm_MgtJEVY/s320/IMG_0114.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from a Barcelona park of two of the citys' more well known pieces of architecture. The monstrosity on the right is the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia that is shown in later pictures. It was staggering how much the monument-in-construction towered over the surrounding city. The rounded building on the left is the Agbar Tower, which is very stunning at night.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7Wh57ZZvxAFt9XXFQ1dMbip1t7yGxX_qJuZ2yLCHVMze90QnzXmruoe0r9aaf4TSLklACjKoWAj-fO_aZCcmuWqzebiYrM9s0U9G7u9hlfZqaCspKgeC4oIiDrae1q_xd1lpKh7PBjI/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7Wh57ZZvxAFt9XXFQ1dMbip1t7yGxX_qJuZ2yLCHVMze90QnzXmruoe0r9aaf4TSLklACjKoWAj-fO_aZCcmuWqzebiYrM9s0U9G7u9hlfZqaCspKgeC4oIiDrae1q_xd1lpKh7PBjI/s320/IMG_0124.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the impressive stonework in the Parc Guell, designed by Antoni Guadi, whose work is all over Barcelona and revered to no end. We're convinced he was on drugs, but the talent is undeniable. His belief that nature had no straight lines (and thus his rejection of them) is clear in all of his work that we were able to see.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tourists flock to the plaza that sits in the center of the Parc Guell. Just below and to the side of the plaza a group of school kids were out for recess, apparently unimpressed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nc2qiGhc6-ZGPSUZ8vDmHh2vWpqOu-r9mu9LcPkeMfRvA2obC8e7puAuuP_uwaqw61H43ZZYJT1J5q6MbACe5A-ayahp2Lc76WCY2SiSy6xMAeilcyarhgH6w6sYuSGqP6RyoVLxl-0/s1600/IMG_0137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nc2qiGhc6-ZGPSUZ8vDmHh2vWpqOu-r9mu9LcPkeMfRvA2obC8e7puAuuP_uwaqw61H43ZZYJT1J5q6MbACe5A-ayahp2Lc76WCY2SiSy6xMAeilcyarhgH6w6sYuSGqP6RyoVLxl-0/s320/IMG_0137.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Gaudi's more famous buildings.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YlCqYn_O4sz1vy4xj8al9yYV6WyKqF0vhBNyVipkTLASDskQjG25PZ3TcxAb2E_dkaNq1iVSsCrpDOR64XfSSmWDCh1Fl2QCzek1-anI9det_A8CgfI9xet8wd0th-GBVEgcsQooXBw/s1600/IMG_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-YlCqYn_O4sz1vy4xj8al9yYV6WyKqF0vhBNyVipkTLASDskQjG25PZ3TcxAb2E_dkaNq1iVSsCrpDOR64XfSSmWDCh1Fl2QCzek1-anI9det_A8CgfI9xet8wd0th-GBVEgcsQooXBw/s320/IMG_0144.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plaza space in Parc Guell, looking out over Barcelona and the Balearic Sea beyond.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxiAvpCCk2KnMGcDYiJPXqOfZ9VrFiZGw1xoIq5pEQpjdL5sXAXsiG6KQTIiYyX_aFcs-AxzUSzDvhlNNUa60CfOOllO3D7JN4vdtN_NOi2TTHnbpghvkc6vMp7qnIeF9D9ujMqOhXjc/s1600/IMG_0148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuxiAvpCCk2KnMGcDYiJPXqOfZ9VrFiZGw1xoIq5pEQpjdL5sXAXsiG6KQTIiYyX_aFcs-AxzUSzDvhlNNUa60CfOOllO3D7JN4vdtN_NOi2TTHnbpghvkc6vMp7qnIeF9D9ujMqOhXjc/s320/IMG_0148.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another of Gaudi's famous creations, the lizard at the Parc's entrance.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoR2fGXFTkX2aeQAE_YC0dhuChOF08FAuz-cxWobbizBAQ3vxLbcNwRbkdePMldlEfFoLel4doipGNVtOEto5wNCsuOzem53qjTiuB_IMW9ryVhpTTw9WWGOqqc4auC7q6NclZnJrjiI/s1600/IMG_0151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoR2fGXFTkX2aeQAE_YC0dhuChOF08FAuz-cxWobbizBAQ3vxLbcNwRbkdePMldlEfFoLel4doipGNVtOEto5wNCsuOzem53qjTiuB_IMW9ryVhpTTw9WWGOqqc4auC7q6NclZnJrjiI/s320/IMG_0151.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina admiring some of Gaudi's extensive mosaic tiles. These were all over the Parc Guell and it was staggering to think of how much detail and work went into their construction.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtD96iDXgBT4ZluzpHbOqSdxWjmc0FYCdCo-NbudMy14WR6xtExW3-e_PGha7hZEx6pZADBQ5rtQZ-BTHB29VQs9Jx-bYdp5QcjX1f3tTrdVFonnOahUL13QQVlMktiQYvueUhnr3RK-Q/s1600/IMG_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtD96iDXgBT4ZluzpHbOqSdxWjmc0FYCdCo-NbudMy14WR6xtExW3-e_PGha7hZEx6pZADBQ5rtQZ-BTHB29VQs9Jx-bYdp5QcjX1f3tTrdVFonnOahUL13QQVlMktiQYvueUhnr3RK-Q/s320/IMG_0152.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another Gaudi house. Seriously, this guy had to be on something. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPqiURpNTEDY8rj4_fg3oy-sOmedjMlkobkHNEholQYjWriDx56Gtp4OISyQuCQRcmD5W847wK_HR1iU-27lT7VhmHzBO4YRMbkOiMsTyzNfZfWaCIKKKf1sxfAPTPuggl_v4cpS_upo/s1600/IMG_0175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPqiURpNTEDY8rj4_fg3oy-sOmedjMlkobkHNEholQYjWriDx56Gtp4OISyQuCQRcmD5W847wK_HR1iU-27lT7VhmHzBO4YRMbkOiMsTyzNfZfWaCIKKKf1sxfAPTPuggl_v4cpS_upo/s320/IMG_0175.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Sagrada Familia. This Basilica was started by Gaudi (again, Barcelona LOVED him). He worked on it for 43 years and died before it finished. That was about 80 or 90 years ago, and they're still working on the thing. The central tower is apparently going to be half again as high as the current highest point. It was awe-inspring to be sure, an intricately-designed and hulking presence that reinforces a theme of this trip for us; religion more than any other impulse drives man to the biggest and most opulent displays of our artistic and engineering capabilities, by far. Nonetheless, we were actually kind of peeved at the audacity of them charging $13 Euro to gain admission to the Basilica, not only because it seems to violate the ages-old idea of churches being places of sanctuary and open worship, but also because the damned thing wasn't even done yet. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjM5id2fWRS8bjo9dWtuv39J_W2sNlpYSHFcxt_aVrElI0AuvWelwSXX0Rcs8F6BkgpKZ-S26xOhbYPlIrL-Y0r1Zhjxc1D6VbB2SlySolVCyT8Brg3im8GTTZj7IyHOLRlz_Dj59mq-U/s1600/IMG_0184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjM5id2fWRS8bjo9dWtuv39J_W2sNlpYSHFcxt_aVrElI0AuvWelwSXX0Rcs8F6BkgpKZ-S26xOhbYPlIrL-Y0r1Zhjxc1D6VbB2SlySolVCyT8Brg3im8GTTZj7IyHOLRlz_Dj59mq-U/s320/IMG_0184.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The construction on la Sagrada Familia. Nothing says holy like a guy in a hardhat and a crotch harness. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRphqRM7e3FCDy-4lh3ONBzm28qnwWSwfrjqG8CgB_YOXxLuqUNJOF6I1mOyNBJv8-HQj0pKR23CwOgNA1r5A84PvYNLP2cb7I17PWo5Hmu3Eo3UKlG1Da5k2xzQ81jHodFvMeBntcOc8/s1600/IMG_0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRphqRM7e3FCDy-4lh3ONBzm28qnwWSwfrjqG8CgB_YOXxLuqUNJOF6I1mOyNBJv8-HQj0pKR23CwOgNA1r5A84PvYNLP2cb7I17PWo5Hmu3Eo3UKlG1Da5k2xzQ81jHodFvMeBntcOc8/s320/IMG_0008.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina thwarting skateboarders at the Arc de Triumpf, very similar to the one in Paris by the same name.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7RNR-7gern-3IuMgRiMyHVHdq89kyMnUF7815I_9in6565k03ADRPv7lVfoa7wFBY8KN5PdnGGdZbxtBXMyxZv6QDB8vvpKpwpdMJD_vyC6IQZXAGdVN2QRzGhaWNwgDIZAaz48FDx0/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7RNR-7gern-3IuMgRiMyHVHdq89kyMnUF7815I_9in6565k03ADRPv7lVfoa7wFBY8KN5PdnGGdZbxtBXMyxZv6QDB8vvpKpwpdMJD_vyC6IQZXAGdVN2QRzGhaWNwgDIZAaz48FDx0/s320/IMG_0002.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo in front of our hostel - The Garden House Barcelona. This was a great hostel where the patrons seemed to understand that we're all there to get a decent night's sleep and have a safe place to leave our stuff. This hostel was perhaps the quirkiest we've stayed in. Two of the people in our room clearly lived in the hostel - one an older gentleman who would wander the hostel in his matching red pajamas, brown slippers and plush white robe and another that the desk attendant kept calling "The Mexican." "The Mexican" spent most nights awake watching movies on his laptop. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4obK3tQDKZ2yFf0Jys1Dk9RINQNvL47H6bun0dw5lB4Pc9sBULuRJPHkZz_geuhZFTdEEudb-Gsmos9fhJYpIB-g1PlWUDOX_f6Q2s4KxcoixyRpa7iRxT5v79Fk76o77xfN_dQJbVHg/s1600/IMG_0003_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4obK3tQDKZ2yFf0Jys1Dk9RINQNvL47H6bun0dw5lB4Pc9sBULuRJPHkZz_geuhZFTdEEudb-Gsmos9fhJYpIB-g1PlWUDOX_f6Q2s4KxcoixyRpa7iRxT5v79Fk76o77xfN_dQJbVHg/s320/IMG_0003_2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On our last day in Barcelona we stored our bags at the train station and took advantage of the afternoon by visiting The Museum of the City of Barcelona. This is a photo of an old Roman castle adjacent to the museum. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXLoK9VNmpeFadAfqo6lTfNyPuvfiYe8JCoyx-w1Eeg1AA_GruJ_t9Uye0wt0mIuHBvIKLCCoJ9cy5l12pXWjYOF4BpyGoGVO74wIxfs3AicxMX1koy53BJfTsCL4pJceK4A3b9joiXsY/s1600/IMG_0008_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXLoK9VNmpeFadAfqo6lTfNyPuvfiYe8JCoyx-w1Eeg1AA_GruJ_t9Uye0wt0mIuHBvIKLCCoJ9cy5l12pXWjYOF4BpyGoGVO74wIxfs3AicxMX1koy53BJfTsCL4pJceK4A3b9joiXsY/s320/IMG_0008_2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo of Barcelona's Gothic Cathedral. Again, we were astonished at the entry fee. It seems the idea of a church as a place of sanctuary and worship is foreign to this city. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QgUPzZygS-kHVJyazncHZJ4OFublB1nIS4PGA9ADkosn8Xv8h__HMUrHwRgXM_L7kJzoEvunKCGqdxyHsghuHhnK6bPqSvsd8fXWaReC8adCKQ-vh2HIpJ5079h4nQaA3H33wEjlNC4/s1600/IMG_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QgUPzZygS-kHVJyazncHZJ4OFublB1nIS4PGA9ADkosn8Xv8h__HMUrHwRgXM_L7kJzoEvunKCGqdxyHsghuHhnK6bPqSvsd8fXWaReC8adCKQ-vh2HIpJ5079h4nQaA3H33wEjlNC4/s320/IMG_0044.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Museum of the City of Barcelona was one of the best museums we've visited thus far. The basement level is built around old Roman ruins from the old Roman city of Barcino, what would become Barcelona. Dave is standing in front of what was once a former seafood processing plant. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SO9Qv76x5BtB8Flntir-cm0Gqsh6042jmPqZtdmL41GRUegX4_f33L6NtiXRgMWOQssKJ6C7d53FAE9jegbrrT6i8kaL5z9q686fxvMW1slboD8NrmGwrkCMv5kquKBDdmNF65EEq4k/s1600/IMG_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9SO9Qv76x5BtB8Flntir-cm0Gqsh6042jmPqZtdmL41GRUegX4_f33L6NtiXRgMWOQssKJ6C7d53FAE9jegbrrT6i8kaL5z9q686fxvMW1slboD8NrmGwrkCMv5kquKBDdmNF65EEq4k/s320/IMG_0049.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ruins not only showed areas where Romans laundered and dyed clothes, processed fish and lived, but also where they made wine. Pictured here are the Roman equivalent of wine labels.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfusvg6eSm67x_ko4P6KQiu_LLZeHrN27uI_PMM8XmG9Xg0fhe44eHvjzmUwZcYn9k6xjI4YzV2WG6kN7oMX11z1RdWPjka0JzAEkI8LJENnfpvNXNqxUG0KeXh1OPx4G6rvDw-G75QU/s1600/IMG_0076_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfusvg6eSm67x_ko4P6KQiu_LLZeHrN27uI_PMM8XmG9Xg0fhe44eHvjzmUwZcYn9k6xjI4YzV2WG6kN7oMX11z1RdWPjka0JzAEkI8LJENnfpvNXNqxUG0KeXh1OPx4G6rvDw-G75QU/s320/IMG_0076_2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before boarding our overnight train to Milan we stocked up on delicious Spanish foods (bread, chorizo, machengo cheese, produce and Rioja) at the Boqueria Mercato. <br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_cPI9V0MUY4wUFWRE4iaa5KaSYjozwm-fwZYOzmuMVieKkgPVpJbo8660R8LO20ui9lirrBnFxe-mVP4ura19c7nHt8v8fGVdQMYLHk-rKsTyHpiT1QpTuwM9bz7F28JYvMD8ABzfo0/s1600/IMG_0078_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_cPI9V0MUY4wUFWRE4iaa5KaSYjozwm-fwZYOzmuMVieKkgPVpJbo8660R8LO20ui9lirrBnFxe-mVP4ura19c7nHt8v8fGVdQMYLHk-rKsTyHpiT1QpTuwM9bz7F28JYvMD8ABzfo0/s320/IMG_0078_2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">At the Boqueria Market we were taken aback by these still furry animals displayed at one stall. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIr1Q8PX60CbRGLiMomgtvHkEz4iJP91w1jWoMagnRLu393_BsjovlejdHzkHVXn6wSLvN1yhPW2a4SmtCtwUNimZmDsVMyPUdCUhOoOZ1z9mB7PSQegne_xX8JswRp17CY78U0GStapE/s1600/IMG_0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIr1Q8PX60CbRGLiMomgtvHkEz4iJP91w1jWoMagnRLu393_BsjovlejdHzkHVXn6wSLvN1yhPW2a4SmtCtwUNimZmDsVMyPUdCUhOoOZ1z9mB7PSQegne_xX8JswRp17CY78U0GStapE/s320/IMG_0018.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trip to Barcelona would not have been complete without a good paella. With sausage, pork, mussels, calamari, and prawns, this was fantastic. We are determined to find a good paella recipe when we get back.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6T7MFmCpF2HhyOAxUckjonhpjwlnqBy5iuY4fNWr5oC8NG1dgUOUkzZSiJ9nMMxv-oP6QpM01zQBQn0C4wiVrv0koA97w5ULYyyjXbk714-J7QFnBadisD-VyWYlgFTeKQq7B7g2waE/s1600/IMG_0081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6T7MFmCpF2HhyOAxUckjonhpjwlnqBy5iuY4fNWr5oC8NG1dgUOUkzZSiJ9nMMxv-oP6QpM01zQBQn0C4wiVrv0koA97w5ULYyyjXbk714-J7QFnBadisD-VyWYlgFTeKQq7B7g2waE/s320/IMG_0081.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Again, we cannot recommend overnight train travel enough. On our train from Barcelona to Milan we were supposed to be in separate cabins. This particular line bunks four people of the same gender in each birth. Due to a misprint on my (Christina's) ticket, David and I were able to share a four person birth. Here we are, enjoying our market purchased goods and a delicious glass of Rioja.</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRq8fLXzTIiMjn1Qqm6vPwpmdI_ZFWnJg0ggXNTUncLmRDmqegtUMwYEsYjF1dNr6EuFC66YUeFEWjKa1fFhLYfTfqFowQuewulBl_s_MnI0smANMJdtchAt1ZmkBMJxeJYvkdHQ5_uGQ/s1600/IMG_0090_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRq8fLXzTIiMjn1Qqm6vPwpmdI_ZFWnJg0ggXNTUncLmRDmqegtUMwYEsYjF1dNr6EuFC66YUeFEWjKa1fFhLYfTfqFowQuewulBl_s_MnI0smANMJdtchAt1ZmkBMJxeJYvkdHQ5_uGQ/s320/IMG_0090_2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Check out the space. In a birth for four we were able to turn down our beds and still have a seating area. Oh, first class, how we love thee!</td></tr>
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</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-77523616285282896102012-02-05T13:55:00.000-08:002012-02-05T13:55:07.942-08:00Portugal Part 2<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Our final week in Portugal continued much like the first. We gardened, weeded, harvested more carobs, built another raised bed, enjoyed some leisurely meals with Sol and Willem and caught up on some reading. Although Willem and Sol encouraged us to venture farther out than Bensafrim to Lagos, we decided to spend most of our free days soaking up this local small town and resting up for the next part of our journey (though we did make it to Lagos one warm afternoon). We made several more bike trips into the small town of Bensafrim, including a trip to a delicious local restaurant - El Tachu. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We arrived at El Tachu one late afternoon to find a round, tanned Portuguese man sound asleep in a chair at one of the side tables. It turned out this congenial man was bartender, owner and chef! We spent a few hours at the bar trying local Portuguese beer and port wines and then when his daughter arrived to act as waitress, we moved to the adjacent dining room to feast on some local dishes - his own recipes. Particularly delicious was the shrimp El Tachu - shrimp pan fried in garlic and olive oil and the bacalau al Tachu, a codfish dish lathered in delicious olive oil and served with sauteed onions and potatoes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">On our final night in Bensafrim we had a delicious meal with Willem and Sol. Sol wowed us again with her delicious seafood dishes, including an appetizer of small clams sauteed in lemon juice, garlic and cilantro and a celebratory glass of champagne. We chatted about politics way into the night and then said goodbye to our gracious hosts. Willem drove us to the Lagos train station the following afternoon and we're proud to say we made it into their photo hall of fame! Thanks, guys. It was a lovely stay. </div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lloV6J5LQ8DM8sC9fjc8kE5tG6cniVqGb52MF980j9mZDaFEuWxqTeMIBJM08uZrPE2ZEpiJzEdXonFEZoAmuvd4fc3RAf5EBx7dAMoiPsMQV9cAUNhyphenhyphenbUTRbmFe3XELwDa4Fov3BW0/s1600/IMG_0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lloV6J5LQ8DM8sC9fjc8kE5tG6cniVqGb52MF980j9mZDaFEuWxqTeMIBJM08uZrPE2ZEpiJzEdXonFEZoAmuvd4fc3RAf5EBx7dAMoiPsMQV9cAUNhyphenhyphenbUTRbmFe3XELwDa4Fov3BW0/s320/IMG_0013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here is the phenomenon we mentioned in our previous post, a crew of older men just hanging out at noon on a weekday. This group swelled to seven at times and dwindled to two at others. We came to feel that this reflected two things equally: the pace of the economy and the pace of life, both reduced dramatically in Portugal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1H765HrFywiHflllh3FCDLeWztfJWJQItthl3ZrSTQis5B0N7ea668-QrkdyfrYC6eW7V-rwnskvwhMxxP5qyI05uUfi_EA1T662uG0TyBzkZQZcXQjHyjXtvhZQzmqydIFFmtkEbxhQ/s1600/IMG_0016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1H765HrFywiHflllh3FCDLeWztfJWJQItthl3ZrSTQis5B0N7ea668-QrkdyfrYC6eW7V-rwnskvwhMxxP5qyI05uUfi_EA1T662uG0TyBzkZQZcXQjHyjXtvhZQzmqydIFFmtkEbxhQ/s320/IMG_0016.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A central square in historical Lagos. At our backs (not pictured) was one of Lagos' dubious claims to fame: the first European slave market, processing slaves f rom Egypt to other parts of Europe and beyond. It was hardly noticeable and not adorned with any eye-catching plaques. I'd understand if this was deliberate on the part of Lagos.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Y30ZH0cnteVWbV9v35sag-HjsfTr1KhqZqNeL0QVkJcJCv-3CvlKCYdH4A_c0fnzoNdF2ty-56pis9nXD76ZLSZv0ZKxhPsInByL-dAIVA1lSqfefJb1CNTLUo69LVXRreZBpC0QhzI/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Y30ZH0cnteVWbV9v35sag-HjsfTr1KhqZqNeL0QVkJcJCv-3CvlKCYdH4A_c0fnzoNdF2ty-56pis9nXD76ZLSZv0ZKxhPsInByL-dAIVA1lSqfefJb1CNTLUo69LVXRreZBpC0QhzI/s320/IMG_0023.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old gates to the town of Lagos, built during the time of Henry the Navigator when Portugal was still a pioneer of the early 'Age of Discovery.'</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQNWZsG5Jas26lkTk__rnVJqhH8d9FikNChTUoGha3q8E5qiMqBek5bbhp6mTtiodVG2DwLekhosE3JkQ965HwZVxe25fr48FgceDCj1FRiVNEVhCrmRmKKMwfPWSHeiFfkiC3L2ysVns/s1600/IMG_0026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQNWZsG5Jas26lkTk__rnVJqhH8d9FikNChTUoGha3q8E5qiMqBek5bbhp6mTtiodVG2DwLekhosE3JkQ965HwZVxe25fr48FgceDCj1FRiVNEVhCrmRmKKMwfPWSHeiFfkiC3L2ysVns/s320/IMG_0026.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina in front of a fort post in Lagos. Beyond is the Atlantic and in the immediate shoreline is the city of Lagos. It was mostly empty when we were there, but apparently it is THE tourist spot in the summer.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSc9LlhzfZieRdxzJkaHfFiXKvXrTbwkM0yzKiKOUttrkOXTolYHUgy0bl2U-GBM0aM0B8bpGK-Iny3TMS6yterrrhskTDYTfe8Ygv32Zdj4sK3WpB3hTqt5g0FmKMEnd2JEYPZNeDyo/s1600/IMG_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSc9LlhzfZieRdxzJkaHfFiXKvXrTbwkM0yzKiKOUttrkOXTolYHUgy0bl2U-GBM0aM0B8bpGK-Iny3TMS6yterrrhskTDYTfe8Ygv32Zdj4sK3WpB3hTqt5g0FmKMEnd2JEYPZNeDyo/s320/IMG_0034.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down the Lagos coastline from the top of the fort, also built in honor of Henry the Navigator</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXJHHNImnmxPuZvePPsZDevJ8p-L-MOSujuFQOdUd33d8LqeR8yIC3SYiNu8hOUL7C2lPTZghjgL9KB7R5KtWttsSPni7aX2K3c1bG3iGYqnR9FowivWP5F2Xce4TAzqfGjefcXjoleQ/s1600/IMG_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXJHHNImnmxPuZvePPsZDevJ8p-L-MOSujuFQOdUd33d8LqeR8yIC3SYiNu8hOUL7C2lPTZghjgL9KB7R5KtWttsSPni7aX2K3c1bG3iGYqnR9FowivWP5F2Xce4TAzqfGjefcXjoleQ/s320/IMG_0044.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave doing as the Portuguese do. From the Cafe Barbaro, this is what he saw of the passing world....</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQ23eBH2jaNQ41DffpjAy7ZQuAbo6lOW66rqWtW9nbgLTmPlAFahq71f4jeT8YrW_AVAE39OjamZSpf21YAbZcxMlmUQyi75mbwc6WfU8rDM80qHrC1kv_93YBVob4E40SGTlBifSSAg/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQ23eBH2jaNQ41DffpjAy7ZQuAbo6lOW66rqWtW9nbgLTmPlAFahq71f4jeT8YrW_AVAE39OjamZSpf21YAbZcxMlmUQyi75mbwc6WfU8rDM80qHrC1kv_93YBVob4E40SGTlBifSSAg/s320/IMG_0046.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and what the passing world saw of him.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYDgl5ohzGlOqWElq2F8gtqJUJek_Yu7uNol7KRU3cIRRp_LmwYWP-_ATVax9kshFpeH4_CFP6p88RDuDawkk_DdZ1eYCSp9zSb9IVnIidI_8Ov9FqMyzcMhg5-JcFNQ3WCbtQCgyPtA/s1600/IMG_0007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYDgl5ohzGlOqWElq2F8gtqJUJek_Yu7uNol7KRU3cIRRp_LmwYWP-_ATVax9kshFpeH4_CFP6p88RDuDawkk_DdZ1eYCSp9zSb9IVnIidI_8Ov9FqMyzcMhg5-JcFNQ3WCbtQCgyPtA/s320/IMG_0007.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For the Patriots vs Ravens AFC Championship game we got ambitious and made some killer snacks. Pictured here are the ingredients for our mini pizzas made on Portuguese rolls and the ingredients for a delicious chorizo and bean layered dip. Pats won a ticket to the Super Bowl! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxm-0xmT2SYN3N09eMzMyvOHIYH92GOEehBAlBQeRLBEroAoISyMfXGUh6W9ZH-o29ZBZeptx7bmuc2f0ACdW2ZU0OSbyrcIDUm4I63ywIatcP0GlzFQubHARKvhZW3QFdZYv1uMsuLPs/s1600/IMG_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxm-0xmT2SYN3N09eMzMyvOHIYH92GOEehBAlBQeRLBEroAoISyMfXGUh6W9ZH-o29ZBZeptx7bmuc2f0ACdW2ZU0OSbyrcIDUm4I63ywIatcP0GlzFQubHARKvhZW3QFdZYv1uMsuLPs/s320/IMG_0049.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina's pastry of choice in Portugal, the delicious 'pastel d'nata' (pastry of creme), basically a custard-filled pastry crust that was put under a torch briefly to sear the top. So good.<br />
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</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-78206605457320203562012-01-21T10:00:00.000-08:002012-01-21T10:00:31.394-08:00Portugal Part 1<div> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>570</o:Words> <o:Characters>3255</o:Characters> <o:Company>Village Community School</o:Company> <o:Lines>27</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>7</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>3818</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>14.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a great time in Paris, we left for our next workstay in southern Portugal, heading for a small town called Bensafrim. We had several stops and the journey took us two days, but we were ready for this aspect of the trip and train travel has been agreeable thus far. Though long, the trip to Portugal continued that trend. We stopped at several locations; Irun in northern Spain where we were thrilled to speak the language with ease, Lisbon in central Portugal where we got our first taste of Portugeese culture, and finally a small town called Tunes in southern Portugal where we got our first instructions in Portugeese language ("don't say 'gracias'" a cafe bartender told us when we stopped for a drink between trains. "You're in Portugal, do not speak Spanish." We nodded, sipping. We've since picked up the basics and otherwise fudge the rest by adopting Christina's mother's technique of speaking spanish with a mixture of French and Italian accents).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We arrived in Lagos and were greeted by our host 'father' Willem, a big Dutchman with a mop of curly blond hair and a coarse voice. He and Soledad are the married couple who run things at our Portugal workstay, and they are a charming and friendly duo. At an extensive property just outside of the nearby town of Bensafrim, they grow food on the land and are currently building up several living spaces on their property to be used ultimately as rentals for when the tourist season kicks up during the summer. The space is beautiful during the winter, so we can only imagine what it is like in the summer. If anyone is interested, you can see their website <a href="http://www.holidayhomeportugal.eu/"><span style="color: blue;">here</span></a> and I'd certainly encourage their spaces if you are going to the Lagos area. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They set us up in great accommodations. We have our own cabin and they provide us with all the food we would ever need. During the weeks we work on the various garden plots that are scattered about the property, and our early work has been characterized by lots of hoeing, weeding, and some harvesting of the fruitful carob trees. It has been a welcome return to a working routine and we often retire at the end of the day well-fed and very exhausted. We've taken several bike rides into the nearby town of Bensafrim and have become quite familiar with the Super Mercado and the town's major cafe/bar, called The Barbaro. We have enjoyed several afternoons sipping a drink and watching as the locals come streaming in. Few actually purchase anything more than a coffee or a single wine, but the place is almost always packed. As Willem has told us, that is a cultural focal point here in rural Portugal, the attendance at the local cafe and the exchange of daily gossip and happenings. These community cafe check-ins are maintained even in what is clearly a depressed local economy. In every Portugeese town center we pass through there are large crowds of middle-aged and older men lounging around and watching the passing world. We do not have enough of a frame of reference to know how much this is a consistent cultural phenomenon or whether it is a function of the seasonal nature of the tourist industry here and it's current lull, but it is certainly noticeable. We do our best to blend in, nodding at the crowds of men and then picking out our own corner of the terrace to sip our beverage and squint into the passing sun and scenery. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the next week we will continue our farming work as well as helping out with some of the building tasks in the newest rental construction on the property. We are enjoying our cooking (often with the local, delicious chorizo) and spending much of our downtime reading and writing. It's hard to believe we're nearing our final month, but this stay has already been a welcome chance to slow things down a bit. Enjoy the pics!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><!--EndFragment--><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">En route from Paris at a town in the very top of Spain called Irun. This was a two-day journey, one of the longest of the trip. We had several stops when we tried to be as productive as possible, all while keeping an eye on our bags.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We've settled into the final two months of our trip and - according to plan - are now utilizing our Eurorail Pass. After buying individual train tickets throughout Germany, Switzerland and the other earlier countries, we realize in hindsight that it would have been far better (read cheaper) to just spring for the Eurorail unlimited Global Pass. As it is, we've got seven full days of travel to use over the next two months, spanning the four countries of France, Spain, Portugal and Italy. We'd forgotten that in our earlier booking of Eurorail we opted for First Class, unheard of at this point in the trip. Here, Dave relishing the elite status. Surely the grungiest duo in first class, but whatever - our money is as good as anybody's! Smell my privileged feet!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHRKuK0J_ZNs8jLbr_Rm6wshB5HLchpZCBkc0yC9Ru0mjG4VSgpytXbB-V7kzkFIK18fcMZlXRNK9G-fX0Epen1wnQdCUin49bSWqo7di04NKboarTPCzBkdtjedHGCCH9-mwRG_aRiQ/s1600/IMG_0003_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHRKuK0J_ZNs8jLbr_Rm6wshB5HLchpZCBkc0yC9Ru0mjG4VSgpytXbB-V7kzkFIK18fcMZlXRNK9G-fX0Epen1wnQdCUin49bSWqo7di04NKboarTPCzBkdtjedHGCCH9-mwRG_aRiQ/s320/IMG_0003_2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina on an early bike ride exploring the nearby town of Bensafrim. Cobblestone, one-lane streets tested her newfound bicycle skills and she passed with flying colors, or at least without any wrecks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPX_HG-5oDmifBCRbzqbns8K1LadiU7lqw8D-mVw89qA9e6Q8FsxfZ0xF9j0TupuzoEPynE3a8N9UzoNOLRO2Sn5V1_ExpLzuKuwT_XA1Y8AGjeITWV-gGf0vx5s7pNXgckqEN-_rFSA/s1600/IMG_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSPX_HG-5oDmifBCRbzqbns8K1LadiU7lqw8D-mVw89qA9e6Q8FsxfZ0xF9j0TupuzoEPynE3a8N9UzoNOLRO2Sn5V1_ExpLzuKuwT_XA1Y8AGjeITWV-gGf0vx5s7pNXgckqEN-_rFSA/s320/IMG_0006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The countryside around Bensafrim.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_GQS0W3U7dp9QxkXRlmmeFI0JnUfAhYiRc4aEmvrICvvLzipBz0qvcon9BAExHoe_zm3oVt87ytappC8k_hEKilRRHkEWhHtospxfWPSMgdR3ux540HEwDhVILTIdLEMM67R1cM_7j8M/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_GQS0W3U7dp9QxkXRlmmeFI0JnUfAhYiRc4aEmvrICvvLzipBz0qvcon9BAExHoe_zm3oVt87ytappC8k_hEKilRRHkEWhHtospxfWPSMgdR3ux540HEwDhVILTIdLEMM67R1cM_7j8M/s320/IMG_0010.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The site of our early work here on the farm. Tilling the dry, clayey soil has proven back-breaking but it's great to be back in a work rhythm. Shown are the early stages of a raised bed frame that we built.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The finished product. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnsEKOfKqQri1XIaRLSQT7nhEdeGlcSuV2XvtV1km4PUdemQ7mlfTOCzXfHD_WBWsl0HOae6WTdLwFDJqDe3Kv0FrzlnLQoAIkAGsBrU2BK1-iCFJg8LTTK7-MKTpsq1SnRAXnkN8RMo/s1600/IMG_0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnsEKOfKqQri1XIaRLSQT7nhEdeGlcSuV2XvtV1km4PUdemQ7mlfTOCzXfHD_WBWsl0HOae6WTdLwFDJqDe3Kv0FrzlnLQoAIkAGsBrU2BK1-iCFJg8LTTK7-MKTpsq1SnRAXnkN8RMo/s320/IMG_0021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We've worked a lot with the carob tree in our early time here. Enormous pods fall off the trees, which can then be ground into a fine powder and used as a nutritious substitute for cocoa. It has kind of a smokey, chocolatey raisin flavor. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlajEKOFIA_pXM0M3kOgFsVEMPsIiYyOskbJUB1LZlVvyjkdDd-2KpdSqudLXMX1bEfLr9fwgmowkJvElF0HFT8yedpntxkfG744QYfiTkf-0FzHfIvXuTiBR7kdeNBLZtfIkTHNCGCls/s1600/IMG_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlajEKOFIA_pXM0M3kOgFsVEMPsIiYyOskbJUB1LZlVvyjkdDd-2KpdSqudLXMX1bEfLr9fwgmowkJvElF0HFT8yedpntxkfG744QYfiTkf-0FzHfIvXuTiBR7kdeNBLZtfIkTHNCGCls/s320/IMG_0025.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An experiment we tried with our host Willem, roasting the carob seeds in the hopes of utilizing the highly-nutritious seeds. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEzMtcnBkeg-XnXKfh2XOAoGm0q2_TUmL4G2mt56PNx1aiyDhhonKjyFsPlSHfAvCKKhW076534rUFHsa3XCvG8eZtZK1ndXd3fmqsXcQmZZcXrhp0LjOkhkGbvhV7kBJbiIZPp6hLjY/s1600/IMG_0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPEzMtcnBkeg-XnXKfh2XOAoGm0q2_TUmL4G2mt56PNx1aiyDhhonKjyFsPlSHfAvCKKhW076534rUFHsa3XCvG8eZtZK1ndXd3fmqsXcQmZZcXrhp0LjOkhkGbvhV7kBJbiIZPp6hLjY/s320/IMG_0030.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The surrounding Portugees countryside. We are in the southern area known as the Algarve region, where olive trees and extensive citrus farms are dominant and where tourists apparently flock in the summers. The climate is almost desert-like; extremely dry, very warm and beautiful during the day, then rapidly cooling and downright freezing at night. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willem and Soledad (our host) own a good stretch of property and are working to develop the land for food provision. They are also sprucing up a few spaces on the property to offer as tourist rentals. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wtbO0OLtsKG8kiuK3aUvBFn7kVNB4meOouAIXoR1pvQz1kqm9NKdQFQ6ItBIDj3gylEEh91st5nYXy5stRZAoeNE87evT-JfNUvYf2_cvEAc7O6aiAX6uH7YkRUML5hVtOxwWHDZyM8/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wtbO0OLtsKG8kiuK3aUvBFn7kVNB4meOouAIXoR1pvQz1kqm9NKdQFQ6ItBIDj3gylEEh91st5nYXy5stRZAoeNE87evT-JfNUvYf2_cvEAc7O6aiAX6uH7YkRUML5hVtOxwWHDZyM8/s320/IMG_0002.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina enjoying a petite beer on the front terrace of the local watering hole, called the <i>Barbaro</i> ('the barbarian'). Unlike some places we've been previously (Paris, Switzerland, Finland, even Germany) Portugal is relatively cheap. A round at happy hour runs us 1.60 (Euro). Clearly Germany (and especially Munich) had an effect on Christina, who never liked that beer bite before this trip.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhqIzx5_yhshNiXP66j7DAcFCg81tEuRkEMDwzYni7AH073YEruhlcyavh2lLsBUuEXTxYGXqOl4Y6zSlbxISr31qhe5lZqdd5a3DKAEepEk3ZBZHhzQ9bj0DEndTfZzDAIq89mggcNzE/s1600/IMG_0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhqIzx5_yhshNiXP66j7DAcFCg81tEuRkEMDwzYni7AH073YEruhlcyavh2lLsBUuEXTxYGXqOl4Y6zSlbxISr31qhe5lZqdd5a3DKAEepEk3ZBZHhzQ9bj0DEndTfZzDAIq89mggcNzE/s320/IMG_0003.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many people (thanks ma!) gave us socks for Christmas gifts and boy did we need them. Most of the pairs we left with had holes by Estonia. Here Dave with a woolen offering. </td></tr>
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</div>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-25750897989775509732012-01-18T12:43:00.000-08:002012-01-18T12:43:08.755-08:00From Paris with LoveWe flew out of Helsinki in the early morning of January 5th. Our destination was Paris, where we intended to spend several days celebrating Christina's 30th birthday with at least a bit of decadence in a journey that has otherwise been characterized by sticking to a tight, frugal budget.<br />
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The city was magical, and all of the supposed snootiness that one hears of Parisians (especially towards Americans) never became apparent. Indeed, after the emotionally distant, typically indifferent and occasionally frosty social reception we became used to in Northern Europe and the Baltic area, Parisians seemed downright charming. We stumbled through our broken French, which surely helped, but the place was bound to leave a positive mark. We dove into all the city had to offer, covering an immense amount of ground over three days with a combination of subway mastery and many self-guided tours taken on foot. The sights and history of Paris were fascinating and varied, and the city is brimming with places to explore, art to appreciate, and simple pleasures to be had. Since the trip brought many experiences and one big change to the trip, we decided to share Paris from separate viewpoints and with different entries.<br />
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<u>Dave's Paris</u><br />
I've known that Christina is something special for quite a long time. Hell, it was I who tracked her down at that first teaching conference way back in New Orleans three years ago. I engaged her in conversation after leaving some workshop ("The Visual Politics of Race," I believe.... something like that), followed her out into the French Quarter alone to go dancing with her and her teacher friends, and then charmed my way into our first date (which she will to this day tell you was a meeting she only intended to be brief and dismissive). She has made some of the biggest leaps herself, moving to Miami being one, so her foresight deserves credit as well, but my point is that I knew she was something to hold on to from the very beginning. And from the beginning of this trip I had plans to propose, especially after my dearest grandmother convinced me to spend my (at the time miniscule) ring-savings on something else and to accept the engagement ring my grandfather had once given to her, keeping it in the family. We visited Nana in her Tampa community on the way out of Florida, and she pulled me into her carpeted bedroom at one point when Christina was showering. She told me she sensed something about Christina and asked me if I thought she was the one. "Absolutely Nana, yes." She tucked the ring box into my hand, told me the story of how my grandfather gave it to her, and things were set in motion.<br />
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We have lived for this entire trip out of our two frame backpacks. Every zipper and every compartment is filled with some item deemed essential to our journey, and we've done well to keep things light (something that is aided by our policy of leaving one or more objects behind at every stop we make). Hiding something in these circumstances, however, is not easy. On many occasions Christina would be rooting around in our bags, looking for some thing or another and I would anxiously ask at her from across the room "what are you doing? What are you looking for? Tell me, I'll get it." She apparently thought nothing of it and chalked it up to me being militant about my packing (which I am), but for me I was sure that my cover was blown every time she went looking for a headlamp, her travel yoga mat, whatever.<br />
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The last day was the worst. Leaving Helsinki on some unknown airline, I transferred the ring out of our backpacks (which we checked as luggage) and tucked it into the small carry-on pouch that we kept with us as essential in case anything happened to our bags that we sent away on that airline conveyor belt before boarding, such an modern type of faith. Our first night was our intended visit to the Eiffel Tower, my target location, and I then had to keep the ring tucked in my jacket pocket. The night was blustery and cold, and every time she saddled up next to me to walk arm-in-arm or to hug in the waiting line for Eiffel Tower tickets I tried to discreetly shift her arms or spin her around into some awkward form of embrace so she wouldn't brush up against what was so obviously a boxy lump protruding out from my breast pocket. I was sure she'd felt it at least several times and was being a good sport, waiting for me as our walk around the upper tower progressed and wondering what was taking me so long. I had a whole thing planned out, a speech about our growth and our trials and our adventures together and how I wanted many more, but to be honest I can't remember what came out as the wind whipped about - <i>howled</i> - and the lights of nighttime Paris twinkled around us. I do remember that I abruptly dropped down and begged her to marry me, and she said yes. The city is a special place and brought us to a new place in our relationship. And now Christina can do the packing from here on out without me making a peep.<br />
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The rest of the city was a joy. We celebrated her birthday the next day, taking a fantastic walking tour through the Latin Quarter of the city and seeing several non-descript locations of great literary significance, from George Orwell's flat during his time as a dishwasher, to Hemmingways early apartments, and on to the cafe's frequented by Sartre and de Beauvoir. We then went for a cocktail at Harry's New York bar, a storied place that is said to have created the first Bloody Mary (which we tried, and it was delicious, at least one of the best three I've ever). We ended with a fantastic birthday dinner at a tucked-away restaurant called L' Pre Verre, which served fantastic and rich French cuisine.<br />
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Over the next few days we saw some of the most incredible sights of the trip. We fought through a wall of tourists for just a few serene moments to look at the Mona Lisa within the massive Louvre Museum. We were giddy with excitement at the Pantheon, a hulking monument that houses France's most prized historical figures; Christina had her moment with Victor Hugo, I had mine with Marie Curie. We stared in awe at some of the most impressive architecture (in the form of churches, always churches) that we've ever seen at Notre Dame and St. Sulpice. And we even made decapitation jokes (perhaps in poor taste) at the death site of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI.<br />
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All in all, Paris will be a highlight of the trip and a highlight for life. I encourage anyone to go there, especially with a loved one.<br />
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<u><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Christina's Paris: </u></div>
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After a rather long night in the airport and two flights, we finally made it to Paris! As we anxiously awaited our bags at baggage claim, we made our plans for the afternoon. I was excited to be in the city and knew our time was limited, but I was certainly exhausted. David seemed to be all too eager to drop our bags off at the hotel and head out to see the sights. Admittedly, I wanted to take advantage of all Paris had to offer, but in those moments as we waited for our bags, I was exhausted and the idea of a nap began to sound more and more inviting. Nonetheless, we whipped out our guide book, given to us by Indrek (Liisa's cousin) and planned our subway route to our hotel. Upon arriving at our small and in need of some repair hotel room, we showered and ventured out into the city. Although it had been raining when we first arrived, the sun had since peered through and we reveled in the sunlight - something we had been missing in Estonia. We grabbed a quick bite to eat and then made our way to the Eiffel Tower, our first landmark. </div>
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It has certainly been a blessing to travel at a time when tourism is fairly low. In general, we've had fairly easy entry into the famous sights across Europe, and while Paris was no different, there were certainly more tourists and longer lines than we would have expected for January. Nonetheless, we waited our turn, hugging each other for warmth marveling at the impressive structure above us. Eventually we purchased our tickets, boarded the elevator (keeping an eye out for pickpockets as the signs encouraged) and made our way to the second level of the tower. Due to intense wind, tourists were not allowed to the upper levels of the tower. Standing on the second level of the Eiffel it was clear why. The wind howled about us as we looked over Paris, pointing out some the recognizable landmarks to each other. Despite my exhaustion I was so glad we'd made the effort. Before us was the city we'd spend the next few days exploring. The city I had only read about and seen in movies.</div>
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At some point, we found a tucked away corner with few tourists and ventured as close to the edge as the wind and our hearts would allow. The wind howled about us and David began reflecting on our lives, our relationship, our future. In general, he's a reflective guy, but I chalked this particular moment up to the mystique and romance of this great city. I strained to hear him above the noise of the wind, affirming his thoughts about our year thus far and the next steps we had been discussing as of late. Suddenly, he whipped me around, pulled me from the edge and drew me closer to a beam, blocking some of the wind. To my utter surprise, he bent down on one knee and asked me to marry him. Tears welled up in my eyes and the words I wanted to say caught in my throat and all I could say, over and over again was "yes, yes, yes." With the wind whipping about us, and the howling of it surrounding us, I crouched down closer to David, and continued to utter the only word I could form "yes, yes, yes." </div>
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Afterwards, I could in no way shake the ear to ear smile from my face and we walked arm and arm around the tower once more and then made our way back down to street level to further explore the city. </div>
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I was truly surprised by the proposal. At no moment had I even sensed, what he later confessed, was his awkward shifting of my hands and body away from the ring in his pocket. Up until then I had merely thought David was an intense packer, always packing the bags himself, anxious that I would disturb the neat and ordered system and eager to find my yoga mat or make up kit for me. In fact, when he almost jumped across the conveyer belt that morning to keep a security guard from opening our carry-on in our view, I thought he had hidden some small birthday trinket purchased in Estonia. I was shocked to find out he had been hiding an engagement ring in our bags the entire time. Since announcing our engagement, I've gotten quite a few requests for pictures and descriptions of the ring. Let me say this... I feel honored to be able to wear Nana's (David's grandmother) ring. I've been told when she was given the ring, the three bands represented the past, present and future of her relationship with her husband. My past with David has been storied - from our chance meeting, to our immediate falling for each other, my epic move to Miami and our decision to take off this year. Our present is glorious and as we travel together and explore these new countries, cities and ways of living we've only grown closer and more in love. I'm looking forward to the future we've discussed and the one we can't even begin to imagine. I feel incredibly lucky to have found (or been found, according to him) by such a wonderful man. </div>
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Of course, Paris will always have a special place in our hearts. We spent the rest of our trip taking self guided walking tours, eating delicious food and counting the number of Parisians we saw carrying a baguette. Aside from David's romantic and magical proposal, I will always remember eating quiche in the park, meeting an American couple at a creperie, combing the shelves of a used English language bookstore, visiting to the tomb of my favorite author, Victor Hugo, walking arm and arm along the Siene, and visiting the former homes and haunts of some of my favorite writers. All in all this was a birthday better than any I could have dreamed of. A perfect Parisian stay. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vB91dRzgjLjPKEmi8Od2OflDIPo05lM_xTIeqlNMM4OEjKHlhz5MBBR_GB1Novkx0TZ5ALnDdRG_XSVbGMy2jOl4H6P7SUq3ujxWDNymDnGJ1KYvsC6HZm_Gr5CKeIXKh0ch5OhS3FY/s1600/IMG_0145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vB91dRzgjLjPKEmi8Od2OflDIPo05lM_xTIeqlNMM4OEjKHlhz5MBBR_GB1Novkx0TZ5ALnDdRG_XSVbGMy2jOl4H6P7SUq3ujxWDNymDnGJ1KYvsC6HZm_Gr5CKeIXKh0ch5OhS3FY/s320/IMG_0145.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Eiffel Tower from below. Dave is sweating at this point.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Focault's Pendulum (modeling the rotation of the Earth) in the center of the Pantheon. A science teacher's dream.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Voltaire's tomb in the lower crypt level of the Pantheon. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marie and Pierre Curie. Dave has told many a science class about these two, and now look at him. They're in there!!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A highlight in Christina's literary life, by Victor Hugo's tomb. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The St. Sulpice Church. It annoyed us that the guide book included this in the "Literary Loop" walking tour only because it was the setting of a few scenes in Dan Brown's the Davinci Code, and we almost skipped the place for that reason. When we walked by it however, we were awestruck and had to venture inside. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQu7a9lks85h44UiJ2Idts_g4Ai8JCPdYZ3Se9H9ZzJHRcMU6xf_NEkimuyjOtjBUv4swvYum8BpY1nTDelHKIWg8fmPIgwp3-6grxLBCt4rwf3c2_HNLDhjpWVlBaiF06v_coCkIJbA/s1600/IMG_0236.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQu7a9lks85h44UiJ2Idts_g4Ai8JCPdYZ3Se9H9ZzJHRcMU6xf_NEkimuyjOtjBUv4swvYum8BpY1nTDelHKIWg8fmPIgwp3-6grxLBCt4rwf3c2_HNLDhjpWVlBaiF06v_coCkIJbA/s320/IMG_0236.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry's New York Bar and it's legendary Bloody Mary. We studied the bartender intently as he mixed and here's what we learned: ice halfway up the glass, two salt shakers shaken for several seconds over the ice, a couple dashes of tabasco, a few healthier dashes more of worchestershire sauce, an equal amount of lemon juice, vodka up to about two inches from the top of the glass, topped off with tomato juice. Simple, delicious, and high-octane.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Church of Mary Magdalene, an impressive structure.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina enjoying one of the many crepes of the trip. They were all very delicious, and this version (with sugar, butter and lemon) was her favorite. The Louvre Art Museum in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There she is, the Mona Lisa. Christina is appropriately unimpressed by the flocking, picture-snapping tourists. Just look at the damn thing!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An entry into our photo-series "Why Tourists Are Crazy." One out of every ten seemed to actually possess the reverence that such a work of art would seem to demand. The other nine were either a) snapping pictures of the painting constantly, b) looking away from the painting and snapping a picture back at themselves with the painting in the background, or c) pickpockets.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cathedral of Notre Dame at night. A stunning piece of gothic architecture.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris lights in the background of our last night.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where Louis XVI was beheaded during the French Revolution. Dave, simulating.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hemingway and Hadley's first Paris apartment. In the romance of walking the streets of the Latin Quarter we toyed with the idea of staying in Paris, finding our own small apartment and trying our hand at the artists' life. We soon came to realize, times are not what they once were. In a bookstore we found some of Hemingway's accounts of his life in Paris, where he and Hadley were able to live on just $30 a month. How times have changed. We will be coming home. :-) </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our hotel was just off this busy market street. Every morning the streets were filled with fruit sellers, the smell of baked goods and vendors of delicious, rotisserie chicken. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our attempts at capturing gay Paris in a pose...</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLBEIrc9buXVBTxMJlm6hyoIvD_p4q305iw2IOmoL7gYlSnM1Vdf1jWHxHl8spYn-0AdKugv_3wLiQVBW0Ms3pHk_4NfW6GVOiCCDMsxP5gWguecy5GPC5zWvUDVqlKnHTjBkaIDv5NgQ/s1600/IMG_0009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLBEIrc9buXVBTxMJlm6hyoIvD_p4q305iw2IOmoL7gYlSnM1Vdf1jWHxHl8spYn-0AdKugv_3wLiQVBW0Ms3pHk_4NfW6GVOiCCDMsxP5gWguecy5GPC5zWvUDVqlKnHTjBkaIDv5NgQ/s200/IMG_0009.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-58629255954041012362012-01-12T09:29:00.000-08:002012-01-12T09:29:16.066-08:00Estonia for the Holidays<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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After reveling in the food and beverage options of Germany,
we headed for our holiday destination: Estonia. If you’re not sure where
Estonia is, exactly, look at a map of Europe and keep going north. You’ll find
the capital of Estonia, Tallinn, just across the Batlic Sea, south of Helsinki.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As many Estonians were all too ready to remind us, December
is not an ideal time to visit Estonia. For the purposes of our journey it
worked perfectly, as a good friend of mine (Christina's), Liisa, is from Estonia and
was going to be around for the holidays and graciously offered to host us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Our flight to Estonia was on Ryaniar, a budget airline which
saves on operational cost by choosing airports with low or no airport taxes.
So, when you are flying Ryanair and your ticket says “Dusseldorf,” for example,
your flight is unlikely to be out of the Dusseldorf airport, but a small,
former military base a considerable distance from the commercial airport. In
our case, this airport outside of Dusseldorf was Weeze. We arrived in Weeze
only to find out the hostel we had booked was 700 meters from the airport.
There was no shuttle, and it was dark and rainy. Given our early morning
flight, we decided to forego the sketchy hostel stay and long walks in the dark
and pouring rain, and opted instead for a night in the airport waiting area. We
were not alone. By the time our flight departed at 6am the next morning, the
waiting area was full of sleeping travelers spread across benches, tucked away
in corners and propped against luggage. Perhaps the most notable person in the
airport was the late night cashier at the only open café. From the moment of
her arrival until she left the next morning, she fed the gambling machine
(ubiquitous in Europe). When the café
was empty she sat in front of the machine continually feeding it change. At
busy times, she hastily served customers, her eyes fixed on the scrolling
images of fruit, gold stars and dollar signs. At one point she became
frustrated with patrons who wanted to try their hand at the machine. We only
hope she wasn’t using the café proceeds to feed her habit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We arrived in Estonia at 10am the next morning, exhausted
and cramped from our night. Liisa, my close friend from college, met
us at the airport and immediately whisked us away to a local café. We were astonished at the prices. A breakfast plate of scrambled eggs, bacon
and toast only set us back about 4 Euros each. Estonia was going to ease the financial
hit we took in Switzerland for sure! <o:p></o:p></div>
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Liisa lives in Tallinn, Estonia the capital and one of
Estonia’s three largest cities. Tallinn sits right on the shores of the Baltic
Sea and our ride from the airport to her house made of straw (we kid you not),
was picturesque. Tallinn’s city center
was quite walkable and after a few days of recovering from our travels and
adjusting to the few hours of daylight, we set out to explore. The city center
consists of a new city and an old town. Old Town is the remnant of Tallinn’s
medieval days, complete with a city wall, medieval towers and stunning
churches. Through our sightseeing and conversations with Estonian’s we learned
that Estonia has been conquered multiple times by many of its neighbors, from
the Swedes, to the Germans, to the Russians. According to some, this history of
invasion explains the average Estonian’s suspicion of foreigners, and guarded
personality. It was not uncommon for
people to appear shocked at the sight of a brown-skinned person in their city,
or for shop clerks and waiters to be distant and less than inviting. Still for
most of our stay we were in the company of friends and were wholly welcomed at
Liisa’s family and friends' Christmas and New Year’s events. We were particularly grateful to Liisa's parents, who gave us a wonderful cabin to sleep in - complete with cozy fireplace and the standard wood-heated sauna - and who welcomed us into their Christmas traditions, most notably the Christmas Eve practice of performing some sort of act for each gift received. I joined Liisa for a choreographed dance of 'Santa Baby,' Dave and I together gave a candlelight reading of 'A Night Before Christmas,' and then we both sang a round of jingle bells while Dave juggled. They were goofy performances, but they certainly brought a high level of energy to the proceedings, characterized otherwise by most others reciting a piece of familial significance or reading a dirty Christmas poem (these had never happened before apparently, and only occurred this year because Liisa's beloved grandmother had passed away earlier in the year and opened the floor to more salacious offerings). <o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps the toughest part of our Estonian stay was getting
used to the short days. On average, there was about 5 – 6 hours of daylight.
The sun rarely poked through gray skies and the cold weather made it difficult
for us to muster up the energy to hit the pavement the way we have in previous
cities. Nevertheless, we managed to visit a few museums, found one of the best
bar’s we’ve encountered so far (Porgu... amazing beer selection, amazing wings), take a road trip to Latvia, and make friends
with a very talented Swede. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Enjoy the photographs, captions and movies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCKgWoe2nj6R87ulDk8mRA_HQ-W110074mftrOnbp0xDzOK7UbrA-LB6zqXwsVQTdoulcElGV3s9hK1KmSY-ey4vciWnXeyLXpo5yPOHIXQnF6mkrc6Ud5OUFal_mq5r0JSW3Uc5RHdIA/s1600/IMG_0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCKgWoe2nj6R87ulDk8mRA_HQ-W110074mftrOnbp0xDzOK7UbrA-LB6zqXwsVQTdoulcElGV3s9hK1KmSY-ey4vciWnXeyLXpo5yPOHIXQnF6mkrc6Ud5OUFal_mq5r0JSW3Uc5RHdIA/s400/IMG_0033.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pay public toilets are everywhere in Europe. This one was rumored to cost Estonia 60,000 Euros to build. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Lcxr30rZh2ZLsvtJM3Mwewum_9RJ6iymbCZyaIT5E5aU0ghXtqYGnuTnQO0po-RVFYmYTOVoK2LnC4NpI3tpipwPE-pdnMJIgqNLIcYDuaAGYxWtTxhx80nYL-cvOP661UktEsOY-uxl/s1600/IMG_0016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Lcxr30rZh2ZLsvtJM3Mwewum_9RJ6iymbCZyaIT5E5aU0ghXtqYGnuTnQO0po-RVFYmYTOVoK2LnC4NpI3tpipwPE-pdnMJIgqNLIcYDuaAGYxWtTxhx80nYL-cvOP661UktEsOY-uxl/s400/IMG_0016.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As we mentioned, Tallinn is a medieval city and large portions of the city wall that once surrounded the elevated city center are still in tact. Here, Dave becomes the latest in a long line of conquerors. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHSpyZEhCvSDYf3AOXZ5zFbOXow2OOGGc1vuV-9GWAlaEQIFhCvh9Eg0PUBSYwoj5QVlwykcv_iDgfxLySyVptmpOUi0fl7sa77DJBSCslDZ3L_9sn6ldYZauiYrGqlwOEcp6TroRq7rJ/s1600/IMG_0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHSpyZEhCvSDYf3AOXZ5zFbOXow2OOGGc1vuV-9GWAlaEQIFhCvh9Eg0PUBSYwoj5QVlwykcv_iDgfxLySyVptmpOUi0fl7sa77DJBSCslDZ3L_9sn6ldYZauiYrGqlwOEcp6TroRq7rJ/s400/IMG_0018.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every few years this natural spring erupts. It's a national event in Estonia, and we were there to witness it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUONBQj98F-F6PdCCGSzNF9_hi_gYSAkpNphvDyz6tXK1jjB9fqGw-GUUWqs0OHGOaV3POIa-rpC_EuGt1e-LPTKdeQ3NSsUv-mkE1h5cbXxrbzaXFsGCjzpkYjNP6UWhZeBmUix3WNpUM/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUONBQj98F-F6PdCCGSzNF9_hi_gYSAkpNphvDyz6tXK1jjB9fqGw-GUUWqs0OHGOaV3POIa-rpC_EuGt1e-LPTKdeQ3NSsUv-mkE1h5cbXxrbzaXFsGCjzpkYjNP6UWhZeBmUix3WNpUM/s400/IMG_0023.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina and Liisa. Liisa drove us around quite a bit and gave us some fantastic tours, as only a local and a friend could do. This was a lunch stop at the Saku brewery. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcN-IfGZ3dv6hK-uLTRz22HDHD7lti0tOcw-L5CBg4Kq9LaEI6Qr7Mqi-2Vt132GyzC9hokE-yH4_xF_qwVu0QDSUEJz_MQKcj2If6x3GAb0WLgoKMC9cLJvsZTWCZRtxucSXtEYpx9Ny/s1600/IMG_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcN-IfGZ3dv6hK-uLTRz22HDHD7lti0tOcw-L5CBg4Kq9LaEI6Qr7Mqi-2Vt132GyzC9hokE-yH4_xF_qwVu0QDSUEJz_MQKcj2If6x3GAb0WLgoKMC9cLJvsZTWCZRtxucSXtEYpx9Ny/s400/IMG_0049.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Tallinn from a lookout spot atop the city wall. Notice the reflector on David's arm. For obvious safety reasons (i.e. it is dark almost any time you will be walking, commuting, etc) it's required that everyone in Estonia wear a reflector. In the background is the Baltic.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8Bi5NXVNfs8Swp7kkDXG1Pc8qJ1wyf6vXwXYaiHdvmPRA2eLGcKKpXV-8NVEIcs4AMiAjjQ2DXcsD1lYkeZoSXd65DlJrmp378ZlpNbrbmQDDMKXm2vurG76MjElr30hI6_Gs-d6ZOtG/s1600/IMG_0081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8Bi5NXVNfs8Swp7kkDXG1Pc8qJ1wyf6vXwXYaiHdvmPRA2eLGcKKpXV-8NVEIcs4AMiAjjQ2DXcsD1lYkeZoSXd65DlJrmp378ZlpNbrbmQDDMKXm2vurG76MjElr30hI6_Gs-d6ZOtG/s400/IMG_0081.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our road trips was to Riga, Latvia. Latvia was an interesting country to visit. Although it is a member of the European Union, it has its own currency, the Lat. Latvia has not satisfied all of the requirements to be a complete member and thus to have the Euro. The country is currently being supported by the IMF. Although the city center was beautiful, on the outskirts of the city, the countries financial difficulties were evident.<br /> In this photo, David and Liisa enjoy a happy hour, two drinks for the price of one, special. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmFKCGoWFRq8Ny2Vl6nCh5NGaOAJGj8skuji3fg4o7k-Vtikd1hgvqWnYcnvI3XcMpGH2bfXtMrnI4wcu8BKtyphOejCPGw-ABMEmtNSNT-3mTmxKpBvz5eEaNbuDwwPyuuHpAUurO1oN/s1600/IMG_0094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmFKCGoWFRq8Ny2Vl6nCh5NGaOAJGj8skuji3fg4o7k-Vtikd1hgvqWnYcnvI3XcMpGH2bfXtMrnI4wcu8BKtyphOejCPGw-ABMEmtNSNT-3mTmxKpBvz5eEaNbuDwwPyuuHpAUurO1oN/s400/IMG_0094.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For the holidays we stayed with Liisa's family just outside of Tartu, one of Estonia's other major cities. David, curious about a statue in Tartu city center. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8DI3JckgQSXi98XHzQcNrsbnnEwhL5wHlKMPVInMznPgK0tYTHLvD1LxA3Guatco6FmbTDc_Fw5urspFYfM32IDN3OImCAa0MGpfkmQ_mZXVAgxRuPnRkS1fzztvowsB5djVGAQ45bIg/s1600/IMG_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8DI3JckgQSXi98XHzQcNrsbnnEwhL5wHlKMPVInMznPgK0tYTHLvD1LxA3Guatco6FmbTDc_Fw5urspFYfM32IDN3OImCAa0MGpfkmQ_mZXVAgxRuPnRkS1fzztvowsB5djVGAQ45bIg/s400/IMG_0102.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of beautiful church ruins in Tartu city center. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBiFs6JsjwomhWQdKLox7l5ti31PljzvWrzfiXvpSAD8czNKABied_fI7s08tfQcTUl4T9q_NsvfyBUVyGrVYpYFHEWQaa2STsh1gEzY6RnbGAGnbDHBYH9DtCSF33HgNq_RDgOwaFxHz/s1600/IMG_0112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDBiFs6JsjwomhWQdKLox7l5ti31PljzvWrzfiXvpSAD8czNKABied_fI7s08tfQcTUl4T9q_NsvfyBUVyGrVYpYFHEWQaa2STsh1gEzY6RnbGAGnbDHBYH9DtCSF33HgNq_RDgOwaFxHz/s400/IMG_0112.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liisa and her dog Moyna on walk to the village swing. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT9WTX_bqSNTXsfoUsjmi0Pfo5TNyrA3_itS4T4DuUrEXQv041-QskKSp9-vrsC1hxhd62oLTTRGeBXpKb8to0bIFoP5pq-m02ne1TW-dGMLE83_HY6sYLUsMI7rXnUxm8iIjWMWvpUqkl/s1600/IMG_0126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT9WTX_bqSNTXsfoUsjmi0Pfo5TNyrA3_itS4T4DuUrEXQv041-QskKSp9-vrsC1hxhd62oLTTRGeBXpKb8to0bIFoP5pq-m02ne1TW-dGMLE83_HY6sYLUsMI7rXnUxm8iIjWMWvpUqkl/s400/IMG_0126.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our most memorable moments of the trip will surely be New Year's Eve. We were invited to a party in Tallinn's Old Town. The beautiful apartment, had a wonderful balcony overlooking Tallinn. At midnight the city erupted in fireworks to ring in the New Year. Light snow fell and the sky lit up in colors as we rang in 2012. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxlKwwwZrOan3ElEqFY3D-yt3hiy1-LKpIjCb0yTDsckxW3ZrX62gvbbSeNdvSp9yEEvH_q9OItPOjUaADUr5mrZ1jzPA93kFmtoxWf-NQnJrsCwPO0G5oIe-mBvx1-3z7sGTi-nKHXzv/s1600/IMG_0024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxlKwwwZrOan3ElEqFY3D-yt3hiy1-LKpIjCb0yTDsckxW3ZrX62gvbbSeNdvSp9yEEvH_q9OItPOjUaADUr5mrZ1jzPA93kFmtoxWf-NQnJrsCwPO0G5oIe-mBvx1-3z7sGTi-nKHXzv/s400/IMG_0024.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flame thrower just outside of The Old Hansa - A medieval themed restaurant. Elizabeth, a friend, sent us gift certificates for this attraction. We had a fun time eating amidst candle light, and taking a trip back in time. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOYkpU_H6OIrQ7cN02xh7taBu8yfSNbMkdOojci3t37p9kTPmoINPwawvYgLENk611Nxn1OeX2hu_L0O2LYV0-eqx3QsHH-msFzu-svhTfJi6L5Ca3JhvLNIrqMFFSFPxB5DHhMZK91HXn/s1600/IMG_0027_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOYkpU_H6OIrQ7cN02xh7taBu8yfSNbMkdOojci3t37p9kTPmoINPwawvYgLENk611Nxn1OeX2hu_L0O2LYV0-eqx3QsHH-msFzu-svhTfJi6L5Ca3JhvLNIrqMFFSFPxB5DHhMZK91HXn/s400/IMG_0027_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entering Tallinn's medieval city gates. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp7nUItdgdwCuQKlKKEJvpGLZtHXt71qxJxIm4VVuc73EBOSWGrAVeOYIPfRj9o4wz-HKCqPkHFY-cloUS2pyUxeKLybSejjqrEi1iHXr1eQxLzkhKbyRFqHMnQ-hDKqS6Cp96Y14uVdY/s1600/IMG_0029_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp7nUItdgdwCuQKlKKEJvpGLZtHXt71qxJxIm4VVuc73EBOSWGrAVeOYIPfRj9o4wz-HKCqPkHFY-cloUS2pyUxeKLybSejjqrEi1iHXr1eQxLzkhKbyRFqHMnQ-hDKqS6Cp96Y14uVdY/s400/IMG_0029_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During our stay we became close with Jimi, a young Swede, who lived in the apartment below Liisa. Jimi was a very talented video artist and had been interviewing for jobs at prized video game companies. Just before we left, Jimi was hired by Ubisoft, his dream company! The night just before we left, Jimi packed his things and was off to Bulgaria to begin his career as a video game artist. We wish him well and look forward to crossing paths again. </td></tr>
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We departed Estonia under the cover of darkness for a very
early morning ferry ride to Helsinki, Finland. We had a day in Helsinki before
our trip to Paris and again we opted for an airport stay. This time, the
prohibitive cost of hotel rooms and food in Helsinki drove our decision. The airport had free (though finicky) wifi and we managed to
stake out a spot on the couch-like benches of an airport café. We spent the
night alternating between sleep, reading and catching up on some email
correspondence.</div>
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Since we had the day to spare we explored the city of
Helsinki, visiting perhaps the most intriguing church we’ve seen yet – The
Church of Rock. This church is built
literally inside of rock and from the outside all that is visible is the center
dome and the entrance. Helsinki is a fairly small city and we were able to put
our bags in train station lockers and then explore the city on foot. We visited
a few notable landmarks, sought refuge from the cold and snow in a rather
unimpressive bar and ate our delicious sandwiches we packed for our long day.
Overall, it was a great jaunt, and a chance to stretch our legs before our long
night and subsequent journey to Paris. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXefD2AUsMdocubZlhi_8YW5JGEgphKML3hxRXoje7yzuo9yhOPggsunyV3PVJWBUbABH57tYSghiRENe0RdgmAweCeszmBOIw29HBmgZC2bD5g2ShDe5NiZJ6KuXvjqHimDhRQo-9cX-c/s1600/IMG_0048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXefD2AUsMdocubZlhi_8YW5JGEgphKML3hxRXoje7yzuo9yhOPggsunyV3PVJWBUbABH57tYSghiRENe0RdgmAweCeszmBOIw29HBmgZC2bD5g2ShDe5NiZJ6KuXvjqHimDhRQo-9cX-c/s400/IMG_0048.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once it was light enough, we ventured out onto the deck of the ferry. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7ERkUjelfWtrK0I_Qcdbju5sr8B4jqoJllcjGtYDifJKT_cfVIrscPGq2FI3-8wNGC1AmMrLNHEESqvedWzOJjtVnGTeylDomHsvV1RXLAnDEFX1z7XvpxxmKFwfeMetf5-Selnyo9Mb/s1600/IMG_0053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7ERkUjelfWtrK0I_Qcdbju5sr8B4jqoJllcjGtYDifJKT_cfVIrscPGq2FI3-8wNGC1AmMrLNHEESqvedWzOJjtVnGTeylDomHsvV1RXLAnDEFX1z7XvpxxmKFwfeMetf5-Selnyo9Mb/s400/IMG_0053.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our view as we began to dock in Helsinki. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKUYIcz3L-lyEXAqYRwdCwHIKobICu-w9eG41iJ8qv_lu_6sQaSZR4q_AHMT-sus6xLbo0bfNqxN2MccOdMPloK57ichpBsdw2glSS9xtJRutdwLQmf8ZxRsiz8MxXF-IJw9sAt4xbVFGh/s1600/IMG_0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKUYIcz3L-lyEXAqYRwdCwHIKobICu-w9eG41iJ8qv_lu_6sQaSZR4q_AHMT-sus6xLbo0bfNqxN2MccOdMPloK57ichpBsdw2glSS9xtJRutdwLQmf8ZxRsiz8MxXF-IJw9sAt4xbVFGh/s400/IMG_0072.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Senate building in Helsinki. Despite the cold, there were tour bus loads of people snapping pictures. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0F7JZa-UnH0OVov40XdjqIUOPjqVkgb3cU-U-hqXQYR4b2iUHC1Yvk_rQBCD99GaFd_C7uWRPPUukoqmE2uxCrwOT42csw48KX5D_ln2_C9vFsEBJrHBU4FCmqcp_H5N4K9Mt4eJcgHS2/s1600/IMG_0078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0F7JZa-UnH0OVov40XdjqIUOPjqVkgb3cU-U-hqXQYR4b2iUHC1Yvk_rQBCD99GaFd_C7uWRPPUukoqmE2uxCrwOT42csw48KX5D_ln2_C9vFsEBJrHBU4FCmqcp_H5N4K9Mt4eJcgHS2/s400/IMG_0078.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We never understood why there was this enormous Rubiks Cube in the Helsinki Senate Square. At first we thought it was because it's inventor Erno Rubik was Finnish, but it turned out he was Hungarian. Either way, Dave grew up hating that thing and it's thwarting smugness. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_1DZ6Qvd962CG6kib2uHM9SQATVZPl1AOwNIqqSuLKALoHH-Yhh7z9W_irgkW4xvGKWF-dKgcX2U5X_V4tI50m8LsG4RQlwPZF_FLhy3XbvPv7D4jYp3VEusNcGz-sPmcuMuMsRAsqvV/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_1DZ6Qvd962CG6kib2uHM9SQATVZPl1AOwNIqqSuLKALoHH-Yhh7z9W_irgkW4xvGKWF-dKgcX2U5X_V4tI50m8LsG4RQlwPZF_FLhy3XbvPv7D4jYp3VEusNcGz-sPmcuMuMsRAsqvV/s400/IMG_0095.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The altar of the rock church. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7Rj-1cEoje3yQh8E-q6kPB5ZTR_fJ7TdcJToX_OC2QxP_aRrQK5rrhcdSY1w13gk0zcFCOerdI3WOznfS889lP4SAQGE7mmmfaK1NJ3gvMLT5iUOtznXpa2LkeFhxMH51_zroJwkc0k-/s1600/IMG_0111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7Rj-1cEoje3yQh8E-q6kPB5ZTR_fJ7TdcJToX_OC2QxP_aRrQK5rrhcdSY1w13gk0zcFCOerdI3WOznfS889lP4SAQGE7mmmfaK1NJ3gvMLT5iUOtznXpa2LkeFhxMH51_zroJwkc0k-/s400/IMG_0111.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from the balcony of the rock church. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhIE-EG5VWnuO3a658yLyiniy70upSOR5gseg9QveRExeTeC2PmE46MQX4nm4TUJ6O_fJazYYRts3Nf0Y-Ej-xwk33rkxkBHGJQwh3PBhjqUJehyphenhyphenKgUwR7k0zN4N2wUnW_7fTo7cb9VvL/s1600/IMG_0117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhIE-EG5VWnuO3a658yLyiniy70upSOR5gseg9QveRExeTeC2PmE46MQX4nm4TUJ6O_fJazYYRts3Nf0Y-Ej-xwk33rkxkBHGJQwh3PBhjqUJehyphenhyphenKgUwR7k0zN4N2wUnW_7fTo7cb9VvL/s400/IMG_0117.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outside of the rock church. Only the dome and the entrance (not in this picture) are visible form the outside. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_uk-CCxSQ8CbPr5a_z0yqIMlTMS_XplwSiH-MiORFWivJPelioavxDB9CfsJRPrLY477jRwjBt6hI4_4-sK1UtB1MX5EstEZPoMRP5P4uhMYv1IXkcvXkJrIOSc-mv2aWWaQLnAW_dfF/s1600/IMG_0127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_uk-CCxSQ8CbPr5a_z0yqIMlTMS_XplwSiH-MiORFWivJPelioavxDB9CfsJRPrLY477jRwjBt6hI4_4-sK1UtB1MX5EstEZPoMRP5P4uhMYv1IXkcvXkJrIOSc-mv2aWWaQLnAW_dfF/s400/IMG_0127.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of downtown Helsinki. An expensive city, but filled with beautiful architecture and a bustling populace.</td></tr>
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<!--EndFragment-->CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-41433981411878202722011-12-29T05:47:00.000-08:002011-12-29T05:47:50.220-08:00Stuttgart with StuAfter leaving Munich we entered into a welcome phase of our trip, whereby we arranged to stay with friends of ours for the weeks leading up to the holidays. These were visits with no expectation of working for our keep and where we were saved from being in hostels/hotels in foreign cities with no one to connect us to the local scene.<br />
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After some quick and effective planning over the previous two months, we arranged for the first of these "comfort stays" with a good friend of ours, Stu Java. I (Dave) got to know Stu very well during my time in Miami. After leaving South Florida, Stu has since been living in Stuttgart and working for the U.S. Defense Department for the last two years. He's a fantastic guy and a great friend, and he welcomed us into his home with grace and kindness. After our previous several weeks, with the chaotic adjustments in Switzerland and the flurry of activity and poor hostel-sleep in Munich, his downstairs guest space (complete with full-sized bed and a sleek bathroom/shower) felt downright luxurious, practically a five-star hotel for us smelly and weary travelers. We had a chance to catch up on some sleep and some long-overdue laundry, and then for the next several days we saw yet another fascinating German city, though this time with the nuanced approach afforded only by having a local companion to show you the way.<br />
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We toured Stuttgart's Christmas Markt, similar to many of the others that we have seen throughout Europe and yet much more impressive. It was certainly one of the biggest Christmas Markts we'd seen, with some of the best food offerings. There was the standard, and oh-so delicious Bratwurst - Dave's 40th, by rough estimate - and some funky warm drinks, including the ubiquitous hot, mulled "gluhwein," as well as hot mead (honey wine, Christina's favorite) and another beverage that Stu accurately described as hot, liquid cake batter....with booze. Stuttgart also had one of our favorite variations on the Christmas Markt model; the Medieval Markt, complete with food, drink, activities and vendors that were all gleefully stuck in the middle ages. Stu is an avid military history enthusiast and is well-versed in his Scottish heritage, while Christina and I are avid fantasy book dweebs. Needless to say we had a great night at the medieval markt, indulging in a few purchases and quite a few food and drink offerings.<br />
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Stu also showed us around some of Stuttgart's historical sites, giving us a tour of some major government and historical buildings, past city fortifications, and other parts of the surrounding city landscape, many of which are covered by extensive grape fields for wine production. Perhaps most welcome were the tours of Stu's local haunts, his favorite bars and eateries and the great folks we met along the way. The highlight of these were two Irish bars. There was the Auld Rogue, which served up a cheeseburger for the ages (it'd been a while for us Americans) and frothy beers in front of a TV displaying NFL games to a crowd of ex-pats. And then there was O'Reillys, which was a bit more traditional of a pub. On the night we showed up there was a group of local musicians playing traditional Irish songs to each other as they sat in a circle in a dimly-lit corner of the bar, downing pints and largely ignoring the random folks around them. We stayed there until closing, and that scene of sipping brews with our friend and quietly listening to the crew of men, young and old, as they belted out somber tunes, will be a memory that stands out. If you find yourself in Stuttgart, go to these two pubs and you will not be disappointed.<br />
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In all, Stu welcomed us into a glimpse of his life there in Stuttgart, and with the comfort of his home and the several home-cooked meals he whipped together for us (good cajun, southern cooking), we left feeling recharged and incredibly grateful.<br />
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After four days in Stuttgart, we joined Stu and his friend Steve on our train out of the city, ultimately parting ways at the Koln train station. Stu and Steve carried on to some of the towns surrounding Dusseldorf for a weekend of exploring local pubs, while Christina and I went further to some obscure, former-military base that was the departure point for our flight to Estonia, where we would spend the rest of our holidays. After a sleepless night in the airport, we took our rickety flight to Tallinn (Estonia's capital) and left Germany behind once and for all. Our time in Stuttgart was a fantastic send-off from the country that we had grown to love so much, and Stu was a great friend and guide at a time in our trip when we truly needed both.<br />
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Until the next.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYvleO7kdGzsx2jP1L8C6nyyEAHDuyBoR23lMWuISVIHv6pBV-pqX3uXSd2J2hKinHWD7op3xPNp1HodCw6MXbAMdcuaufRs_Go2CwoUQ-KxF_kCNoQvdXseIuD7MQXx-Q5xUjMvVlb8/s1600/IMG_0205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYvleO7kdGzsx2jP1L8C6nyyEAHDuyBoR23lMWuISVIHv6pBV-pqX3uXSd2J2hKinHWD7op3xPNp1HodCw6MXbAMdcuaufRs_Go2CwoUQ-KxF_kCNoQvdXseIuD7MQXx-Q5xUjMvVlb8/s320/IMG_0205.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our trio for the time in Stuttgart; Dave, Christina and Stu-Pac.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUjLhrnCx2ub1Ov8itMKlfs5y_tqzbZ6ngpGeEYgyrfnhXJlEdvzZP3bgIEIRAHIkkDGBy9ywybqm_uVQz95BpayAm0yp55MofgKD3o1pFUonf7P1dZgx2Fr9cHQxBqBOQsO-IR6jcqA/s1600/IMG_0207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUjLhrnCx2ub1Ov8itMKlfs5y_tqzbZ6ngpGeEYgyrfnhXJlEdvzZP3bgIEIRAHIkkDGBy9ywybqm_uVQz95BpayAm0yp55MofgKD3o1pFUonf7P1dZgx2Fr9cHQxBqBOQsO-IR6jcqA/s320/IMG_0207.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noel, the manager and bartender at the Auld Rogue. He runs a great pub and he worked the room effortlessly, never allowing a pint glass to be empty for too long. He gave us some great stories and some great suggestions for cities to visit later in our trip, specifically in northern Portugal. Pay Noel a visit if you find yourself in Stuttgart.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5BrEdT2RhS719aLPbdo5V6weFcav_7ZaXwpsTw0fI_sjZssvfjO4yx1OVoTYfrbFp9_7_8f1GblOs4ILWkUTSdZ1lpfw2wk9HHsl3-lU1M4Mx0KzJ7ppJyp1EgZJdZewCEDGfqlR_W8/s1600/IMG_0216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5BrEdT2RhS719aLPbdo5V6weFcav_7ZaXwpsTw0fI_sjZssvfjO4yx1OVoTYfrbFp9_7_8f1GblOs4ILWkUTSdZ1lpfw2wk9HHsl3-lU1M4Mx0KzJ7ppJyp1EgZJdZewCEDGfqlR_W8/s320/IMG_0216.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We saw yet another variety of Christmas Markt in Stuttgart, the Finnish version. Gluhwein with spiced chili vodka was the drink, and fire-smoked salmon was the dish. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6ARUi30jzEHZrG-S5hMjxY-vnAQeirfDCzc_lImtoSXVIwEq8rP24fg1uXagp6iU2jYVs57t8Oxque9bl5BFexTzxu_ozER_7-KkQvLwp1Ckv0VO37AbIHl8ly9qE65rLrvYCHiSrzw/s1600/IMG_0219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU6ARUi30jzEHZrG-S5hMjxY-vnAQeirfDCzc_lImtoSXVIwEq8rP24fg1uXagp6iU2jYVs57t8Oxque9bl5BFexTzxu_ozER_7-KkQvLwp1Ckv0VO37AbIHl8ly9qE65rLrvYCHiSrzw/s320/IMG_0219.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the fascinating architecture in Esslingen, a town just outside Stuttgart and the location of the medieval markt.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5MtQt9LBzLmmG2OKzK7nS3HXL2F60XAmOCO9O0ix50C66Xfa-VxdCPMy8NTjw6d0qHn47WL8lCv22BYn7AcXTglNKRcTFnLiZJMz0JRFOuBkmnPPgKwy2A_5OR9klHlD1SCFG6nyCBo/s1600/IMG_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5MtQt9LBzLmmG2OKzK7nS3HXL2F60XAmOCO9O0ix50C66Xfa-VxdCPMy8NTjw6d0qHn47WL8lCv22BYn7AcXTglNKRcTFnLiZJMz0JRFOuBkmnPPgKwy2A_5OR9klHlD1SCFG6nyCBo/s320/IMG_0225.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from the ancient city fortifications that lined Esslingen. The grape vines covered countless hillsides such as this, producing mainly Pinots and Rieslings. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiAow7-KBYUnlCvwyPc9ycJqpb33csxbHADs5xBoqzNqpjXihSzl7k6e6wSJw18w2lbLlLKAKQrH93ifTnh5smEO62WHII9Th1NMnfoIbFq_kWEu8j1EOlSkyx2yNBlhEp_45mYL1IEA/s1600/IMG_0232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiAow7-KBYUnlCvwyPc9ycJqpb33csxbHADs5xBoqzNqpjXihSzl7k6e6wSJw18w2lbLlLKAKQrH93ifTnh5smEO62WHII9Th1NMnfoIbFq_kWEu8j1EOlSkyx2yNBlhEp_45mYL1IEA/s320/IMG_0232.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave and Christina, manning the city walls.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7a_sVxrMfTfZuJb949-0Ilz8FVD17s7LZhRUyhwA2rum2Otcd-naMsYBvBsTod6iY1BDAXbXboykDoZj_T2Eb2z2h5Pi8UUCl-4pw3UwizXASZOMoS2OAjbqRRovQNzVELNWidCTAe0/s1600/IMG_0008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7a_sVxrMfTfZuJb949-0Ilz8FVD17s7LZhRUyhwA2rum2Otcd-naMsYBvBsTod6iY1BDAXbXboykDoZj_T2Eb2z2h5Pi8UUCl-4pw3UwizXASZOMoS2OAjbqRRovQNzVELNWidCTAe0/s320/IMG_0008.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practicing our skills at the medieval markt, complete with an archery teacher in authentic garb. Two euros bought you five chances to shoot an arrow through a dangling lemon, about 15 feet away. Dave did not hit the lemon. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXo1OVFAOen0bXJD_C2JYTw1bpuOXvXOsCEUXugsGG2aI6hWVsxe9bMUdxt9Ca_bJQX81ic72vdmShuJ3GD68XvfotOfn1TP44ApuHw29PJ57M4wxNFk__4GKhZo7Rr-szn8tKTzKAuhs/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXo1OVFAOen0bXJD_C2JYTw1bpuOXvXOsCEUXugsGG2aI6hWVsxe9bMUdxt9Ca_bJQX81ic72vdmShuJ3GD68XvfotOfn1TP44ApuHw29PJ57M4wxNFk__4GKhZo7Rr-szn8tKTzKAuhs/s320/IMG_0014.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The man with his back to the camera, dressed in a medieval cloak and elf ears, knew he had an interested customer and gave his pitch. Another, not-pictured vest was made of deluxe red leather and had intricate runes carved into it. "This is for show," he said, and the one shown here, which Stu ultimately bought, "this is for fighting." Who the elf-man is fighting remains a mystery, but the vest was awesome.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGp-UmnvSs0TYTso7IRXL3N4mPzGNkfyNeN0vqUu8Gm2_6tXfPDrpcezGU6SciJFbPavSHvrtC9Gd_ueI16K1QN4Qqp7myFcSmIUXJyGK57bGVmt_creSEH-e2Su08HpF4zJphnd08eNs/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGp-UmnvSs0TYTso7IRXL3N4mPzGNkfyNeN0vqUu8Gm2_6tXfPDrpcezGU6SciJFbPavSHvrtC9Gd_ueI16K1QN4Qqp7myFcSmIUXJyGK57bGVmt_creSEH-e2Su08HpF4zJphnd08eNs/s320/IMG_0017.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina has always wanted a cloak, simple as that. In the Stuttgart medieval markt, she got one. American fashion will never be the same when she gets back stateside with this thing.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzGKq13a2u6NMrxf_-aKEleqezXCQM-D-50XRrhW2Zp_7KgPSLKPrVU14-SLkZRL8yRS7cATUSpa-8oOAXZN4zTBBdJo302dGYvDUxDuv63zT_2viTw4GlQCW5WVs38RVCdEKR5B5i8w/s1600/IMG_0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzGKq13a2u6NMrxf_-aKEleqezXCQM-D-50XRrhW2Zp_7KgPSLKPrVU14-SLkZRL8yRS7cATUSpa-8oOAXZN4zTBBdJo302dGYvDUxDuv63zT_2viTw4GlQCW5WVs38RVCdEKR5B5i8w/s320/IMG_0020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stu, Steve, and Dave on our train ride out of Germany. Our final Deutschland beer and great company to share it with.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IArcPHB6nBpA6MyzYOEBYEtkdW0wKzC1LheotMfnTIeDkVG2UrmmK3TLDRGGIKHAaorPpaSFLz0AVpdDetd7PbF8bwanTPwwlxRPsMjSLWpfcEWp6sFZJjSZxnXLBQoR-YrWC7epvd4/s1600/IMG_0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IArcPHB6nBpA6MyzYOEBYEtkdW0wKzC1LheotMfnTIeDkVG2UrmmK3TLDRGGIKHAaorPpaSFLz0AVpdDetd7PbF8bwanTPwwlxRPsMjSLWpfcEWp6sFZJjSZxnXLBQoR-YrWC7epvd4/s320/IMG_0022.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had all of twenty minutes in Koln, but that was enough to see it's famed cathedral, which was located right outside the central station. It was a hulking, gothic site to behold.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-32302229823347484972011-12-19T14:59:00.000-08:002011-12-19T14:59:39.794-08:00Munich and Bavaria<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After leaving Switzerland we took a train out of Lucern to Munich, visiting a city that is renowned for all the typical stereotypes of Germany; liederhosen, steins of beer and huge beerhalls.... essentially the characteristics of the region known as Bavaria (Bayern). We stayed at a hostel right outside the central Hauptbanhof and had three days to explore the city and the region. Switzerland had left us exhausted and craving the comforts of Germany that we had grown to love, and Munich did not disappoint. We took a day trip to visit some world-famous, beer-brewing Monks at the Andechs Monastery, and took another day to venture to Munich's outskirts to visit Dachau, the first Nazi concentration camp. In between we sampled many varieties of Bavarian eateries, which we grew quite fond of. We were particularly obsessed with the traditional Munich breakfast of "weisswurst" (Bavarian veal sausage, packed with savory meat and subtle herbs) and pretzels served with sweet mustard. And of course, served with a beer. We (Dave) challenged ourselves one morning to be the earliest beer-drinkers at the restaurant, and it was not even close. We entered a wursthaus at 9:30 am and nearly everyone was drinking a beer already. Christina's order of a coffee seemed to truly throw the waitress through a loop and indeed we imagined that the coffee machine hadn't even been turned on yet. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In any case we'll keep this entry brief and let the pictures do the talking. The scene at the infamous Hofbrauhaus was so wonderfully wacky that we actually took a video of the thing to try and capture what it was like. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVVFKmMElmPM0l7vRg_KrsTxK350ZIuChXr9XDYQMwl_WVCPv3TURaONHOCGEBlI6fSLPrhcT7rCgEhISP_dC0GxXAWLBHLBF1EEqOIoZsaCqINgZEQrghqVTUD-XRloQxNR8vHjbQU4/s1600/IMG_0103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVVFKmMElmPM0l7vRg_KrsTxK350ZIuChXr9XDYQMwl_WVCPv3TURaONHOCGEBlI6fSLPrhcT7rCgEhISP_dC0GxXAWLBHLBF1EEqOIoZsaCqINgZEQrghqVTUD-XRloQxNR8vHjbQU4/s320/IMG_0103.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Oh, the tender caress of a German liter upon one's cheek. Switzerland had been hard on us, and Munich welcomed us with open arms and piping schnitzel.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The entrance to Dachau, where prisoners passed through the gate promising that "Work will set you free."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">"The Bunker" at Dachau, where Nazi officers were based and special prisoners and interrogations were held. The doors shown here were to the holding cells, cramped spaces that felt rank with history. Some had plaques commemorating notable prisoners but most were vacant and spare.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">A view of the prisoners' holding barracks, one of which has been reconstructed. Only the foundations have been maintained for the rest. At the far end is the crematorium. A terrible, grim place, but one we're glad to have seen.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The walkway leading up to the Andechs Monastery and Brewery. A glorious place.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Seeking the Monks who brew.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz__b5k_tBLCy1Arzr_67Fe0oSMlhbHvldxtYGnGAgnn8K_K08AgZBOX7t8jCqAukgHX6-IpJj_iBgEaPDqGBNAPyfRTyB46Xaw4jW4gXb9hvuMciKTY2M_1Pto8ieX6CBJ0uTt2yD2Zo/s1600/IMG_0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz__b5k_tBLCy1Arzr_67Fe0oSMlhbHvldxtYGnGAgnn8K_K08AgZBOX7t8jCqAukgHX6-IpJj_iBgEaPDqGBNAPyfRTyB46Xaw4jW4gXb9hvuMciKTY2M_1Pto8ieX6CBJ0uTt2yD2Zo/s320/IMG_0160.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">As is custom in Bavaria, restaurants are self-seating and contain only long tables where you find yourself sitting next to all manner of strangers. At Andechs we met this wonderful German couple, Greta and Willy. They introduced us to their beer preferences and a delicious cheese, paprika and beer spread that was great on pretzels, and then invited us to their home for a coffee before driving us to the S-Bahn station so as to save us from the taxi ride out of the mountains. Wonderful people.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Greta informed us of this Bavarian custom that we later saw at many other beerhalls, the "Stein Locker." Apparently these mug-shaped compartments are passed on from generation to generation, treasured and rarely made available to others, and then only by rigorous written application. Some of the locks looked like they were part of the passing-down, ancient and clunky things. Willy was giving an insider tip on how to procure a locker; call the Monastery every single day until they relented.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpphX_4Y7EUNEphl67_cA-ACYeu_6eIsxvwuXPoMx8x7hGCB7cskpvMHLJAIWHVxBp2uoNdSn5gcN9LUZFIm06-SLUUA4-e0sZP_fWQ8vngPVqFL-Ux0TVTRzRWsrAO-vhzRlYZ_xuis/s1600/IMG_0173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpphX_4Y7EUNEphl67_cA-ACYeu_6eIsxvwuXPoMx8x7hGCB7cskpvMHLJAIWHVxBp2uoNdSn5gcN9LUZFIm06-SLUUA4-e0sZP_fWQ8vngPVqFL-Ux0TVTRzRWsrAO-vhzRlYZ_xuis/s320/IMG_0173.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">At the Hofbrauhaus, one of Munich's most famous beerhalls. Bavarian flavored chicken and a crispy pork steak, served with different varieties of potato. Uh-mazing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the Deutches Museum, a staggering six floors of technological and scientific history and exhibits.<br />
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</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-75411733061817253742011-12-14T05:16:00.000-08:002011-12-18T06:13:37.126-08:00Switzerland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
After leaving the <a href="http://2011.luft.de/">Lufts' farm</a>, we knew any future work stay would have big shoes to fill. It was tough to say goodbye to the place we had come to know as home for over month. We departed the Lufts on a Thursday morning bound for a train to Hamburg and then the overnight City Line train to Zurich, Switzerland. We were new to overnight train travel, but the City Night Line did not disappoint. Although we had not reserved a spot in the snazzy overnight births of the train, we did have very comfortable, reclining seats at the rear of the train and were not too far from the dining car - a dimly lit car serving up a few German specialities and of course, plenty of beer and wine. We ordered up some drinks and read our books before retiring to our reclining chairs for the evening.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David, Marcel Luft, Ute Luft and Christina outside the Lufts' home. You can follow the Lufts' life of self sustainability at <a href="http://luft.de/">Luft.de</a>...the site is in German and any webpage auto-translations will be sloppy, but a hope of ours is to be a part of the translation/transfer of this information and knowledge into English. Stay tuned.</td></tr>
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We arrived in Switzerland on Friday a little tired and in need of a good shower, but eager to explore a new country and meet our new host family. Immediately, our experience in the Zurich hauptbonhof paled in comparison to any German train station we had spent considerable time in. While we heard Switzerland was expensive, we were not prepared for just how outrageously expensive. As far as the exchange rate from Dollars to Swiss Francs is concerned, the Swiss Franc was definitely better than the Euro, however, this exchange rate did us little favors given the high cost of goods in Switzerland. The lockers at the train station cost us twice as much as our storage lockers in Hamburg, and a small wheat roll at the bakery was half the size and twice the cost as any we encountered in Germany. Although we asked others why Switzerland was so expensive, few could provide a clear explanation. After some preliminary online research we discovered the Switzerland contains one of the world's most stable economies. The Swiss have one of the lowest unemployment rates and the highest per capita incomes in the world. It is not a case of creative license when the <i>Swiss banks</i> are mentioned in movies as a place to white wash otherwise unclean money. Switzerland is in fact a safe haven for foreign investors. Today, it's largest industries include banking, chemical manufacturing, and precision and musical instruments. Quite a few multinational corporations are Swiss, including Nestle, Hoffman-La Roche, Credit Suisse and the Swatch Group.</div>
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Our host family in Switzerland lived just outside of Lucern in the small village of Menzberg. From Zurich we took an hour long train ride and then a bus through steep Swiss hills. Our family had not planned to pick us up from the train station, so armed with some rather unorthodox directions, we made our way to their farm house. As we walked our way through town the views of the hills and the Alps were breathtaking. Although we took many photos, our one shot camera struggled to capture the picturesque landscape. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Menzberg from one of its many surrounding hills. </td></tr>
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The Bussman's, our host family, are dairy farmers, and together five adult children (ages 18-28), the grandparents and mom and dad live in a very large Swiss farm house. Immediately upon our arrival the mother exclaimed "Aye, aye, aye." Although we had arrived earlier than she expected, we were not prepared for this less than enthusiastic greeting. Still, we did our best to quietly settle into our room and acquaint ourselves with the neighborhood. Eventually, Mrs. Bussman (Therese), came by our room to check in. She immediately informed us she was not prepared to have us stay on the farm for the length of time we had previously discussed. We were certainly disappointed and caught off guard, as we had pre-arranged these dates months earlier. Although this conversation did little to help us feel welcomed, we accepted her limits and began making plans for an earlier departure. After a long few days of travel and a rather unwelcoming arrival, we felt rather weary and homesick. Convinced that perhaps we had just started off on the wrong foot, we donned our two pairs of long johns and joined the family for dinner and a special outdoor Advent celebration, complete with St. Nicholas, live sheep and local children dressed up as the three Magi. The celebration was organized by the Catholic church in town, which many locals attend regularly.<br />
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Our first dinner at the Bussman's proved to be a jarring experience. Therese had prepared two Swiss pastries, one containing apples and cheese and the other a mixture of cheeses. While the pastries were tasty, we immediately noticed the family did not use plates or napkins. Each child cut pieces of the pastry with their bare hands and ate directly off the wooden kitchen table. Our pastries were consumed with piping hot milk - a regular drink at meals. </div>
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Part of the wonder of traveling is the exploration of the way other people live, and thus an understanding of how they approach the problems of the world. We are open and eager to experience and interact with the world through the lens of our host families, and are not afraid to live their lives. That being said, as teachers, thinkers and readers we also know it is important to question the habits and beliefs of others. Questioning is the beginning of critical thinking. So, when Therese asked us not to wash her dishes with soap we politely questioned this practice, only to learn she did not believe in the existence of bacteria. During subsequent meals we watched this family with dirt caked hands, touch food meant for the entire table, lick their personal utensils and then place them in communal serving bowls to grab seconds and ultimately not wash their dishes. Meanwhile each member of the family seemed to be battling a cold. With each meal we became increasingly worried about the habits of the Bussmans, if for nothing else out of fear for our own health as travelers. Finally, in an effort to keep ourselves healthy, and after being asked to only dry and put away dishes, we decided to discretely and as respectfully as possible, wash our dishes, with soap, before each meal. This was, apparently the last straw for Therese. She confronted us about our discreet dish washing and insisted that if we wanted to wash our dishes, we had to leave her home. Perhaps if the Bussmans had been kinder people we could have been able to overlook the lack of table manners and the disbelief in bacteria. However, the Bussman's were not kind to us as travelers. When they did speak to us or ask us questions, they made many rude and snide remarks. In addition, despite the entire family's ability to speak English, they never spoke to us during meals, and instead, they spoke to each other in rapid Swiss German, never including us. This was certainly a shift from the inclusive and welcoming home of the Lufts. Our Swiss experience taught us that each party approaching the workaway experience brings different hopes and dreams to the table. Some people, like the Lufts, hope to share their vision and practices. Others like the Bussman's seem to be looking for laborers and are not as interested in sharing their way of life.<br />
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Despite the disappointing and often times disturbing experiences in Switzerland, all was not lost and we will have some fond memories of our time in Switzerland. After being asked to leave the Bussman's we met up with the Hellmessen's (Anita and Ronnie), a young couple who lived just outside of Switzerland. We were so grateful for Anita's welcoming nature and hospitality we called her our angel. Anita and Ronnie live outside of Lucern in an area known locally as<i> Little Yugo</i>. The area is mainly populated by immigrants to Switzerland. Anita and Ronnie have two beautiful, and incredibly intelligent children, Jason (age 5) and Justin (age 2). Anita lived in the apartment above her sister, Sina, who had an adorable litte boy named David (age 1.5). We spent our last few days in Switzerland, helping this family through the daily chores of life and learning more about a very different side of the country. Sadly, what Anita and Sina had to share did not improve our view of Switzerland. Although Anita and Sina had lived in Switzerland since they were toddlers, and although they spoke flawless German Swiss, the Swiss themselves did not accept these Albanians (who emigrated from Kosovo) as true Swiss. In fact, Sina, who married a Nigerian man, was afraid to take her young, mixed son, David out in public for fear of the racist comments and actions of ignorant Swiss citizens. According to this family hate crimes were not rare in Switzerland and Sina had more often than not been a victim of such hateful speech and actions. Despite their busy and sometimes difficult lives, Anita and Sina took us in as family members. They were incredibly generous people and were eager to share their lives with us. Together we cooked delicious meals, played with the children and enjoyed the beautiful view of the Alps from her balcony.<br />
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Although both the Bussman's and the Hellmessen's had not traveled far from their homes their approach to others was drastically different. The Bussman's put on airs of superiority and often treated us as ignorant city dwellers. The Hellmessen's were curious about the world, and hopeful that one day they too could travel outside of Switzerland. In some ways we can be grateful to both families as they showed us sides of Switzerland we would never have encountered as mere tourists.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David, Anita and Christina at Cafe Sperber. This cafe became our refuge in Menzberg and a welcome spot for a drink, weiss (white) wine for Christina and an Eichhof (Switzerland's mainstay beer) for Dave. The chef and owner served us delicious local cuisine, including a schnitzel to die for and some wonderful venison stew served over spetzle noodles. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It has been an unusually warm winter in Europe this far. This was the first snowfall in the Alps. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlk74hajfvlcvnk-U23Gtr78G9yRH9R1W5Ze1GQHAo01RVd2PdB3ljgUgDZ0eudmWSkpd_NuHQfopChDjXH6lifUgrcSfE55BoEr0Goe9oAVDOu6APzSkvrz4QyLjijxYa_1Ww87rDzY5_/s1600/IMG_0084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlk74hajfvlcvnk-U23Gtr78G9yRH9R1W5Ze1GQHAo01RVd2PdB3ljgUgDZ0eudmWSkpd_NuHQfopChDjXH6lifUgrcSfE55BoEr0Goe9oAVDOu6APzSkvrz4QyLjijxYa_1Ww87rDzY5_/s320/IMG_0084.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of the snow covered hills of Switzerland and a true rarity in these parts, an enthusiastic woman of color.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnYvt8Jlqmn2Qj4cidWCSJ3g4cx8GQA1jsi9I7XOnkF9wPQBeh_nzWFFJsEJgRi-oBlGsDFeK-_OHM04BNghqk2TeEBtLWFhENaG9TeQItFK9CgbxG7MGKOtCZMNM8j63l7EwF8DC-HxM/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnYvt8Jlqmn2Qj4cidWCSJ3g4cx8GQA1jsi9I7XOnkF9wPQBeh_nzWFFJsEJgRi-oBlGsDFeK-_OHM04BNghqk2TeEBtLWFhENaG9TeQItFK9CgbxG7MGKOtCZMNM8j63l7EwF8DC-HxM/s320/IMG_0060.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unlike the Lufts' the Bussman's were running a small scale factory farm. In winter the cows are kept tethered in the stables. The cows were enormous.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqp6vfhAHeMKPgkcm_cNp5TA9WDjy4g-wxy4L9pWeWdHv3VPCml-T2rBR0HAUVxPA9oJzP7qoSsVWb2-u_DkJ3yTj9yTjXBOAFYlwwcv5JdSXmFBErlc-Qs3jlUHA9ewU337KexiuREA73/s1600/IMG_0100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqp6vfhAHeMKPgkcm_cNp5TA9WDjy4g-wxy4L9pWeWdHv3VPCml-T2rBR0HAUVxPA9oJzP7qoSsVWb2-u_DkJ3yTj9yTjXBOAFYlwwcv5JdSXmFBErlc-Qs3jlUHA9ewU337KexiuREA73/s320/IMG_0100.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">A view of Lucern from the main bridge. Though a beautiful city that was tucked right beneath the alps, it was hard not to lament our rapidly emptying pockets.<br /></td></tr>
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</div>CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-23385002843230151202011-12-05T07:17:00.000-08:002011-12-05T07:17:00.587-08:00The Final Week in Weitsche<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We returned from our trip to Amsterdam on Thanksgiving Thursday. The American take on Halloween and Christmas looks somewhat similar in Germany, which makes sense given that these are holidays that involve massive consumer-friendly traditions that both marketing forces and eager kids are happy to see exported all over the world (i.e gifts and candy). Thanksgiving, on the other hand, means little to other countries (for obvious reasons) nor does it provide many chances to sell things, so the holiday threatened to pass us by without anyone around us giving the slightest notice. This was compounded by us spending the day taking the train out of the Netherlands. All was not lost for us though. When we arrived at the train station to be picked up by Ute and the Luft's youngest son Ben, they proposed that we go to dinner together at a local Italian restaurant where Marcel would join us for an outing. We were thrilled to have some type of fancy meal to honor the occasion, and we were thrilled to be able to share it with the newest and closest family we had, the Lufts. And that's how we found ourselves at an Italian restaurant in rural Germany toasting to an American holiday. We couldn't have asked for anything better, given the circumstances, and we felt such love for the Lufts by then that we could avoid feeling the lack of our families back home. We were then lucky to be able to chat over Skype with the various gatherings of our family groups (Christina's in Jersey, my brother's in Oakland, and my parent's in South Acworth). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Friday things truly began to gear up for the weekend's protest. The basic idea behind this demonstration, which we've referenced several times now, is that a yearly transport of nuclear waste from a plant in France is delivered to a rural town in Lower Saxony that is very close to the Luft's home in Weitsche. Aside from the dangers revealed by nuclear power plant accidents, exposed in the still-emerging details of the Fukishima power plant disaster in Japan, storage of nuclear waste remains one of the long-term problems with nuclear power. Germany, for all its brilliance in engineering, is no better at dealing with this than anyone else, and year after year this transport comes from France and is delivered to a storage facility that is still deemed only temporary until a new, more permanent solution is built. As it is now though, massive stocks of waste are accruing at this rural site and appropriately infuriating many of the local (and even non-local) Germans into action. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Therefore every year for several years now the 'Stop Castor' movement revs up in the form of a massive demonstration and protest that is both meant to bring awareness to this issue and, more tangibly, to block the railway so that the transport itself is stopped and indefinitely delayed in a form of non-violent protest. Every year the protest grows and every year the locals speak with pride about how many days the transport is upheld; this year set the record at six (five days delayed in Germany, and even one day delayed in France). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Many things are striking about this, but two stood out in particular. First, people rallied with a feistiness that we've come to appreciate as one of the most endearing German traits. The count put the total number of protesters at about 20,000 or so, and they streamed in from the surrounding countryside for days leading up to the event, filling up random fields with tents and the ubiquitous yellow X's that symbolize the movement. Farmers in particular turned out en masse, and many others practiced glorious forms of protest on the actual rail tracks in attempts to stop the passing train. Every year it is something different. In a previous year Greenpeace brought in a huge cargo vehicle that was labeled as a beer truck and which "stalled" right on top of one of the rail crossings, the hapless driver unable to restart his engine in the face of angry polizei. After a time (according to legend), the sides of the truck rolled up to reveal a Greenpeace banner and people poured out of the truck from a cage tucked behind a false back of stacked beer bottles. This year a small group of farmers chained themselves together in a human pyramid over one section of track, their thick chains specially engineered to thwart polizei and any attempts at unlocking or severing. The police could do nothing, and eventually the farmers unlocked themselves after 15 hours (!) when they could no longer avoid eating and going to the bathroom. Great stuff.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The second standout was the ridiculous police presence. The police also poured in from the surrounding environs, reportedly numbering 19,000 by the height of the protest, nearly a one-to-one ratio if we can trust everyones' estimates. For the few days leading up to the weekend the blue and white Polizei vans were EVERYWHERE on these winding country roads, throwing up random roadblocks and strutting around in full riot gear, ready for something serious to break out. To Christina and I, their presence was unnerving and it shocked us how the Germans tolerated their constant hassling with little ire. The cops seemed more likely to create an incident than to diffuse one in our mind, and we felt sure that it was the kind of situation that would very quickly escalate in America for nothing more than their overwhelming, in-your-face visibility. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In any case, we attended the march that led us to the major rally and demonstration, where MC's stoked the crowd and speakers boomed on about the importance of the movement. We were somewhat separated from the tracks themselves, but the atmosphere was charged and thrilling. Granted we understood nothing that was said, as we were immediately separated from our host Lufts by the throngs of people, but that further attests to how powerful a scene it was. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the end, to our knowledge, there were no major incidents. The transport, as it always does, eventually arrived, the bastard powers-that-be just waiting until everyone got the civil disobedience out of their system before quietly delivering the rotten goods in the dark of night after the protests wound down and everyone inevitably had to return to their weekday work and lives. And the massive pile of nuclear waste only grows bigger in its entirely inadequate storage facilities. This was equally as troubling as the demonstration had been exciting, but as Marcel told us, this is how the game works. The people hope to draw bigger and bigger notice to the event every year until eventually something gives way and the government responds. It pains us to think, but perhaps that will only be when there is incident, when an escalation occurs between cops and protesters that shocks the political system in a way that is typical only to tragedy or violence. We shall see.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Aside from the protest, we did our best to soak up the last days of Weitsche, this little German town that has come to be very dear to us. We spent time with many of the gracious and welcoming neighbors that we had come to know over the previous four weeks, often times sharing stories and drinks late into the evenings right up until our departure. Christiana and Horst, who avid-readers will recall cooked a hell of a pumpkin stew, took us on a great driving trip/pub-crawl and had us to dinner again. We grew to love them as dear friends. Likewise Voelke, a neighboring farmer, took us in on the evening of the town Christmas tree lighting, and before we could say no the schnappes and wine and Jaegermeister were flowing like...well, like wine, schappes and Jagermeister flow in Germany (we can't say water, because no one ever drinks water here, it's true). Christina may or may not have nursed Dave over a hangover after that one, though the record is a bit fuzzy. Voelke's proudly showcased American classic rock collection is perhaps to blame, who knows.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We took a few last bike rides, soaked up a few last bits of knowledge from Ute and Marcel (bread-baking and brewing in particular), and enjoyed one last rural German staple by attending the local Christmas Markt. We loved our time in Weitsche and we loved the Lufts. They are warm and thoughtful and what they are doing there in Weistche is truly a local act informed by global realities. We are determined to maintain our relationship with them and after many talks into the night we know now how much our visions align in terms of what we want our lives to look like and how to spread the message about living with meaning in a world of dwindling ecological health. Marcel and Ute, we'll miss you but we'll sure as hell be seeing you again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before baking bread, Ute grinds unprocessed wheat to create flour. Ute searched far and wide for this mill, which has a strong motor and contains a drawer for collecting the flour. The mill is from a local German company which has been making such mills for over three generations. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After mixing the flour with water until the correct consistency is achieved, the flour is kneaded and placed into baking tins. I am told, the older the tins, the better the bread. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Throughout Weitsche and the surrounding villages, families showed their support for the demonstration with signs, yellow X's and the occasional warmly dressed scarecrow. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We watched from the side of the road as farmers in over 200 tractors processed to the protest site. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Concerned citizens lined the streets in support of farmers and bikers. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwxJreD9i7XnOQ42CJJ8W271oYfaRpx_f5uuNAvXzOvvablyX4INNrpR9s9vsYY7uNOROkTYOXDZafjh82jENB94wd8o61FDvhyphenhyphenDsNnbMZMZzWsGc8aOlVZJqsA-72fWKegVXe_lIp4I/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwxJreD9i7XnOQ42CJJ8W271oYfaRpx_f5uuNAvXzOvvablyX4INNrpR9s9vsYY7uNOROkTYOXDZafjh82jENB94wd8o61FDvhyphenhyphenDsNnbMZMZzWsGc8aOlVZJqsA-72fWKegVXe_lIp4I/s320/IMG_0124.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beats from Greenpeace drummers helped ignite calls of STOP CASTOR. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Protestors met at two major meeting points and then processed to the cornfield for speeches and rally cries. This is the front line of one such procession. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The majority of protestors gathered on a large field near the tracks for speeches and musical entertainment. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David's ongoing photo series : The Polizei Presence. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjauM6jVsjl-aQgLvonG6td_JWit95mv2CP191Z1sjctM_EHVstvlrf_LEXozEWf80M_KsA2apEhUXdw0Azl2MQwUQhMrN9mBn_W1SiZ_MRdSfYqiIokEJR47dwZQd6XucbaBVDYCcBew/s1600/IMG_0125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjauM6jVsjl-aQgLvonG6td_JWit95mv2CP191Z1sjctM_EHVstvlrf_LEXozEWf80M_KsA2apEhUXdw0Azl2MQwUQhMrN9mBn_W1SiZ_MRdSfYqiIokEJR47dwZQd6XucbaBVDYCcBew/s320/IMG_0125.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Polizei Presence: Note the helicopter above the protestors. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a night of Jagermeister, the Weihnacht Markt's array of hearty soups and sausages was a godsend, and worth the long bike ride. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiqePGqZCGyDGkU6FjV7-sKo4GO5bD5EZxt5SLpjFFvX4XsA6suAvLug34VNaUfJp0lbcG6pFIJv0VCKdGrdq0Di58lsgxotwNskUhyphenhyphen2u2oDC4gQHpKjjrumvlW5CRtc0ZAZ7u1l7_jI/s1600/IMG_0175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLiqePGqZCGyDGkU6FjV7-sKo4GO5bD5EZxt5SLpjFFvX4XsA6suAvLug34VNaUfJp0lbcG6pFIJv0VCKdGrdq0Di58lsgxotwNskUhyphenhyphen2u2oDC4gQHpKjjrumvlW5CRtc0ZAZ7u1l7_jI/s320/IMG_0175.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David nearly shouted for joy when we emerged from the woods to find the Weihnact Markt and it's array of hangover cures.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During our last bike ride we were finally able to capture a photo of the windmills lining the countryside. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rKNsT6omvkAP_U5_mmACVpNLERPvcGDZb5VUYLR3eQQ9L_Frg9dNkXTBsk0ujSpTv1v3rKr1x3IC3wmnuankim4qwuKRO78mqgeBIK3UZKlBIf-Z9PUwO_OW1KkzJqTkuj9a3frYgrU/s1600/IMG_0170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rKNsT6omvkAP_U5_mmACVpNLERPvcGDZb5VUYLR3eQQ9L_Frg9dNkXTBsk0ujSpTv1v3rKr1x3IC3wmnuankim4qwuKRO78mqgeBIK3UZKlBIf-Z9PUwO_OW1KkzJqTkuj9a3frYgrU/s320/IMG_0170.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the ongoing series: Bikes in the Countryside</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVauONJ9gyd-ocHkczcWwoEgdT7fKYpqwISnfqsYfNCWaV6HIbDhAt5hw_rLf3duz5JnIYNWhyphenhyphenxpAHfFiFhZowz2tptNwJBUNqBPavTv00mci6E8RvdWQUrI7kJNHUhcRQDYyvXHqHPE/s1600/IMG_0183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVauONJ9gyd-ocHkczcWwoEgdT7fKYpqwISnfqsYfNCWaV6HIbDhAt5hw_rLf3duz5JnIYNWhyphenhyphenxpAHfFiFhZowz2tptNwJBUNqBPavTv00mci6E8RvdWQUrI7kJNHUhcRQDYyvXHqHPE/s320/IMG_0183.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The covered heap on the right is a store of giant sugar beets. This is a unique storage method used by several farmers in the area. </td></tr>
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<br />
It would be impossible to address our final week in Weitsche without speaking of the terrible accident that took place on the Sunday of the protest weekend. Both of the Lufts' college-age sons, Jan (20) and Jonas (18) returned enthusiastically for the protest and we were thrilled to meet them. Jonas himself was actually the one who drove us to the Castor demonstration and walked us into the mass of people on that preceding Saturday. He had returned from school with a close friend of his and was reuniting with other friends of his from back home. On Sunday night he was driving with two such companions when a gust of wind nudged his vehicle into the gravel at the road's edge and the car struck a tree and rolled several times into an adjacent field. Jonas emerged physically unscathed but his two friends were killed instantly. It was utterly tragic, mind-numbingly so. The boys were merely 18 and 21 years old.<br />
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Utes' parents and countless neighbors from the village arrived quickly to provide support, and Christina and I did our best to be of help. We felt grateful that we at least knew the farm well enough to take all related tasks off the Luft's plate for the few remaining days we were in Weitsche, while they focused on supporting Jonas and each other. Details came in throughout Sunday night, and we learned the worst when Marcel returned from the hospital, leaving Ute to stay with their son. We sat with Marcel then, and when he asked to share a beer we drank with him and hugged him tight until he retired for the first of many sleepless nights. We said little because there was little to say.<br />
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Our hearts go out the families of the boys and to Jonas and the Lufts as they do their best to process events that defy any attempts to do so. There was no excessive speed nor any substances involved, which makes it all the harder to deal with and wrap up in a box and say "here is what we learned from all this." It was a blessing that of all the possible and understandable responses, the families of the boys were not interested in blame and only wanted to join Jonas in navigating their grief. If anything, as Marcel said, it is a harsh reminder that life is not a game and needs to be lived full in whatever fleeting time we've got.<br />
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Until the next.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSRCYjySYXHUWNHWhHZV8lelu56NrnyHdxlCyuxAOSe9SXpVtC7LiVLiI86TpSWdTlhKMK63-P_krEhaW643FMtOAQGtohKEWnrLFQpJUEpYjRM_fwhkzC44WfSYvbaHQ2ZGOxNkMg70/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsSRCYjySYXHUWNHWhHZV8lelu56NrnyHdxlCyuxAOSe9SXpVtC7LiVLiI86TpSWdTlhKMK63-P_krEhaW643FMtOAQGtohKEWnrLFQpJUEpYjRM_fwhkzC44WfSYvbaHQ2ZGOxNkMg70/s320/IMG_0083.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-22697590217951122242011-11-29T06:08:00.000-08:002011-11-29T06:08:47.243-08:00Amsterdam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>With the blessing of our wonderful host Lufts, we decided to leave our temporary home here in Weitsche a bit later than anticipated. We asked Marcel and Ute if we could leave our room unoccupied for the week and afford ourselves the ability to pack light for a brief exploration of a city that has long intrigued the both of us, Amsterdam. We would then return to Weitsche the following weekend in order to attend the upcoming demonstration against the nuclear waste transport coming in from France. A later entry will cover the 'Stop Castor' event, but Amsterdam came first.<div><br />
</div><div>The ever-efficient German trains carried us through northwestern Germany and into the darkening fog of the Netherlands. After a few transfers, we emerged out of Amsterdam Centraal station and looked for the public transport that would bring us to our hotel. We decided to avoid the hostel experience for fear of the mental state/capacity of any potential roommates in a city like Amsterdam. Instead we cashed in some credit card points and opted for the <a href="http://www.westcordhotels.nl/hotels/Art-Hotel-Amsterdam-4-stars">Westcord Art Hotel</a>, an excellent and relatively cheap hotel that was well away from the central strip(s). We would recommend this place to anyone looking for such digs in Amsterdam.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We promptly found out that Sunday night was in the middle of the annual public transport workers strike and we'd have no choice but to take a cab to the outskirts, essentially ending our evening. We weren't ready for that yet, so we took to the streets immediately outside the central station and were swallowed by the massive throngs of people and the eerie fog. We ate at an overpriced Chinese restaurant, stumbled awkward and overly-self conscious into our first coffeshop, and eventually escaped the neon chaos back to our hotel. Dave again tipped a European cab driver way too damn much.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Over the next three days we explored this insane place. We are fully aware that we saw very little of what the Netherlands are like as a whole because Amsterdam itself is filled with tourists and non-Dutch. Still though, it was a provocative and fast-paced city. There are thousands of bikes, tens of thousands surely... bikes everywhere. And everyone is riding them in and out of car and foot traffic on these bike paths, ringing their little bells if an American is walking outside the specifically-defined pedestrian lanes in their way. And no one wears helmets, it's amazing. We actually conducted an informal experiment to count bike helmets and for the following 2 days of our stay we saw, to our increasing surprise, exactly zero helmets on bicyclists, and only 4 helmets in total if we included motorized bikes (mopeds, vespas). Also, few had a multi-gear bike. They were all these old clunkers that had one gear, many of them modified to hold up to 3 children. A fascinating thing to see, and very different.</div><div><br />
</div><div>We saw several great museums. We both stared in awe at Rembrandts' and Monets' masterpieces in the Rijksmuseum and saw the classic self-portraits at the Van Gogh Museum. We were somewhat disappointed with the Dutch Resistance Museum. It had plenty of buttons that did nothing when pushed, weird, dated exhibits that seemed to be made in the 1980's, and much of the verbage about Dutch resistance did not translate very well. On the other end of the spectrum we saw the infamous Red Light district, which was exactly what it had been made out to be and ultimately seemed somewhat bored with itself. One underwear clad woman was eating a box of chinese food in her window, looking unimpressed. Granted, we were there at about 3pm but definitely not something we've often seen. </div><div><br />
</div><div>There were plenty of fascinating bars and restaurants and coffeeshops with true character, and we left the city feeling satisfied and ready to be gone. Amsterdam was a great place to visit. That dark and foggy night when we first wandered out of Centraal station, right into the thick of it and in the midst of a transit strike, will surely be a lasting memory from this trip.</div><div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf78PxV-AaA2BPXAUoPDJ7JSeRQwoQTG3_vyj7PUJHpeHAdtxQiGiE7TgLFWeIbVSGmeUXxq8TjS66Bw5z2lYG9x3FMZHz23weMuumW0OVv2fJ6SaQRfKSq4UpWzXoo3P_R-AffRhK3T4/s1600/IMG_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf78PxV-AaA2BPXAUoPDJ7JSeRQwoQTG3_vyj7PUJHpeHAdtxQiGiE7TgLFWeIbVSGmeUXxq8TjS66Bw5z2lYG9x3FMZHz23weMuumW0OVv2fJ6SaQRfKSq4UpWzXoo3P_R-AffRhK3T4/s320/IMG_0006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You'll see a lot of this in Amsterdam... tourists with maps, identifying landmarks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnnRkl3hTMndpi4xM6h2jZo6rSmrIfv7Cs5DJ_5cS-dfmjq-FFRuU_weCFlTbTSU2F3sLrHvZxhBnpNk-x50o6nDS0x1jZGixsJDNE83mwyj1nIIlM5c-pZiuUfycNjo5F3nhv9wEszUo/s1600/IMG_0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnnRkl3hTMndpi4xM6h2jZo6rSmrIfv7Cs5DJ_5cS-dfmjq-FFRuU_weCFlTbTSU2F3sLrHvZxhBnpNk-x50o6nDS0x1jZGixsJDNE83mwyj1nIIlM5c-pZiuUfycNjo5F3nhv9wEszUo/s320/IMG_0018.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina in front of the <a href="http://www.rijksmuseum.nl/">Rijksmuseum</a>, housing the Dutch masters.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEdgCpnrnd7gx9CUMVaRJon5KrnkSlBZSiTJRxHw9R6gQ4AK4e7GH5otJDU73QgqkP3fm1V1bUgA6voFrmil1Oqod0vyijIk2hjLdSYasW6obVv6htbcO4r6V_b9MG1xfxP1gN4Awc44/s1600/IMG_0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEdgCpnrnd7gx9CUMVaRJon5KrnkSlBZSiTJRxHw9R6gQ4AK4e7GH5otJDU73QgqkP3fm1V1bUgA6voFrmil1Oqod0vyijIk2hjLdSYasW6obVv6htbcO4r6V_b9MG1xfxP1gN4Awc44/s320/IMG_0020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amsterdam Centraal Station. Note the bikes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKN83NfOS5aJRRgqmKYyCBBu8Wxj4ZTAw-r07zQCUo8iVe1dgAuRcxdjcOD26gnuN_KQmG1K4iIlwuRl-iiBXEo2YqcXMuVJs-VH4b-BCOnNrvFecVdsgYXfcoN1Z9efTu7u3ZNeDJkps/s1600/IMG_0024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKN83NfOS5aJRRgqmKYyCBBu8Wxj4ZTAw-r07zQCUo8iVe1dgAuRcxdjcOD26gnuN_KQmG1K4iIlwuRl-iiBXEo2YqcXMuVJs-VH4b-BCOnNrvFecVdsgYXfcoN1Z9efTu7u3ZNeDJkps/s320/IMG_0024.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main street leading out from Amsterdam Centraal Station.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUjHTzX_dzyIfUQHHk9koPCW0Vt8IYZvX4XE4q3M1z70aoWbU9RRjvRmhi24aDijgxhMxIO67NSOK9WY-1ez2ik7HB0oud_NO5V34VycDT7TVNoSpMHBN1UGfxQ5tp1I4CZF6HNrNe-Js/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUjHTzX_dzyIfUQHHk9koPCW0Vt8IYZvX4XE4q3M1z70aoWbU9RRjvRmhi24aDijgxhMxIO67NSOK9WY-1ez2ik7HB0oud_NO5V34VycDT7TVNoSpMHBN1UGfxQ5tp1I4CZF6HNrNe-Js/s320/IMG_0028.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amsterdam's architecture was impressive. A large number of canals form concentric rings around the city.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWaKWACgVniXV9a3j3jzIu06emU34hk_wjWK9R2m3KEb_ImUfkygsZBrQoMKSUG3KaeFSJ2U013GGKY9Mc40jSB_IdlTdvEwscIxdUCB8utX5_o0_c3DDS9Vb-5h6UlLF-_l4be-SYe8g/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWaKWACgVniXV9a3j3jzIu06emU34hk_wjWK9R2m3KEb_ImUfkygsZBrQoMKSUG3KaeFSJ2U013GGKY9Mc40jSB_IdlTdvEwscIxdUCB8utX5_o0_c3DDS9Vb-5h6UlLF-_l4be-SYe8g/s320/IMG_0046.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">You are rarely more than a shady side-street away from a coffeeshop. They only serve juice and coffee in these shops, never alcohol, which is probably a good idea.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjap9-8pAAKtw52SV7x3KvQnblQjiBrCyU5iQo5yZtzVuWXxmQjMzLupMeTTpD_Ywlwvsh-iEIwEps0tEgrIbdbDnaV8L1CleeYvBHQS90WVV7XyhdO4FbjeiTeUTZpzM_I1-0wLP6S_gY/s1600/IMG_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjap9-8pAAKtw52SV7x3KvQnblQjiBrCyU5iQo5yZtzVuWXxmQjMzLupMeTTpD_Ywlwvsh-iEIwEps0tEgrIbdbDnaV8L1CleeYvBHQS90WVV7XyhdO4FbjeiTeUTZpzM_I1-0wLP6S_gY/s320/IMG_0035.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A common bike modification that we saw. Groceries, kids... anything could go in that front cabin, though obviously if it was kids there were no helmets. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cool vegetable market that lined a canal, leading to another famous street market at Albert Cuypstraat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We tried to capture a shot with all the madness of Amsterdam's roads in one frame. Cars, trams, motorized bikes, regular bikes, and cowering pedestrains... and a couple dashes of white paint.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was nighttime and poor lighting, but this was Amsterdam's Occupy Protest. </td></tr>
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</div>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-53724611952257319042011-11-23T10:10:00.000-08:002011-11-23T10:10:13.961-08:00Week 3: Change, Renewal and a trip to Berlin<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I: Week 3 In Weitsche</span></u></b><o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In week three we saw life and death on the farm, the process of renewal and change. Two pigs, Pinkie and Blackie (a different Blackie from Blackie the rabbit) were relieved of duty, while two goats showed up, as did a few baby chickens that were born in a tucked away corner of the barn. Ben, the Lufts' youngest son, found them nestled in the hay. Our Australian friends Sean and Larissa also left us; they've moved on to Majorca for another workaway stay and then on to the rest of the world. We furthered our appreciation of the Lufts home brew by witnessing the early stages of its production in the Witch's Kitchen (Ute's laboratory anex. It is here that soap making, wool preparation and beer brewing all happen). Although it has grown colder, there is still much to prepare on the farm. This week we also planted trees, prepared a barn room for new construction and took part in a good ole fashion community rake fest. Life in Weitsche is never dull.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">After a bolt to the head stunned the pig, our new butcher friend delivered a single knife incision to the heart and it was over in 20 seconds. Cleaning and scraping ensued. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="padding: 4.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Having removed the insides our friend delicately splits the pig in two halves. We are two shots of schnappes in at this point.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></td> </tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina raking madly at the town raking party. Note the banner in the background. It speaks of the nuclear waste storage issue at hand in the upcoming protest. <a href="http://www.spiegel.de/international/germany/0,1518,728098,00.html">A story about last year's</a> protest.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tractor stops and the rakes go up for a coffee break (with maybe a little bit of rum and beer).</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the new additions to the farm; Bill, Barry, Bart, Bonnie and Bertha, clockwise from left.<br />
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<tr><td style="padding: 4.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ute's beer workshop. Here she is putting water through the boiled barley to remove all the starch, which will ultimately be converted to sugar and then eaten by the yeast (we think).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></td> </tr>
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<tr> <td style="padding: 4.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt 6.0pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The payoff. Beers and books by a bonfire. Thursday happy hour in Weitsche.</span></div></td></tr>
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><u>II: A Weekend in Berlin</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Shortly after the pig slaughter, we showered and headed off to Berlin for the weekend. Carrying our guide book, a small backpack and our respective reading material, we arrived in Berlin eager to explore the city. Our experience in Berlin was exciting, thought provoking and at times intense. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We stayed at the Pangea People Hostel just a few blocks from Alexanderplatz. Our hostel was in many ways everything we'd hoped for and everything we expected. The rooms and bathrooms were wonderfully clean and the staff friendly and helpful. We did end up in a room with eight early-twenty something's and were privileged to their post discotech drunken singing at 5:45am, but it was a hostel after all. The location of Pangea People turned out to be ideal as we were within a short walk of an internet cafe, several restaurants, and most importantly a public transportation hub. Berlin is a city composed of several neighborhoods. There is no official city center, and we did our best to explore as much of the city as possible. Berlin is rich with history. We walked aside the Berlin wall, visited the museum of the famous artist -</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><a href="http://www.kollwitz.de/en/default.aspx"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt;">Kathe Kallowitz</span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">, walked through the Brandenburg gate, fell silent over a powerful exhibit on the site of the former Secret State Police headquarters, and blushed at exotic art from across the world. We were not at a loss for ways to engage with the city. And in many ways the city left an indelible mark on us. After our trip to Berlin, and specifically</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><a href="http://www.topographie.de/en/topography-of-terror/nc/1/"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt;">The Topography of Terror</span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">museum, we are eager to engage in the necessary battles.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with this picture, but it's two small things really....the younger German drinking age and no open container laws. Cheers boys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina, always ready to cross divides. Here at the Berlin wall memorial.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The memorial had one of the longer preserved sections of the original wall. Though we made light of the situation at this moment, such activity would have gotten Dave shot in the 1960's.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the preserved wall, including a watch tower and the demilitarized lane down the middle of the barrier.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj84vyrWDrsg2_sqQxqeX8CmlOcE0IFJFekR0yaJGdtdWwcmWiKJPpaW0YUDuqP6Vy9iJpJDq7lx-AjYu3LAFt1xuMrfqNHbfUkWWSnqKXhRfiDW-OWGG_zaE5ircFRo_qvm9fh4ZU8ys/s1600/IMG_0059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj84vyrWDrsg2_sqQxqeX8CmlOcE0IFJFekR0yaJGdtdWwcmWiKJPpaW0YUDuqP6Vy9iJpJDq7lx-AjYu3LAFt1xuMrfqNHbfUkWWSnqKXhRfiDW-OWGG_zaE5ircFRo_qvm9fh4ZU8ys/s320/IMG_0059.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the more moving pictures from the <i>Topography of Terror </i> museum exhibit about the Nazi regime. Ask us about our book.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2F-czS9tH4eH8J_DZCoeH_pgCD6rEllU__p-QEOJXdNDCXlokC53zcFtyaZPzdT3dTj5bL3oNfjBKs0_A6SszAj9j_U2PDZ3HJOkgzaorZ0AaUzRVujutNW3hkhW6ZH91BLhGnoT12g/s1600/IMG_0133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2F-czS9tH4eH8J_DZCoeH_pgCD6rEllU__p-QEOJXdNDCXlokC53zcFtyaZPzdT3dTj5bL3oNfjBKs0_A6SszAj9j_U2PDZ3HJOkgzaorZ0AaUzRVujutNW3hkhW6ZH91BLhGnoT12g/s320/IMG_0133.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Erotik Museum, the largest in the world. Also a shrine to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beate_Uhse-Rotermund">Beate Uhse</a>, the world's first (female) adult entertainment mogul. It all started as a way to inform 1940's women in rural Germany about contraception. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUdVOpWlgqtgCNOQYg5_MPYavir_ZjBbm0Ikj9MSg1goT7T74rPMu3jiHmeukvbnHsu6rVU3Gxn_6u8ozh8xOUHGyCJS-HFgWK09oc0vqZxnrUWPijt6bmRz3a2K0NMlZ8Jy-DiZJV5c/s1600/IMG_0127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUdVOpWlgqtgCNOQYg5_MPYavir_ZjBbm0Ikj9MSg1goT7T74rPMu3jiHmeukvbnHsu6rVU3Gxn_6u8ozh8xOUHGyCJS-HFgWK09oc0vqZxnrUWPijt6bmRz3a2K0NMlZ8Jy-DiZJV5c/s320/IMG_0127.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the Erotik Museum's more tame exhibits, a legit, preserved tiger's penis. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqYsSI4wyk8Aud5eHR__baCcVwGR_eCDap6soB0mpCI7OX7D7l58JcogmWUtbs5GvzUt7twEL6qdtiYacbhrD2-eOYPz_7QgCjsbBwBq8yqJJwI_L-77TnN02mYRZAbMPMm6rldzZyfs/s1600/IMG_0143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqYsSI4wyk8Aud5eHR__baCcVwGR_eCDap6soB0mpCI7OX7D7l58JcogmWUtbs5GvzUt7twEL6qdtiYacbhrD2-eOYPz_7QgCjsbBwBq8yqJJwI_L-77TnN02mYRZAbMPMm6rldzZyfs/s320/IMG_0143.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over a memorial at the Babelplatz in Berlin, the location of the infamous Nazi book burning. The room below is filled with walls of empty bookshelves. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8T3Y3TdQgRtqFnzYDrAeS5GB_ZVPaEkdMvtBwiQYDpBcOmlPn7xyAMvYqptof-Tw8OwlTZGdPuIDi7X1VpOwcoJEc3Tqs6WyRvYZqxPmXTvJLx-D_Ijh4p73AUMTkHFnvBD3N48UOz3g/s1600/IMG_0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8T3Y3TdQgRtqFnzYDrAeS5GB_ZVPaEkdMvtBwiQYDpBcOmlPn7xyAMvYqptof-Tw8OwlTZGdPuIDi7X1VpOwcoJEc3Tqs6WyRvYZqxPmXTvJLx-D_Ijh4p73AUMTkHFnvBD3N48UOz3g/s320/IMG_0141.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plaque at the Babelplatz book burning memorial with a quote by Heinrich Heine; "wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDbqoDIu9RjYUCYlTyakRb47wxgHAb_SE9Wi6zUPJl7E6s3TAvLhhpsC97nJDVtJsDAVU4vJNdyr5lE1IkoZAU_1Mx_Oid4Q9pfGcqofqFZkgO2VBW2nwQnxetGE_0xCF08cIOl7xZno/s1600/IMG_0179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDbqoDIu9RjYUCYlTyakRb47wxgHAb_SE9Wi6zUPJl7E6s3TAvLhhpsC97nJDVtJsDAVU4vJNdyr5lE1IkoZAU_1Mx_Oid4Q9pfGcqofqFZkgO2VBW2nwQnxetGE_0xCF08cIOl7xZno/s320/IMG_0179.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many great spots in Berlin to have a Pils and a sausage.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Jc30hsjoPTVz4yAjhWXxs_N-xOUVUAORVRRO5DkNMVfr19FcB0iHwQo8CVEyFsg2Xqn0ULwjM-lmXpHcOZbxAzgrhG2wB9A5IQPA8Rzz6fIMX9EipdsFRYq_RGleLoL6LZPaeNJDYWg/s1600/IMG_0074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Jc30hsjoPTVz4yAjhWXxs_N-xOUVUAORVRRO5DkNMVfr19FcB0iHwQo8CVEyFsg2Xqn0ULwjM-lmXpHcOZbxAzgrhG2wB9A5IQPA8Rzz6fIMX9EipdsFRYq_RGleLoL6LZPaeNJDYWg/s320/IMG_0074.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An interesting difference between East and West Berlin is the walk signals... we believe the rigid, blocky guy is for what was formerly East Berlin...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsbA3Ow75oZDl_yfkP-zlu9oiji5OhTywNsQdY7218w4LXyLYYhsDJcZWyqd1J6HXlipYYkj5yUF7GBsu0Gj8epGG-Gkke31Rll0ZI2UxC-5BUDMkbqGatZqlx2q3MmKdcOM8-S8YB74/s1600/IMG_0118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsbA3Ow75oZDl_yfkP-zlu9oiji5OhTywNsQdY7218w4LXyLYYhsDJcZWyqd1J6HXlipYYkj5yUF7GBsu0Gj8epGG-Gkke31Rll0ZI2UxC-5BUDMkbqGatZqlx2q3MmKdcOM8-S8YB74/s320/IMG_0118.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and the more accurately proportioned guy is from West Berlin. At the old Berlin Wall memorial this actually changes on a specific street corner. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zN8lao0Bwm80tHeSh1IoodnIyVgh78FhbUeODsceSEcC88jQ2wfaS95jBuIxP6xFg3XKZH_pXzZ6-SrVHcfKEq4uq7v7rK1da33HCkomIq988q1yIMY9ITD6LKml0zT0XeVk3SCKHLI/s1600/IMG_0149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zN8lao0Bwm80tHeSh1IoodnIyVgh78FhbUeODsceSEcC88jQ2wfaS95jBuIxP6xFg3XKZH_pXzZ6-SrVHcfKEq4uq7v7rK1da33HCkomIq988q1yIMY9ITD6LKml0zT0XeVk3SCKHLI/s320/IMG_0149.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brandenburger Tor ("Gate"). This is a storied structure that serves as an entrance to the city of Berlin, and which every armed force (domestic or foreign) has accordingly marched right through anytime the city has been sieged or taken over throughout German history. Here, Dave storms through and makes his claim.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1PulGmjqrl3HeZdx8UOOSFEygKWTHiRr3Ry0O47BgmJQc2DhwcJBNhO72S2wpBweaTccpe2zpNZpX1mj-E7GbcDocYndaYifU49AXhRrH521AiCFncBzOvFhQLT9TWpnBYAoG855Ne4/s1600/IMG_0161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1PulGmjqrl3HeZdx8UOOSFEygKWTHiRr3Ry0O47BgmJQc2DhwcJBNhO72S2wpBweaTccpe2zpNZpX1mj-E7GbcDocYndaYifU49AXhRrH521AiCFncBzOvFhQLT9TWpnBYAoG855Ne4/s320/IMG_0161.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bundesteige, Germany's government building. Oddly, the hardest tourist attraction to access in all of Berlin.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp-QC18RuazoTNok7OnaYRNfWmACOxpRtBGBjnr5Y6DgwrfKtmJEOoL9Hii15JLJjIau5CfVhqde1zr-RCwwF2mGw9D-G8HodmdiFW8hUxlyU-iWukKtbAg759JAMZ3ddEHsnw74Vc3I/s1600/IMG_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp-QC18RuazoTNok7OnaYRNfWmACOxpRtBGBjnr5Y6DgwrfKtmJEOoL9Hii15JLJjIau5CfVhqde1zr-RCwwF2mGw9D-G8HodmdiFW8hUxlyU-iWukKtbAg759JAMZ3ddEHsnw74Vc3I/s320/IMG_0164.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hotel Adlon, opposite the Brandanburg Gate and otherwise not worth noting except to point out that it was the site of <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/2493513.stm">Michael Jackson's baby-dangling incident</a>. R.I.P. Michael.</td></tr>
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</span></div>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-46400276734777953702011-11-10T13:17:00.000-08:002011-11-10T13:17:12.735-08:00Blackie The Rabbit<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">This is primarily for Charles Bradt, though anyone who is interested in slaughtering game, raising rabbits, or our trip should check this out. It's not pretty though, and it speaks to one of the key challenges of doing these things on your own farm. You raise the animal and care for it, and then you kill the animal and eat it. Cringing at this has seemed dishonest to us given that we both eat meat, and we've tried to jump right in to these kinds of experiences for that specific reason. Seeing this process in full rounds out the picture. We literally were feeding this rabbit five minutes prior to the first picture. Blackie, we called him. He was big and friendly as rabbits go and he had a beautiful black coat, hence the name. On this fateful Friday morning we were feeding him as we'd grown accustomed to, patting him lovingly all the while, when Marcel abruptly stepped out of the barn telling us to stop, that we would be having roast rabbit on Sunday, that the rabbit should have an empty stomach when slaughtered, and that Blackie was the one. The pictures tell the rest. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Blackie, this is for you. </div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUjvjxEQk-_pu-GZ4cntNonWH_oKCYAux5amUheXD1eJXjr1J6gJ59spJ9_6hSHAs16wfrVb8IDWeV0k6LN9yAAXMwNwB-Q3Qejvcqp3TBmhIqSVxVL1bDyypAOl-ebbX1QSnAi1cMTo/s1600/IMG_2605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUjvjxEQk-_pu-GZ4cntNonWH_oKCYAux5amUheXD1eJXjr1J6gJ59spJ9_6hSHAs16wfrVb8IDWeV0k6LN9yAAXMwNwB-Q3Qejvcqp3TBmhIqSVxVL1bDyypAOl-ebbX1QSnAi1cMTo/s320/IMG_2605.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It begins. Blackie was a good rabbit, and a good earthling. His passing was valued greatly and happened about 2 minutes prior to this picture.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDnGpgXAUa7Sm9-4sZGi7r_ICcNjRphOCHuowPjTbBYLmZy470m5F1V7epMci-wG2oKeMVi3a2d55Bi65ZPafMTMaFwZ1nkE74Hi8WX3pidIulQIIXUykGtrdoecBCqP4r4MJBAqUV4M/s1600/IMG_2607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDnGpgXAUa7Sm9-4sZGi7r_ICcNjRphOCHuowPjTbBYLmZy470m5F1V7epMci-wG2oKeMVi3a2d55Bi65ZPafMTMaFwZ1nkE74Hi8WX3pidIulQIIXUykGtrdoecBCqP4r4MJBAqUV4M/s320/IMG_2607.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the early stages look similar to a poodle haircut. Cuts along the legs allow the fur to be peeled down the body of the rabbit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksSlI7zne7Xhuf6cAn4lYp9lh9qmf86PlHue6UVzjkWWEISzY_f_iG8PcjkjKLsl4c6YE02XKfbdWO-rOqbaXPx1-yfjRmTHIkdLslYjBQNRIVRjH_t53is54JASgVsNyl_tHm0dW1FI/s1600/IMG_2609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksSlI7zne7Xhuf6cAn4lYp9lh9qmf86PlHue6UVzjkWWEISzY_f_iG8PcjkjKLsl4c6YE02XKfbdWO-rOqbaXPx1-yfjRmTHIkdLslYjBQNRIVRjH_t53is54JASgVsNyl_tHm0dW1FI/s320/IMG_2609.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entire pelt rolls right off the torso... </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQHFTa_O97tTA5RPOeLDKUqVaCcnsRB8xchEHTEmXlIT3fhsUIwkMCHN5DTBOVrhV6VYmLtI66ymzS2UpeNRoCU9wi_fxwTyvS23l5IhowUbWTBZaK75xR8scSlaEp7z8uNDjphtYIQk/s1600/IMG_2612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQHFTa_O97tTA5RPOeLDKUqVaCcnsRB8xchEHTEmXlIT3fhsUIwkMCHN5DTBOVrhV6VYmLtI66ymzS2UpeNRoCU9wi_fxwTyvS23l5IhowUbWTBZaK75xR8scSlaEp7z8uNDjphtYIQk/s320/IMG_2612.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and catches around the head. Tree-pruning loppers came into play here, thankfully undocumented.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswYkqVN_WjkK6_7NhgLPAXP-2Qqta56ZISgE8Dt10JCGCUZumuZOJbKjpDdkDbcyO_Wlxk8LFm89kxhl7yf97-Fjfj5fF5TENG1yJ9nhmc8_dhGc-fDDUAzjbCHini_y9n83WCMEWfgk/s1600/IMG_2614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswYkqVN_WjkK6_7NhgLPAXP-2Qqta56ZISgE8Dt10JCGCUZumuZOJbKjpDdkDbcyO_Wlxk8LFm89kxhl7yf97-Fjfj5fF5TENG1yJ9nhmc8_dhGc-fDDUAzjbCHini_y9n83WCMEWfgk/s320/IMG_2614.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An incision is made into the stomach of now hairless and headless Blackie. Note Christina yawning... two weeks on the farm has hardened her, apparently.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsL0VdV9xFP5uHjXXxQsFwUtSASiusDu-BYrOQZlUUhJBe8eMClspvN9OpX-XiD1jcHfWMwn0NkdP8TtPxD7a5wVhKhAU_kkpmRoo9TiZ796jeCugKIk_xE9Q9cR4sEeJnntyaqW5feo/s1600/IMG_2641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsL0VdV9xFP5uHjXXxQsFwUtSASiusDu-BYrOQZlUUhJBe8eMClspvN9OpX-XiD1jcHfWMwn0NkdP8TtPxD7a5wVhKhAU_kkpmRoo9TiZ796jeCugKIk_xE9Q9cR4sEeJnntyaqW5feo/s320/IMG_2641.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two days later, ready to be prepped for stew.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-OUoWFrroAsAomol30VOXP0Es1eA2MRKLsUz_I6_d3LkwS-zq_stYpegvyTGBo2_qyyY3WsAMZAHCQVUGAOpyRcZX_5dRk8iOsPLECnTMuwDEQVjW8WQRjiGnxJldd36YGwq5YuKeMw/s1600/IMG_2644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-OUoWFrroAsAomol30VOXP0Es1eA2MRKLsUz_I6_d3LkwS-zq_stYpegvyTGBo2_qyyY3WsAMZAHCQVUGAOpyRcZX_5dRk8iOsPLECnTMuwDEQVjW8WQRjiGnxJldd36YGwq5YuKeMw/s320/IMG_2644.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First, the back legs are removed at the joint. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDeyqfx5bIrwqjBok02x3gv8z0hqXDp_NUu4U_lMdVOrbWptfaGSVJQmfm75MfLDrJOUhvVtTkBL9-h9imNhEJ0jjTeY_MFA1bQuLa8DstVKbNQW7O6Y6pmLtQGQUDJNxaDKXV6n9A3k/s1600/IMG_2649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDeyqfx5bIrwqjBok02x3gv8z0hqXDp_NUu4U_lMdVOrbWptfaGSVJQmfm75MfLDrJOUhvVtTkBL9-h9imNhEJ0jjTeY_MFA1bQuLa8DstVKbNQW7O6Y6pmLtQGQUDJNxaDKXV6n9A3k/s320/IMG_2649.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The front legs follow. Interesting that only flaps of skin and tendon attach the front legs, no major bone sockets.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1py1G8LqodUdTj5fUtOfySUsSVPND-zysrr5uk_9DFhSGJbj0-14XQqEFBMO4bizmz1rp4ZrNXbqw0TS8YPxHdLim4OYjDDcGdZt5wmxpJMgAejZRrmhSX0CmI56Ru0af3pRur88UnY/s1600/IMG_2652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1py1G8LqodUdTj5fUtOfySUsSVPND-zysrr5uk_9DFhSGJbj0-14XQqEFBMO4bizmz1rp4ZrNXbqw0TS8YPxHdLim4OYjDDcGdZt5wmxpJMgAejZRrmhSX0CmI56Ru0af3pRur88UnY/s320/IMG_2652.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The strips below the rib cage are removed next, to be diced later.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VIluTF2-wgarWWt5UdG6WBrN2k6HZ2vfNyq93AhA0PqXcwC2s9CB_1lLP1SzwDsKAxc4QDpVKsahstEHdExBQExihtgHghO0UPq0mCtBGvBuRdsyUTlEvaUxxLXSOrj2_lKeHssuL7s/s1600/IMG_2655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VIluTF2-wgarWWt5UdG6WBrN2k6HZ2vfNyq93AhA0PqXcwC2s9CB_1lLP1SzwDsKAxc4QDpVKsahstEHdExBQExihtgHghO0UPq0mCtBGvBuRdsyUTlEvaUxxLXSOrj2_lKeHssuL7s/s320/IMG_2655.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcel locates the lowest rib and cuts down to the backbone on both sides of the rabbit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBa-iXlB6p8GfT5CzRwSNQsFD8GWx413Zea9x1R257HApOWxb5VtpnMXjFF5wWcAO7Q-ODk6s0YKlkXeavk452hrJ1zxklhD4ZM_vH0yj2mAiq8zAhupK7-KIrD-60MdAL8g5Zpsr3OAg/s1600/IMG_2658.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBa-iXlB6p8GfT5CzRwSNQsFD8GWx413Zea9x1R257HApOWxb5VtpnMXjFF5wWcAO7Q-ODk6s0YKlkXeavk452hrJ1zxklhD4ZM_vH0yj2mAiq8zAhupK7-KIrD-60MdAL8g5Zpsr3OAg/s320/IMG_2658.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having separated the rib cage by severing the spine, Marcel uses a paring knife to pull "filets" from the outside of the ribcage. And yes, he's wearing chainmail, though sadly it stops at a glove. Half Michael, half medieval. Awesome.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdqfjtDem5p-UPAtLsjGIhQcdpujOzcIWKtR5sxLWnh2RMaLsFl9E2claxI5W2fNkObj3iSYhGpaHgAsPf0UbpMYI89ZlzRtLS5C9_cwoMqpoRGCEQ33JpLJGDy-Vt10myPJr9lyZZVA/s1600/IMG_2665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdqfjtDem5p-UPAtLsjGIhQcdpujOzcIWKtR5sxLWnh2RMaLsFl9E2claxI5W2fNkObj3iSYhGpaHgAsPf0UbpMYI89ZlzRtLS5C9_cwoMqpoRGCEQ33JpLJGDy-Vt10myPJr9lyZZVA/s320/IMG_2665.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strips between the rib bones have been removed. Marcel is now dicing any large boneless sections in preparation for the stew. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAa6HGS5Tg-5DU3ZbsavfB81MwH4v3tJ93RlNvJMrKk-3LM6KqucO6fkthum-a20Ja9pBDpBlMmH7DleLSiQwB7978Y627MvXOZgGME6iSBzduaBqgS9DP6kF7oLFuyzNnAvda5MIx9g/s1600/IMG_2686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAa6HGS5Tg-5DU3ZbsavfB81MwH4v3tJ93RlNvJMrKk-3LM6KqucO6fkthum-a20Ja9pBDpBlMmH7DleLSiQwB7978Y627MvXOZgGME6iSBzduaBqgS9DP6kF7oLFuyzNnAvda5MIx9g/s320/IMG_2686.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spaetzle (the 'ae' is actually an umlaut ) being made, a traditional German pasta that served as the side for our Rabbit Feast. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZZw_jfg1m8XRiBGYEPo9F60vtTfGc7wHuhWEgxI9kOMpgeqH4FUHthbO-542D2GHxvkO9I8OkQYS9Avo8QC7EP2mo8reHnVNcN9EqIW7Q9K8VUNXiUc9zWgzGOekZmKBUUjkJuZ9j6c4/s1600/IMG_2702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZZw_jfg1m8XRiBGYEPo9F60vtTfGc7wHuhWEgxI9kOMpgeqH4FUHthbO-542D2GHxvkO9I8OkQYS9Avo8QC7EP2mo8reHnVNcN9EqIW7Q9K8VUNXiUc9zWgzGOekZmKBUUjkJuZ9j6c4/s320/IMG_2702.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rabbit Feast. From left to right are Ute, Christina, Dave, Sean and Marcel. Didn't realize how much flannel was happening at the time, but whatever, Sean and I are farmers now and we can do that.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKV-1DjlEOJhffTOOd5HHfDeoeGfvpX6TPIqTdqzLu0-PJ8y7OFXxYoGG2PeValZX9971C4nL5E1oiNAiUKj5aJpRG5QK3HxxHpebmpdIJCWL9GXFn0BBfyxIBp_YeG-zgc0ESeIhE6IE/s1600/IMG_2703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKV-1DjlEOJhffTOOd5HHfDeoeGfvpX6TPIqTdqzLu0-PJ8y7OFXxYoGG2PeValZX9971C4nL5E1oiNAiUKj5aJpRG5QK3HxxHpebmpdIJCWL9GXFn0BBfyxIBp_YeG-zgc0ESeIhE6IE/s320/IMG_2703.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A plate at the Rabbit Feast. A leg, some sauteed sweet carrots, and some spaetzle with the delicious, thick gravy made from rabbit pan drippings. Delicious. Memorable. A night-killer - nothing to do after eating but smile and go to bed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-80548930510341859132011-11-08T06:20:00.000-08:002011-11-08T06:20:41.058-08:00Week 2: Things Get Serious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This week, we took life at the Lufts head on. There were many firsts to be had. </div>
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Monday was Halloween - a day not celebrated in Germany. Although it is growing in popularity as candy companies advertise and package candy for the day, it is not a part of German tradition. Halloween went almost entirely unnoticed for us except for Ben, the Lufts' son, who arrived to dinner dressed, we think, as a <a href="http://images.wikia.com/lotr/images/3/36/Nazgul_msm.jpg">ringwraith</a>. <br />
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</a>The week seemed to fly by and this was due in part to a dinner party we attended on Monday night. Marcel and Ute's gracious neighbors, Christiane and Horst, invited us over for English Night - Kurbiseintopf (Literally translated as Pumpkin One Pot) and English conversation. The retired couple lives next door to the Lufts in a renovated farm house. We were greeted at the door and invited into their dining room where an inviting fire and seasonally decorated table awaited us. Christiane and Horst further reinforced our notion of the Germans as a convivial bunch who can certainly handle their liquor. Christiane served a delicious pumpkin stew. The tureen seemed bottomless as we each helped ourselves to second and third servings of the warming and tasty meal. While Christiane replenished the crusty bread and stew, Horst continually refilled our beer and wine glasses. It was a marvelous night of fascinating conversation and good company. Fairly early in the evening the conversation turned to politics, the state of the world and how to garner the interest and involvement of the youth. Big issues and serious topics for us here in Weitsche. The people here and the Lufts' way of life provide hope in what sometimes seems like a bleak forecast for the future. <br />
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Despite our late night, Tuesday began bright and early at 7:30am with David's first chicken slaughtering. We'll let the pictures speak for themselves. Overall it was an intense and informative experience. Surely we won't be able to look at meat counters the same anymore. As Marcel always reminds us, it takes a bit of time to do this process well, especially if you expand the idea of "the process" to raising and providing for the chickens. Much has to be adjusted or abridged or entirely lost when the process achieves larger economies of scale.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3s1IZLP4Sy-vn62MfHuwoj5b8sh5nKnBIxeKwASclQsEzp8KEEmScDkk5na08Wh0Twx0hwn3ccJ9BZcXs80Lp7xSNPURkcC5LRYo9G29aB2is2E0TULkFdMO3f-VwR3w7KkEn45bwtFj/s1600/IMG_2573.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi3s1IZLP4Sy-vn62MfHuwoj5b8sh5nKnBIxeKwASclQsEzp8KEEmScDkk5na08Wh0Twx0hwn3ccJ9BZcXs80Lp7xSNPURkcC5LRYo9G29aB2is2E0TULkFdMO3f-VwR3w7KkEn45bwtFj/s320/IMG_2573.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David and the chicken prepare themselves for the inevitable. Does the hen know what's coming here, we wonder? </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXMz7e5ZhXzQgq1DteaxfDd9mIPOYEOWW11mJKYXduPxQWZG7uyw4uWXFi3pU52KX_kmxtbqrHn5-oD9j5fne8HwfqE5DWpLPz4u2vRDPXREr5kOJdiiFfB0hpAtDxzeYHk1Sm0vmPrw_/s1600/IMG_2580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXMz7e5ZhXzQgq1DteaxfDd9mIPOYEOWW11mJKYXduPxQWZG7uyw4uWXFi3pU52KX_kmxtbqrHn5-oD9j5fne8HwfqE5DWpLPz4u2vRDPXREr5kOJdiiFfB0hpAtDxzeYHk1Sm0vmPrw_/s320/IMG_2580.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First, the chicken is hit on the head with a small club. This step is mandatory in Germany. If we do this ever again, we're buying a chamber mechanism where gas knocks the bird out, not a club. This was the troubling part. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAQqyekcqh8y2Eos4hZBvJIJZQsgxgscv2STLuuspHZI3-l9liJ00A_K_QN7fBQUWYsvZzyRgw0vkOr0AD88ScUU8so7HYojOYQwPA6Z012O_nDvpS-r_DZjMLn79Q0Dvm3eBgyvLlT7c3/s1600/IMG_2584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAQqyekcqh8y2Eos4hZBvJIJZQsgxgscv2STLuuspHZI3-l9liJ00A_K_QN7fBQUWYsvZzyRgw0vkOr0AD88ScUU8so7HYojOYQwPA6Z012O_nDvpS-r_DZjMLn79Q0Dvm3eBgyvLlT7c3/s320/IMG_2584.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With an axe, the chicken's head is chopped off. Actually this was the troubling part.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw2jjafRqQvDWEOCRl5gVUxGiofVP5Da9wFbpPDrQ6ofndz7AO1uXeGOZzQJnsaPVmR4c7MPmQJXXUpjsdbqrCdBrZSM8zwHvLL8xGbs6teAT-drdNdSfCAkth8oSGJvOAsJ9ssXF6bIq/s1600/IMG_2581.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw2jjafRqQvDWEOCRl5gVUxGiofVP5Da9wFbpPDrQ6ofndz7AO1uXeGOZzQJnsaPVmR4c7MPmQJXXUpjsdbqrCdBrZSM8zwHvLL8xGbs6teAT-drdNdSfCAkth8oSGJvOAsJ9ssXF6bIq/s320/IMG_2581.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bird is then dipped in boiling water and plucked. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David carrying away the plucked chickens. He also participates in the gutting of the animals.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJ4eLA4qtvJDlu28i7mLEbC0mHc2NFoL9CsJQeBRNiyr84daT5i3nLTFr0ZKdaNscoIt2s1f9YfIuDhqKZNd4-nvs6Pt-M5JyYYiim5tcJmmrzXtiwqOl-V9nFBmZRh1ugB5pFLQjDWmg/s1600/IMG_2601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJ4eLA4qtvJDlu28i7mLEbC0mHc2NFoL9CsJQeBRNiyr84daT5i3nLTFr0ZKdaNscoIt2s1f9YfIuDhqKZNd4-nvs6Pt-M5JyYYiim5tcJmmrzXtiwqOl-V9nFBmZRh1ugB5pFLQjDWmg/s320/IMG_2601.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcel tells us that Germany tradition calls for the liver of the killed animal to be given to the hunter. Here is the chicken liver served with onions, salt and pepper....</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtWlSbopv89TCkRH9dtw2qB6cnM6k7eazNXw0dd_hNzhTr-2zpASbMrSj6ZFi3mkqpU9PW2KtwK9MkGMBI8rmm4aC-wvuNawtTNo40KVmQDn-RWmZuEgnL3qNzY7xRoBHYt6VU80iZP8C/s1600/IMG_2603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtWlSbopv89TCkRH9dtw2qB6cnM6k7eazNXw0dd_hNzhTr-2zpASbMrSj6ZFi3mkqpU9PW2KtwK9MkGMBI8rmm4aC-wvuNawtTNo40KVmQDn-RWmZuEgnL3qNzY7xRoBHYt6VU80iZP8C/s320/IMG_2603.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and here is the 'hunter,' loosely interpreted.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9C1dabSNphDDxFXxOn6wlMlhhPguz2nipD8bQGpHRwPJ_I0Ali-lMONg2cRa5xu7MMa1bsTZ0X6Ad2wynqmG2Cs1KlR-_22gSceHMmKlLjw0U05CZMmIs4w1rSmmtdtGHL8-mr6F27bI/s1600/IMG_2602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw9C1dabSNphDDxFXxOn6wlMlhhPguz2nipD8bQGpHRwPJ_I0Ali-lMONg2cRa5xu7MMa1bsTZ0X6Ad2wynqmG2Cs1KlR-_22gSceHMmKlLjw0U05CZMmIs4w1rSmmtdtGHL8-mr6F27bI/s320/IMG_2602.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The huntress was not so impressed at first. </td></tr>
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The chicken slaughtering was not the only<i> first</i> of the week. This week, I (Christina) went on my first bike ride. Thanks to my patient bike instructor, I finally moved beyond the rounds in the village circle. We went on several long bike rides this week and I can confidently say I know how to ride a bike. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iCcj96FE8Zqp_NCd9H77kUQgqYJyuZJVajv3hAohIXVC9KJ18F1ZYMNhgUzxbOwogrCFtkEyqXxZOZmuC2NDXu37Tw-mUtcIQa_gJc9EJKnTCPx4QBVy1D2kB2WYo3CEGzLwf1Ichl-x/s1600/IMG_2600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iCcj96FE8Zqp_NCd9H77kUQgqYJyuZJVajv3hAohIXVC9KJ18F1ZYMNhgUzxbOwogrCFtkEyqXxZOZmuC2NDXu37Tw-mUtcIQa_gJc9EJKnTCPx4QBVy1D2kB2WYo3CEGzLwf1Ichl-x/s320/IMG_2600.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After several days of increasing distance we finally rode to the town of Luchow, which is 8km away. Cars zoom by rather frequently on this road and they do not seem inclined to stop, so we ultimately opted for a series of small roads that run parallel to the canal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21t7AzueF6E8S6L7M_7lEqE_7gA0RZGIKGxPeHst-SsV7WEPCYNHf3xFJDTY2i3Qf1zNo9di1SER8eaCiF9FbFB3LCzXnep4G6SFWwiLieFvDvwIyLhi2JtDh6GCrLBfUVh7RFC1-gvyn/s1600/IMG_2709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21t7AzueF6E8S6L7M_7lEqE_7gA0RZGIKGxPeHst-SsV7WEPCYNHf3xFJDTY2i3Qf1zNo9di1SER8eaCiF9FbFB3LCzXnep4G6SFWwiLieFvDvwIyLhi2JtDh6GCrLBfUVh7RFC1-gvyn/s320/IMG_2709.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Since learning of the canal path, our bike rides have been quite peaceful. This Sunday it was rather foggy. The mist created the illusion of riding under moon light.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There were also many firsts in the kitchen this week, including, American Burger Night (complete with homemade buns), traditional Bavarian Pretzel Sunday and a delicious rabbit roast. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaNJAP3OSGWPmW9Ph5zQwygg-19_xQ05l90rxKlVNE4aAneF6HfrE5gIuuT9LPAS3ZERnKV_GDcgaqe4ZZZxZv89BO4QuDE4DODEO0s5QPIic-Bk7pN8R5o-mbgjp1VPiK7eTzb_M8S7ny/s1600/IMG_2637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaNJAP3OSGWPmW9Ph5zQwygg-19_xQ05l90rxKlVNE4aAneF6HfrE5gIuuT9LPAS3ZERnKV_GDcgaqe4ZZZxZv89BO4QuDE4DODEO0s5QPIic-Bk7pN8R5o-mbgjp1VPiK7eTzb_M8S7ny/s320/IMG_2637.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homemade hamburger buns. With Ute's help, we were able to bake some pretty delicious and simple buns.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8wCNY9pUHTNOekxrc6XJZeJBjp8UXGdDPWCw6OONa1E5NvMLsYtBm1AGnmeeCUBlkVHJ7hJJF4jKVJC671g9UCNuuKyt6kdWG8UgDZsKJMjjp2dPRIXc6_z0KFPhNCeMF_PJLXVbWV-h/s1600/IMG_2639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN8wCNY9pUHTNOekxrc6XJZeJBjp8UXGdDPWCw6OONa1E5NvMLsYtBm1AGnmeeCUBlkVHJ7hJJF4jKVJC671g9UCNuuKyt6kdWG8UgDZsKJMjjp2dPRIXc6_z0KFPhNCeMF_PJLXVbWV-h/s320/IMG_2639.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hamburger Night would not be complete without the perfect fry. These were soaked in sugar water and fried twice. Needless to say they were a hit.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pumpkin stew and hamburger roll recipes are posted on our recipe page. Guten apetit! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We'll soon post a special entry devoted to Blackie the rabbit and his ultimate fate.</span></div>
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<br /></div>CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-62264286074299357312011-10-30T08:15:00.000-07:002011-10-30T08:15:39.333-07:00Week 1: Lufting it in Weitsche<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">After signing out of the<a href="http://www.apartment-hotel.de/" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Apartment Hotel</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">, which was a great space that we'd recommend to anyone traveling through Hamburg, we hunkered down at the Hamburg </span><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hauptbanhopf</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> to wait for the train that would take us to our first work-stay of the trip. The train station was great for some good old people watching. We were particularly amused by an older gentleman who seemed to spend his day collecting the half finished cigarettes of smokers. Kind of gross, but he certainly found plenty of butts. One thing that has jumped out at us is Germany has LOTS of smokers. Anyways, by mid-afternoon we had boarded the first train, which took us to Lunenberg, a town about 45 minutes west of Hamburg.</span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid8INeKmpk9fOO7kpgOAPUtE06E6htWGq46lVd424HhlO8peRcPpf4klL7f4W-PjXv2z2L0J88tX7ltuDks1I5pUkw8hsvwTmrH5VW0xgSvBtairTVDfhzvki_lsnemE_2YpERgvuskI/s1600/IMG_2489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid8INeKmpk9fOO7kpgOAPUtE06E6htWGq46lVd424HhlO8peRcPpf4klL7f4W-PjXv2z2L0J88tX7ltuDks1I5pUkw8hsvwTmrH5VW0xgSvBtairTVDfhzvki_lsnemE_2YpERgvuskI/s320/IMG_2489.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When traveling with all your belongings on your back in central Hamburg, it's important to maintain a sense of space. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>We switched trains at that point, hustled across the rail tracks to the secondary launch station and then boarded another train that took us another hour or so to Dannenberg. On the train ride we met up with Sean and Larissa, a young Australian couple that has been working and staying at the same work-stay in Germany. We got to meet each other on the train and have been working with them since. They're fun, exciting people who are having an <a href="http://beechysbodaciousadventures.webs.com/">adventure of their own</a>, traveling the world for a good 18 months. We arrived together in Dannenberg and were soon picked up by Marcel Luft, one half of the husband/wife team that owns and operates the farm. Skinny, winding roads brought us past fields upon fields and we eventually entered a cluster of beautiful old farmhouses that were huddled together around an intersection of three major roads, home to about 50 people. We had arrived at Weitsche.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijodqF7Y7VoUhBweRdkSpuZJhEf9zjugjRzRc2pkMPmWy7EjQNfbsOKIurfStMMR-r-I4HnRYbg3psTZ6I6K4_q1nJK4vEm-_v33TVHqJ3IoUbi04TYqCa_Zr8YVco3De4EgHuWk3PpZE/s1600/IMG_2514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijodqF7Y7VoUhBweRdkSpuZJhEf9zjugjRzRc2pkMPmWy7EjQNfbsOKIurfStMMR-r-I4HnRYbg3psTZ6I6K4_q1nJK4vEm-_v33TVHqJ3IoUbi04TYqCa_Zr8YVco3De4EgHuWk3PpZE/s320/IMG_2514.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whatever you do, don't pick up this guy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SXDc_AHDUYD5iEIGB2GFVUWG_LH3pj2HQE0qFyvYKe62dTmwSROpjECb4Kwrud4ax6hn2zIQVzdbWIozc_fg7ei8834jZe8auLTEGTc4SgIeykOtDJ3OmD1ZU0Lee-Hu1qhVCZ83G1I/s1600/IMG_2519.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SXDc_AHDUYD5iEIGB2GFVUWG_LH3pj2HQE0qFyvYKe62dTmwSROpjECb4Kwrud4ax6hn2zIQVzdbWIozc_fg7ei8834jZe8auLTEGTc4SgIeykOtDJ3OmD1ZU0Lee-Hu1qhVCZ83G1I/s320/IMG_2519.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Casa de Luft. Solar panels make them electrically self-sufficient when averaged over the year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCbUUYRg-ilK8zupmqSSoMXfoaCxmmtkan166cmiU8sC7LXs7WShZ4v-FaIWzKJsuB0BKmF0WrLClSl6O3iUWhCSa7YkZb9rLMm9DI1L1yZ9DWQ1Yq_rHH4Wy-SWNPwFBzxfF3TzEFOIE/s1600/IMG_2521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCbUUYRg-ilK8zupmqSSoMXfoaCxmmtkan166cmiU8sC7LXs7WShZ4v-FaIWzKJsuB0BKmF0WrLClSl6O3iUWhCSa7YkZb9rLMm9DI1L1yZ9DWQ1Yq_rHH4Wy-SWNPwFBzxfF3TzEFOIE/s320/IMG_2521.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you see this sign, you're there. Butt-lost, but you're there.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5g35tLeewgkbLfs-Dm92S_iD_Pw8SsIfRs0hFhZNd44qPpB6nmokg4zSO6s6j6RvG54wyr6c2xisajsC3T9hKem_Bn6aX4cxj7PITcNaLozVRPq2pwKR0gGwAEyY3K8EmxfeXCT7_xRU/s1600/IMG_2517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5g35tLeewgkbLfs-Dm92S_iD_Pw8SsIfRs0hFhZNd44qPpB6nmokg4zSO6s6j6RvG54wyr6c2xisajsC3T9hKem_Bn6aX4cxj7PITcNaLozVRPq2pwKR0gGwAEyY3K8EmxfeXCT7_xRU/s320/IMG_2517.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indicative of what most of the farmhouses look like in Weitsche...and actually <i>showing</i> what roughly half of the farmhouses look like in Weitsche.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEMQRVBhPnXJDpRBKFJeGEzzz13T-vekQM34wkSUKYkzYLoxP8TdELsBjArOafLRIj3uzY1riBvXaY-WG40mUn1g0Q07KT2GDRbHl7Op18pc-22GANmqOglZH9BlFcHbBbe5BkouLurw/s1600/IMG_2511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEMQRVBhPnXJDpRBKFJeGEzzz13T-vekQM34wkSUKYkzYLoxP8TdELsBjArOafLRIj3uzY1riBvXaY-WG40mUn1g0Q07KT2GDRbHl7Op18pc-22GANmqOglZH9BlFcHbBbe5BkouLurw/s320/IMG_2511.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The surrounding environs...and a beauty rarely seen in these parts. </td></tr>
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</div><div>So we settled in on Sunday night, and Monday morning we got into it. The farm consists of a few adjoined buildings where the Luft family and their work-awayers live and eat and sleep. Spaced around the periphery of the central yard are two large farmhouse buildings, a large vegetable garden and a sprawling livestock area where chickens, geese and ducks spend their days yukking it up. Four pigs are divided into two pens, one for the two piglets and one for the two hulking males who are (or should be) counting down the days until the cruel irony of their heavy diet is revealed to them. </div><div><br />
</div><div>In our first week we've already settled into the routine. We rise in the morning and gather for a light breakfast of toast and coffee, then are out working by 9am, taking on the tasks of the day. Each morning starts with the animals, making sure they are fed and happy. We then move on to the tasks of fall, which at this point have included harvesting and storing some late-season vegetables for the winter (potatoes, celery root, carrots, hulking beets), preparing the grounds for the winter season, and working on various foodstuffs and drinks that will provide sustenance for the winter months ahead. We break for the day at around 1pm, when some of the group begin cooking lunch, which is the big, hot meal of the day, and after lunch our time is our own. Everyone gathers for a light dinner later in the evening, usually bread, cheese, and various spreads (the liver pate is particularly good). After a bite and perhaps a taste of plum wine or Ute's home brew, everyone retires to do it again the next day. </div><div><br />
</div><div>We work closely with both Marcel and his wife Ute, who have proved to be vast resources of knowledge. What they accomplish here is undeniably impressive. They expertly utilize the fruits of their farm and the diverse skills of their townfolk and neighbors to operate almost entirely at self-sufficiency. Nothing is wasted and much is crafted that would otherwise be bought, from sweaters made of wool that was spun in-house and sheared from sheep in the back field, to wines made from harvested plums and cherries. And most delightful of all are the humans in the equation, Marcel and Ute, who have opened up their home and their experience here to share with anyone that is willing to dive right in. Their work here is not vaguely informed or defined; they have a vision of what they are trying to do and it fits into a larger vision of the world that is honest and appropriately conscious of how destructive normal human society tends to be towards the natural world and the fabric of community and life. They don't show up through the lens of American stereotype. This is not some hippie commune with spacey notions of harmonious living, but people who are living out a commitment to principles that work, principles that need to work. Marcel is still actively working (albeit on a part-time, self-chosen basis) as a network administrator for many local towns (including Weitsche...the internet I'm now accessing is traveling through infrastructure that Marcel put up himself). Ute herself was (is) Germany's first female web programmer. That is to say that these are people who are plugged in to technology and use it to serve their work here. We know already that we'll miss them terribly when it comes time to board the next train.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4AynN8L2hb1i3nCkeb-RVV7Sx_B94nMLHYzL7QqEFumesmi4wc_ihDbhUTP_1Wkx9nbYfWJOwVsz3wjAp-0CV8x69506aHdUga43z4pItANNtLJTLHmSJPWBMiof38TLwwiKF11f_g4/s1600/IMG_2549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4AynN8L2hb1i3nCkeb-RVV7Sx_B94nMLHYzL7QqEFumesmi4wc_ihDbhUTP_1Wkx9nbYfWJOwVsz3wjAp-0CV8x69506aHdUga43z4pItANNtLJTLHmSJPWBMiof38TLwwiKF11f_g4/s320/IMG_2549.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This sight greets us every morning as the birds rush us for the daily offering of stale bread, graciously offered up by a local bakery every two weeks. The geese are maniacs.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMD_9yoBAQyWhUI1jP1DtFpR9LS80VoYQlZuavRVFZpSYFdklGpgBPv1L6Voo35uddf7ktn2CXcbh_T0s3cc5hDyG7ZznYhil_jPcPkuq8cAS6eXzaKA5B2yUkyuZeq7jluDHyXqa3cU/s1600/IMG_2553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMD_9yoBAQyWhUI1jP1DtFpR9LS80VoYQlZuavRVFZpSYFdklGpgBPv1L6Voo35uddf7ktn2CXcbh_T0s3cc5hDyG7ZznYhil_jPcPkuq8cAS6eXzaKA5B2yUkyuZeq7jluDHyXqa3cU/s320/IMG_2553.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeding the rabbits and trying not to get attached...these are food rabbits, not cuddly rabbits.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpk_UzWrzWSN92R0gErgSD9FbpZpopvsLeknDIYEuxH8WZ1TSFl7UTS4U0buzMaAqz7qDZlV8ytNSvRKuG5sNH8KQmRWs4iFxKVYSkDc4a_39LBdy3-3xZgQFMnfh6odnJdNro71xBFs0/s1600/IMG_2560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpk_UzWrzWSN92R0gErgSD9FbpZpopvsLeknDIYEuxH8WZ1TSFl7UTS4U0buzMaAqz7qDZlV8ytNSvRKuG5sNH8KQmRWs4iFxKVYSkDc4a_39LBdy3-3xZgQFMnfh6odnJdNro71xBFs0/s320/IMG_2560.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina, the piglet whisperer.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82d4SjZldCLhMb_GE1WzT9K92vauzgglWabWVBMFrzISNBn_WS8CECNaJRe_hApS9zvdMSN5wf0m72tXk-Sx_eYwSD5Ae-gvtWp4Ut4raP-yIY2ypW74duRdUUqwAVR2Myq9Ezx_G7yA/s1600/IMG_2539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82d4SjZldCLhMb_GE1WzT9K92vauzgglWabWVBMFrzISNBn_WS8CECNaJRe_hApS9zvdMSN5wf0m72tXk-Sx_eYwSD5Ae-gvtWp4Ut4raP-yIY2ypW74duRdUUqwAVR2Myq9Ezx_G7yA/s320/IMG_2539.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beer is homemade, and really good. Ute is quite the brewmaster. The Christmas batch was just bottled...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYWg4Kd5qVT3ntnoUtG7W6w5NLmv7yYYtb6kDN6AUKVdeGuqAJjbp41g3L054SsuRVwKt21PMAYUN3MgEwu1YJ_hBDSbFf9zkljXVKp6UKuxCPF86Hg1X6icqvqGNzqr3EbOs_p7zzls/s1600/IMG_2531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYWg4Kd5qVT3ntnoUtG7W6w5NLmv7yYYtb6kDN6AUKVdeGuqAJjbp41g3L054SsuRVwKt21PMAYUN3MgEwu1YJ_hBDSbFf9zkljXVKp6UKuxCPF86Hg1X6icqvqGNzqr3EbOs_p7zzls/s320/IMG_2531.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sean and Larissa, our new Australian friends, working on smashing down cabbage with layers of salt into a special-made sauerkraut pot. The outer rim fills with water, allowing a ceramic cap to sit there and provide a seal that only allows air to escape.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLv9ZYwXQ4P2PSIsqr3a-YElVNaxLUmOmkGxBmkhIZIXKbLbComdka5sufkq8IVcuisUx7m7mfXv95xKjj0MVReCXvhyphenhyphenGXsHMAUTrGSEPwsAJ2tNkcg1EfJ2eGQYTxaGh-grOTsP_aAU/s1600/IMG_2530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLv9ZYwXQ4P2PSIsqr3a-YElVNaxLUmOmkGxBmkhIZIXKbLbComdka5sufkq8IVcuisUx7m7mfXv95xKjj0MVReCXvhyphenhyphenGXsHMAUTrGSEPwsAJ2tNkcg1EfJ2eGQYTxaGh-grOTsP_aAU/s320/IMG_2530.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That is Christina and Marcel plucking a recently-killed chicken. The headless duck on the table was next.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdlWffeN9WbT3ISkdBOA6-sNDqvOCOJVHRh9ZVApeD_N3D9U0wEl7q87ECYbYBEUv6evHmIsmma-rt5mDYcHdVyhZZPhQT9g-Eo5m3hsJxuTG5K47P8xLSL4yBV8NwWVkDkvelSsA6vE/s1600/IMG_2502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdlWffeN9WbT3ISkdBOA6-sNDqvOCOJVHRh9ZVApeD_N3D9U0wEl7q87ECYbYBEUv6evHmIsmma-rt5mDYcHdVyhZZPhQT9g-Eo5m3hsJxuTG5K47P8xLSL4yBV8NwWVkDkvelSsA6vE/s320/IMG_2502.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave boiling some crab apples for what we'll call "apple wine." </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7fcdLBQOGuVapv3uC7Qda2QnjdmIu9K51voX4L4Ms9jwadoKpXFF3q6kgMSmBhkoRbc0jUtkY1XWuRms3AxyoREny3X53iEEsdGNZvCpaCM6ClQ7Xp-lwG6rbcquzO4xRXwDTX_GVMY/s1600/IMG_2493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7fcdLBQOGuVapv3uC7Qda2QnjdmIu9K51voX4L4Ms9jwadoKpXFF3q6kgMSmBhkoRbc0jUtkY1XWuRms3AxyoREny3X53iEEsdGNZvCpaCM6ClQ7Xp-lwG6rbcquzO4xRXwDTX_GVMY/s320/IMG_2493.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave and Marcel putting beets and carrots into winter storage...a barrier of straw bales protects layers of veggies and straw, which was then covered entirely with patches of sod. Interesting storage technique.</td></tr>
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</div></div>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-50083618058002436332011-10-24T09:27:00.000-07:002011-10-24T09:27:26.743-07:00Hamburg and on to the Lufts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
After arriving to Hamburg on Friday and taking a day to walk around the city a bit and take our first shots at the local food and drink, we regrouped for an official city outing on Saturday. We targeted a few locations that seemed intriguing, but we were able to bounce around and stop anywhere we wanted by the end of the day after mastering the subway system. The Germans are definitely on to something with their public transport, at least in Hamburg and in their rail service. The subways were clean, timely, and not once did we have a ticket checked. </div>
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We first visited the enormous gothic <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Nikolai,_Hamburg">St. Nicholas' Church</a> in the middle of Hamburg. It has an incredibly long history, but is preserved in it's current form as a memorial to victims of persecution in Germany during WWII. This is fitting because apparently it was allied bombing that brought it to it's current state of (maintained) ruin. Once the tallest building in the world, it provided the main target for bombs dropped from planes above, which killed 35,000 people and destroyed most of the city. It was haunting more than anything else. We have wondered how Germany views it's own history and the plaques and explanations at St. Nikolai's shed some light on the complicated awareness within its culture of being both victim and persecutor. It was hard not to leave feeling drained and frightened of the increasing intolerance that persists in pockets of America. In a bad economy, with a downtrodden and uninformed populace, Hitler stoked fear of an easily-targeted Other, got support from the country's elite, and democracy fell. That progression was laid out very clearly at the memorial, and it was unnerving to stand in the church's shell considering the implications. We hope to see Dachau on our way down to Switzerland, though hope is the wrong word for it. We are here, and we should see it. Anyways, on with the pictures.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBArAw-r3AhiRWZe6JtmWpVSqT_B_n9Jz2u3dx6oYxuheocp75tW5WcbaDJUsshsKL69lwSO3UqILHtUARDGhcM7zLICKMYwWxZy3JsjExYvoPo5C5zN6Ogixg5RToxO9nvi2wg_cCquL/s1600/IMG_2458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBArAw-r3AhiRWZe6JtmWpVSqT_B_n9Jz2u3dx6oYxuheocp75tW5WcbaDJUsshsKL69lwSO3UqILHtUARDGhcM7zLICKMYwWxZy3JsjExYvoPo5C5zN6Ogixg5RToxO9nvi2wg_cCquL/s320/IMG_2458.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps this will not show well on the web, but this summary captured a somber take on the destruction.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTood317Vc7eip1_8kkNCp_9EUlc28gtbFbwslOq3uG5UthAs16tDCJeHEUNmRuPax7H5pv9e1qD95Pa5qOVnlXFnEfrlLPrWOeVaVo-M9Px6UJcSFxT9oZauss3CbcXZlZbIXamHivG9/s1600/IMG_2479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTood317Vc7eip1_8kkNCp_9EUlc28gtbFbwslOq3uG5UthAs16tDCJeHEUNmRuPax7H5pv9e1qD95Pa5qOVnlXFnEfrlLPrWOeVaVo-M9Px6UJcSFxT9oZauss3CbcXZlZbIXamHivG9/s320/IMG_2479.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Church spire, the only part that survived the bombing. The thing loomed. We walked two blocks away before getting a clear camera shot.<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6st3CxsjMw4Jd5thQPEnMWEY-ZFtpXdJoFFeTEw8-KUALprrrcQUV_gugYNI9wklvLLUD_eJrwViuC9Hqq3mulC6L5o-fxBi-CPCCl2496KQ6F4PRmY3T40t8my7aTVTapBD44RO4rzIE/s1600/IMG_2460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6st3CxsjMw4Jd5thQPEnMWEY-ZFtpXdJoFFeTEw8-KUALprrrcQUV_gugYNI9wklvLLUD_eJrwViuC9Hqq3mulC6L5o-fxBi-CPCCl2496KQ6F4PRmY3T40t8my7aTVTapBD44RO4rzIE/s320/IMG_2460.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from the spire, looking at the <i>Rathaus, </i>which is the term for the governmental building. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPcSXI_r9wfV8xWrVwGhjO1njOabJVDB6pkiihukJkHkPzUa-gCNXtujiEqFFaWM-UeWrn9HPiFgtNc-3Zdf0WKbVMHVMJahQ-b6Pm1yq7vOi9MveUBB08UB8afP1wk0JtFx1zIvHB4dO/s1600/IMG_2464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPcSXI_r9wfV8xWrVwGhjO1njOabJVDB6pkiihukJkHkPzUa-gCNXtujiEqFFaWM-UeWrn9HPiFgtNc-3Zdf0WKbVMHVMJahQ-b6Pm1yq7vOi9MveUBB08UB8afP1wk0JtFx1zIvHB4dO/s320/IMG_2464.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Again, this may not carry over well through the web (a picture of a picture), but this is roughly the same view after the bombing raids. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8mFLfOb9ZoGT6Z1LytfiRcoPDsoECcy1D5cw0EEip6QX7KyujPRGns3Uqz6EEzKGHQSCUbHTklCAiqFFGPWQqhxHeq8rnhQ_XUi_qjIwQnfbVN9ZBZpTz7Fa7wdwqG32nX9ZdD_3B9q9/s1600/IMG_2477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8mFLfOb9ZoGT6Z1LytfiRcoPDsoECcy1D5cw0EEip6QX7KyujPRGns3Uqz6EEzKGHQSCUbHTklCAiqFFGPWQqhxHeq8rnhQ_XUi_qjIwQnfbVN9ZBZpTz7Fa7wdwqG32nX9ZdD_3B9q9/s320/IMG_2477.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was a sculpture at the base of the spire, called <i>The Ordeal</i>. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-9vMbMkZrzZ1q0UQxTnitR7daReIeuakhkpDifLlyrvjcQoh17x46BBk3h9EdMgOwLP6ceE-1uqLOEqMmdSGiSN6dYuDL8Yg2J7dLpF-u6lkbWSnuH1P-wzWVlIvnAoZVdaNmPGpUiCH/s1600/IMG_2475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-9vMbMkZrzZ1q0UQxTnitR7daReIeuakhkpDifLlyrvjcQoh17x46BBk3h9EdMgOwLP6ceE-1uqLOEqMmdSGiSN6dYuDL8Yg2J7dLpF-u6lkbWSnuH1P-wzWVlIvnAoZVdaNmPGpUiCH/s320/IMG_2475.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By a Hamburg sculptor, the bricks in the base were from the concentration camp located immediately outside Hamburg </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUECInLQEBWOuo8Ude7BDf-4YxxrZwm-NBRe_9dKvrZIL5nF-reHV5M0gzfv7L3H3wm0MfgeE7AoSMuTULel17EQWfHtspKedaKq0gzxjMSqznTkMZcVURgaStIH5xp1FSI6pVc5Ik0GY/s1600/IMG_2476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUECInLQEBWOuo8Ude7BDf-4YxxrZwm-NBRe_9dKvrZIL5nF-reHV5M0gzfv7L3H3wm0MfgeE7AoSMuTULel17EQWfHtspKedaKq0gzxjMSqznTkMZcVURgaStIH5xp1FSI6pVc5Ik0GY/s320/IMG_2476.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The inscription at the bottom of <i>The Ordeal.</i></td></tr>
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We walked around dazed for a bit and then got on the train and went to a bar that makes their own beer and drank and sat. For the exact opposite kind of exploration, we then went to St. Pauli, the region of Hamburg known most for it's wild party scene and music culture. Good lord. This place was insane. It is not only the center of clubs, bars and performance spaces, but it also holds EXTENSIVE adult entertainment offerings, ranging from pornography being displayed in the streets to Hamburg's regulated, legalized Red Light district. The guidebook said it would make Vegas look like the Vatican and that was somewhat of an understatement. We went by during the day, stopping at a few noteworthy bars along the way, and then returned later at night to see a Canadian rock band play at the Indra; the club that gave the Beatles their start. We rocked out and had a drink and it was glorious.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUD2IfQf_7DCl_yAgtqccfKsB1i4A2HFPpWHRnWIcb0-5EK9l2zfMFdW0zAabi6eeSJRK8uozCqYqH927d9eBr7XY-_6wdHSJcyFbI3H8aCCcIYvZ15YfsgBR0-XK42XwkgXctNsyq5Ng/s1600/IMG_2481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUD2IfQf_7DCl_yAgtqccfKsB1i4A2HFPpWHRnWIcb0-5EK9l2zfMFdW0zAabi6eeSJRK8uozCqYqH927d9eBr7XY-_6wdHSJcyFbI3H8aCCcIYvZ15YfsgBR0-XK42XwkgXctNsyq5Ng/s320/IMG_2481.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We'll estimate that 95% of those signs were selling some kind of vice. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsw9pwvzwfFWmgaLPi6L1EOcLybtdfJ2Kgg6O4_IFwhzyXCfB-kD1LHz5pxjGbyJKrSIFy1v2N7JwuYqI2PgEiY5wXtAIBrhP-2h0p8XCE8zWzYOFOEp1CGYKItM8ShanJ9OYb6VyYWXZY/s1600/IMG_2485.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsw9pwvzwfFWmgaLPi6L1EOcLybtdfJ2Kgg6O4_IFwhzyXCfB-kD1LHz5pxjGbyJKrSIFy1v2N7JwuYqI2PgEiY5wXtAIBrhP-2h0p8XCE8zWzYOFOEp1CGYKItM8ShanJ9OYb6VyYWXZY/s320/IMG_2485.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Again, a madhouse. Note that the far-right sign says "Cruising: Dark & Playrooms; Jail & Slingrooms" We're not sure what any of that means, but we'll bet our guesses were spot on.<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNQEpY_6Hs9TX__CF9Eml8wVUlN1WzKDRfnxinFZ56MWv_Nz3toQ5haglz1JE6yFolBLY9tltcn_eKReL9emhY2efSoERpEiOV0QfM0phJngIhCZxmo4dIG_6UzWFfbgl18zUP5IkOffW/s1600/IMG_2482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNQEpY_6Hs9TX__CF9Eml8wVUlN1WzKDRfnxinFZ56MWv_Nz3toQ5haglz1JE6yFolBLY9tltcn_eKReL9emhY2efSoERpEiOV0QfM0phJngIhCZxmo4dIG_6UzWFfbgl18zUP5IkOffW/s320/IMG_2482.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Indra</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_kVhJVpwE2v2t_A-XFpwxf98dM-QRqyGVcyO4_Att8de86zdpBmLntITD75lteI_k3j6CY6zzysMZ7ALtc8jYQZu2UarDPiNyws6xNbk5lSttkAEX7Ufm1n1kOdIS2ssMHZnH0KdRwIm/s1600/IMG_2483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_kVhJVpwE2v2t_A-XFpwxf98dM-QRqyGVcyO4_Att8de86zdpBmLntITD75lteI_k3j6CY6zzysMZ7ALtc8jYQZu2UarDPiNyws6xNbk5lSttkAEX7Ufm1n1kOdIS2ssMHZnH0KdRwIm/s320/IMG_2483.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How can one not air guitar at this place?<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUgam-hAkocaAz9ZttMlLjTwR3oDukZluhCeSGpsKOfSR5l9MxnzXSgqbZbMsHtl5ptdXqt_0HaTdVdT8uNbi-riun_eHMfaWhPIW-2lWh903tiv_tmO9Dite-0wtYociyaqUbkAyms8o/s1600/IMG_2486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqUgam-hAkocaAz9ZttMlLjTwR3oDukZluhCeSGpsKOfSR5l9MxnzXSgqbZbMsHtl5ptdXqt_0HaTdVdT8uNbi-riun_eHMfaWhPIW-2lWh903tiv_tmO9Dite-0wtYociyaqUbkAyms8o/s320/IMG_2486.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We walked back along Hamburg's bustling harbor. </td></tr>
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After going back out at night, we returned before it got too crazy and got some sleep before loading up on the train on Sunday and heading off into the rural areas west of Hamburg, traveling through Lunenberg and Dannenberg before being picked up by our first host, Marcel Luft. More on that to follow!CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-49471078133504995382011-10-23T12:23:00.000-07:002011-10-23T12:23:43.540-07:00Hamburg Arrival<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyEbNybq85RVVV_vXmD64F81WmxXYNkJTOgq0uW6Vq0brRUCN6iP8TJD-aEtpAdiHEa_hkv0dFv7pJEb6fRk1nDBXbF7aEw7yeloIdEEZELrHIFL3h1xlBu3vMQGhL-R_Vl-b0FxsLqnv/s1600/IMG_2441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRyEbNybq85RVVV_vXmD64F81WmxXYNkJTOgq0uW6Vq0brRUCN6iP8TJD-aEtpAdiHEa_hkv0dFv7pJEb6fRk1nDBXbF7aEw7yeloIdEEZELrHIFL3h1xlBu3vMQGhL-R_Vl-b0FxsLqnv/s320/IMG_2441.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our last drink stateside </span></td></tr>
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We arrived in Hamburg at 10:30am local time. We decided to begin our travels by navigating the subway. After some deliberation and quite a few glances at the map, we purchased tickets and began our trek to our hotel. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXln4orOOW_uzVsFyafYKsCnwqF46hgE6J6jZecOtoZEhnRHExycE_U5wJ2pfSIPq_K4mmSFAfQbPFs_Nh2dszRkL7HDyev2iPOk51ozsRnWyXmMSeTWNIIftr3Xllq1nixicxGHBy-nF/s1600/IMG_2443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXln4orOOW_uzVsFyafYKsCnwqF46hgE6J6jZecOtoZEhnRHExycE_U5wJ2pfSIPq_K4mmSFAfQbPFs_Nh2dszRkL7HDyev2iPOk51ozsRnWyXmMSeTWNIIftr3Xllq1nixicxGHBy-nF/s320/IMG_2443.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Not the NYC subway performers we're used to.</span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hamburg is a beautiful city. It has more bridges than Venice and Amsterdam combined. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We spent our first afternoon walking the streets of Hamburg in search of some German fair. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ-iS0mEnZDHC8LExMVt5llrO09u1eiuFBCD-jHVQn0Nao9sVveDUTQQEff23m66ACyCLCx2Co1xuBN4wdXv-EtyZyA85oPx1cpDoROgXmpCePlOLy2w1B4h481akbAPxaHa4dGslQvan/s1600/IMG_2452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ-iS0mEnZDHC8LExMVt5llrO09u1eiuFBCD-jHVQn0Nao9sVveDUTQQEff23m66ACyCLCx2Co1xuBN4wdXv-EtyZyA85oPx1cpDoROgXmpCePlOLy2w1B4h481akbAPxaHa4dGslQvan/s320/IMG_2452.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span style="cursor: pointer;">Weiner Schnitzel (a fried veal cutlet with delicious bacon flavored potatoes) and Labaskaus ( a traditional dish of Hamburg consisting of corned beef, beets, and potatoes topped with a fried egg) </span>Dave's Labaskaus also came with a very pungent pickled fish - an acquired taste for sure. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Dave's first drink in Europe. </span></td></tr>
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After our first hot and delicious German meal we returned to our hotel to rest. A long day of travel, coupled with some serious jet lag, left us exhausted. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div></div></div>CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-73860526567421708212011-09-12T06:47:00.000-07:002011-09-12T06:47:54.021-07:00She Walks in Beauty<div style="text-align: center;">
An exerpt from:</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She walks in beauty</span></div>
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by Lord Byron</div>
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She walks in beauty, like the night</div>
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of cloudless climes and starry skies:</div>
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And all that's best of dark and bright</div>
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Meet in her aspect and her eyes:</div>
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Since our last entry we have spent more time on the road than at home, and while future entries will cover those trips, today I must write about the latest 9 hour trip to Reynoldsburg, Ohio, and the reason we took this journey - my sister Rose.<br />
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Last Friday my sister Rose graduated from the Mental Health and Rehabilitation Program at Columbus State - an accomplishment most deserving of the pomp and circumstance of a formal graduation. This graduation ceremony was nothing like the stiff, self congratulatory ceremonies I've previously attended (and been a part of). This was a graduation ceremony where every member of the graduating class had a story rife with obstacles, triumphs and difficulties. When we walked into the auditorium the excitement, the overwhelming pride for the graduates and the promise of the future was palpable. Just stepping into the auditorium brought tears to my eyes. As we took our seats an older man in front of us immediatly began to cry. "That's my mom, he said. She's done so much. I'm so proud of my mom." Behind my tears I could only echo his sentiment. That was my sister. Brave, strong, patient, determined and beautiful. I have always stood in awe of my sister Rose. Rose is my real life super woman. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbELU3t5Cnsa8k-kMdF_t7iDTwVk5alcE6ADeXB4Dn2BHWBq7bxDD5vp5_pr6DqEQtgmli2PBbS-cd4CB_ynpusnA7W1YhPQzS2kDARH77hoUsx0bGFT-3gDgEIo49XtYkUAePZNlqfO0/s1600/IMG_2268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbELU3t5Cnsa8k-kMdF_t7iDTwVk5alcE6ADeXB4Dn2BHWBq7bxDD5vp5_pr6DqEQtgmli2PBbS-cd4CB_ynpusnA7W1YhPQzS2kDARH77hoUsx0bGFT-3gDgEIo49XtYkUAePZNlqfO0/s320/IMG_2268.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rose, walking down the isle. Her smile says it all. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The ceremony was perfect. It was real. As the graduates walked the aisle family members shouted in joy for their loved ones. There was no request to hold back applause or praise and no famous speaker to deliver a generic "go out and cease the world" speech. Instead, each speaker spoke from his or her heart. The college president shared the stories of many of the graduates. Men and women who had overcome challenges and were moving forward - taking control of their lives in new and promising ways. The valedictorian shared his own story of dropping out of highschool and overcoming substance abuse. The commencement speaker was a well loved professor, who spoke from his heart and reminded the graduates, reminded all of us, that if you want something badly enough, you'll give every part of yourself to get it and that if you commit, you will achieve. Rose has done and continues to do just that. I'm lucky to have a sister so committed to bettering the world. There are few people out there who are willing to give of themselves the way Rose does. She is the thermostat the speaker spoke of. Rose does not just measure temperature, she changes climates. I am honored to call her my sister. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzo_APsdny5jVuCtCAYbaI949GiWPfcEPNq2VGhA1cxclj60Kw4bkY1-TshhPVmxNIHL4n-psBGOD8bGGmEcdcdTfoXp8Gyk2oKmtXaJ2P0sWI8ethpVyJDVY5AQTZkNTyosNr_9EwjRqR/s1600/IMG_2274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzo_APsdny5jVuCtCAYbaI949GiWPfcEPNq2VGhA1cxclj60Kw4bkY1-TshhPVmxNIHL4n-psBGOD8bGGmEcdcdTfoXp8Gyk2oKmtXaJ2P0sWI8ethpVyJDVY5AQTZkNTyosNr_9EwjRqR/s320/IMG_2274.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My superwoman - Rose Marrero </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Rose has chosen to continue her education. She's dreaming big and I cannot wait to see the heights to which she will soar. Rose has a big heart and very strong shoulders. She will continue to work with teens in rehab and lock down facilities. Rose plans to pursue another degree at Ohio State University, but more importantly Rose plans to make a difference in the lives of teens who need a strong, confident, smart woman like my sister to help them find their way again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHl3GIBNrhFn5cFGH4AyEyc5mr0lLULaxbQPaO5dHlOi8hDKbJ3Sgf428zwefoJpiACGw3hFc1LEqwH5UPRWlGmEI63oI3Lhg7Y11C3bHBuDR-rEiq80b8yjOgxSNQSo6uFEP5CNLpMCPd/s1600/IMG_2279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHl3GIBNrhFn5cFGH4AyEyc5mr0lLULaxbQPaO5dHlOi8hDKbJ3Sgf428zwefoJpiACGw3hFc1LEqwH5UPRWlGmEI63oI3Lhg7Y11C3bHBuDR-rEiq80b8yjOgxSNQSo6uFEP5CNLpMCPd/s320/IMG_2279.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rose and mom just after graduation.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
An excerpt from</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She walks in beauty</span></div>
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by Lord Byron</div>
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And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,</div>
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So soft, so calm, yet eloquent</div>
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The smiles that win, the tints that glow,</div>
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But tell of days in goodness spent, </div>
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A mind at peace with all below,</div>
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A heart whose love is innocent </div>
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<br />CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-10478745291465422142011-08-17T12:43:00.000-07:002011-08-17T12:58:39.054-07:00Coming to a Close<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: 100%;">In just a few days the New Hampshire phase of Our Year will come to a close. We'll say goodbye to the animals we've cared for, the people we've bonded with, the gardens we've tended to and the bounty of fresh, delicious foods we've enjoyed. </span><span style="color: #999999;">For a big city girl like me, my time here has been a pleasantly enriching surprise. </span></div><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXpFu9tFyT7ADSfHppyWIneoyJou9NgaWZsCy6oYDtn1aoa2Ap6ccaN4f-r1PumTEzLld-QK9UxXylFmhb9wIrpdJxSehVJZ5JBxBP1i2s2fq9_X3ULPdgcCAV6CyEDX_um0tDgGABwwk/s1600/IMG_2101.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641479311515888258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXpFu9tFyT7ADSfHppyWIneoyJou9NgaWZsCy6oYDtn1aoa2Ap6ccaN4f-r1PumTEzLld-QK9UxXylFmhb9wIrpdJxSehVJZ5JBxBP1i2s2fq9_X3ULPdgcCAV6CyEDX_um0tDgGABwwk/s320/IMG_2101.JPG" style="float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" width="320" /> </a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful Lake Willoughby, in northern Vermont. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><span style="font-style: italic;"> I learned quite a bit. For example: <br />
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-David has many talents... </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span> <br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoXI1hyphenhyphenqA1N43kk1kMHVrjiXF-oX0fHBciGUqCp7z4_TTli9qGrweB3BicQcxnY11XzVZ2gR8VEJveD37B4Aftn-V045TFEe2TBjZF9QfQqUanAeNlt2nMYsCYEmgxyIMAC8dlT6a7AQv/s1600/IMG_2143.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641493673825793378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoXI1hyphenhyphenqA1N43kk1kMHVrjiXF-oX0fHBciGUqCp7z4_TTli9qGrweB3BicQcxnY11XzVZ2gR8VEJveD37B4Aftn-V045TFEe2TBjZF9QfQqUanAeNlt2nMYsCYEmgxyIMAC8dlT6a7AQv/s320/IMG_2143.JPG" style="display: block; height: 216px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 288px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He can also juggle despite my valiant attempts to distract him.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhOfzr-EpYeh04Z-U7mEQ9lYujSJLZGxhN_MJYgrWPxsqtuG0M5fk73nCjw-TubaehfzmswsgTabrXnbTGA5tiam3utTVwmJWWrgzVbzM3CIkp8v1PTyjhzoOpTLhRMYxnCTSCydV0QpDO/s1600/IMG_2186.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641484085347540866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhOfzr-EpYeh04Z-U7mEQ9lYujSJLZGxhN_MJYgrWPxsqtuG0M5fk73nCjw-TubaehfzmswsgTabrXnbTGA5tiam3utTVwmJWWrgzVbzM3CIkp8v1PTyjhzoOpTLhRMYxnCTSCydV0QpDO/s320/IMG_2186.JPG" style="display: block; height: 205px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 274px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He can communicate with chickens, even though this one is stonewalling him.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> -I like dogs. Especially this sweet one - a welcome part of our house sitting duties. <br />
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjQAWs2VKYD2PXkAhgLC_WnsZ9lO5LVphPhdi3waysG7qIFXjox8JIg5k9Mdungk76gcGzVe9DX13ypp_rh2_8bupUfUE7r3n8vHV_pHOyIJYcbzv0F6YwTdDgDO9eFfyq_RPfeE5rVla/s1600/IMG_2167.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641495522479503826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjQAWs2VKYD2PXkAhgLC_WnsZ9lO5LVphPhdi3waysG7qIFXjox8JIg5k9Mdungk76gcGzVe9DX13ypp_rh2_8bupUfUE7r3n8vHV_pHOyIJYcbzv0F6YwTdDgDO9eFfyq_RPfeE5rVla/s200/IMG_2167.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a> <br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">- I'm not too bad at lawn games. Croquet and bacci ball are particularly fun with a refreshments cart (even if the house is but steps away). </span> <br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">- It's important to keep an eye on the <a href="http://http//www.google.com/imgres?q=giant+zucchini&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=N&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&biw=1280&bih=622&tbm=isch&tbnid=5jSwlmpL9j3L1M:&imgrefurl=http://jamarattigan.com/2009/07/15/chocolate-zucchini-bread-to-the-rescue/&docid=PO2tMUqttSpvWM&w=375&h=500&ei=l6BKTuDZK8XN0AH-hoTsBw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=1047&vpy=92&dur=3240&hovh=259&hovw=194&tx=149&ty=143&page=1&tbnh=129&tbnw=98&start=0&ndsp=19&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:0">zucchini</a>, especially after a good rain. We found quite a few submarine sized veggies in the garden. <br />
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- In the case of an impending storm, stay home. A pleasant mountain hike can quickly derail when the lightning begins. <br />
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My summer in New Hampshire was rather different than I envisioned. With the absence of television, and the distractions of urban life came the opportunity to read, to learn, to cook, to reflect and ultimately to connect. Acworth truly marks the beginning of Our Year for me. I'm excited about whatever else may be in store. <br />
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CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-87238298163969801542011-08-17T12:41:00.000-07:002011-08-17T12:48:27.968-07:00Harvesting Vegetables<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Later in our New Hampshire stay we had training in house-sitting, looking over the estate of our good friends the Lords for two weeks in August. They left for vacation right as many parts of their garden were producing, so we were tasked with using as many veggies as we could. Fresh cukes, zukes, squash, all were good, but the enormous bounty of green beans offered more preserving opportunities. We tried our hand at one of our favorites to eat, dilled green beans. The recipe came from an excellent book on preservation, <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/792375.Putting_Food_By"><i>Putting Food By.</i></a> Find the recipe for Dilly Beans in our <a href="http://davidchristinaouryear.blogspot.com/p/recipes.html">recipe page.</a> We also learned about the onions, garlic, broccoli and greens we were able to harvest and enjoy. The onions and garlic we dried out for storage, while we briefly flash-boiled the broccoli before freezing it, which is a good<a href="http://www.simplebites.net/preserving-summer-freezing-broccoli-101/"> technique for freezing many types of vegetables</a>. We paid the Lords back with some dilly beans, who will hopefully report on how they turned out. Not soggy we hope.<br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4BetRRuvXg0LPz0Mj4awOW1NPoYJv67hbTCyt6E4R7XIPzQi9euZC1icBYHpGF9gc7bjJhY5Dog2T6Vi8pY84f3HWarGlqWXWlURyrd2Eh6DuD7CUePg_yaoS6KYqXmoZYHYbNH2lusk/s1600/IMG_2190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4BetRRuvXg0LPz0Mj4awOW1NPoYJv67hbTCyt6E4R7XIPzQi9euZC1icBYHpGF9gc7bjJhY5Dog2T6Vi8pY84f3HWarGlqWXWlURyrd2Eh6DuD7CUePg_yaoS6KYqXmoZYHYbNH2lusk/s320/IMG_2190.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dilly Beans ingredient rundown: deluxe glacial himilayan salt, red pepper flakes, fresh dill heads, fresh garlic, and crisp green beans. All fresh, and if we count <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=himalayan+sherpa&um=1&hl=en&sa=X&tbm=isch&tbnid=-FOkjrKk3hkxYM:&imgrefurl=http://people.howstuffworks.com/sherpa.htm&docid=cT2oXPezrayCfM&w=400&h=264&ei=XRVMTv7dD5SSgQeqiJVz&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=298&page=2&tbnh=113&tbnw=171&start=21&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:21&tx=101&ty=71&biw=1280&bih=622">this guy</a> and ourselves as part of a global community, then all local.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0RnpXYwxew4HNIOIexux0o2ED1Cn7Ne8dTfWOinurAgnZD2RTo7oeSwmOgHVkYnnwW5OZjhjDZL1AJXOVlPSyysMCyhDk0WUQ7luuzkiqscvFH2NDUz-2LH1s1Oe13UU0HoGd2U8G_U/s1600/IMG_2191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0RnpXYwxew4HNIOIexux0o2ED1Cn7Ne8dTfWOinurAgnZD2RTo7oeSwmOgHVkYnnwW5OZjhjDZL1AJXOVlPSyysMCyhDk0WUQ7luuzkiqscvFH2NDUz-2LH1s1Oe13UU0HoGd2U8G_U/s320/IMG_2191.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pint Jars in boiling water bath (10 minutes max!); 'bout two inches of space above tops of the jars</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlimE3ctXiVe3iz82ocHgwIMbJsLN-93PZpTOxsO97i1AvnySTITKV9kCgZrKDlSTWhOmRqxiCY3IrfF3gkyR1wrLJLtSYgBka4e9Ljqu0jV5PoAzUPWu3wWxUi5nngA7mPgC5gkFxnQ/s1600/IMG_2192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlimE3ctXiVe3iz82ocHgwIMbJsLN-93PZpTOxsO97i1AvnySTITKV9kCgZrKDlSTWhOmRqxiCY3IrfF3gkyR1wrLJLtSYgBka4e9Ljqu0jV5PoAzUPWu3wWxUi5nngA7mPgC5gkFxnQ/s320/IMG_2192.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Killer mason jar tongs allow for easy extraction. Guy Fieri sponsors our equipment line.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-7726117601851158462011-08-17T11:47:00.000-07:002011-08-17T12:52:32.772-07:00A trip to the Bog<div style="text-align: center;">During our stay in South Acworth, we had two friends come visit us from NY. Angela and Jamilah had a genuine camping experience as our tent guests for two nights, and for a local excursion we went to the <a href="http://www.nhstateparks.org/uploads/pdf/Quest-PhilbrickMap.pdf">Philbrick-Cricenti Bog.</a></div><div style="text-align: center;">It is a nearby natural wonder, a funky and creepy place to learn all kinds of hands-on stuff <a href="http://water.epa.gov/type/wetlands/bog.cfm">about a bog</a>. It is great to see the local groups that have organized to preserve the space. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">For me, the word bog conjures scenes from fantasy novels filled with misty forests, bubbling dark pools and nebulous forces. And while there's something disconcerting about stepping onto the spongy moss, the bog we visited was not quite the dark and sinister <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=fire+swamp&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=N&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&biw=1280&bih=622&tbm=isch&tbnid=d5gIzN4YztlulM:&imgrefurl=http://electrokami.com/film/know-your-classic-cinema-five-more-movies-you-should-watch/&docid=6OuJm5xVAsP-5M&w=590&h=375&ei=QtlLToPaJqrq0gHqif3qBw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=959&vpy=155&dur=7064&hovh=179&hovw=282&tx=220&ty=72&page=2&tbnh=135&tbnw=191&start=15&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:4,s:15">Fire Swamp</a> I had imagined.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfS1PJAj4xtn1eAGa7pbvJ6emr3j8yblvy0a6uCyITfcz35P8z4k4eNjQdewE258ogJfCv8UaznyESIrG69vrqylzWnf6T4AOENfuw9KicpNMa_N9B7ExESM0UCWCYt2iZfJx5TCzp3Vah/s1600/bogphoto.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641836699770824578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfS1PJAj4xtn1eAGa7pbvJ6emr3j8yblvy0a6uCyITfcz35P8z4k4eNjQdewE258ogJfCv8UaznyESIrG69vrqylzWnf6T4AOENfuw9KicpNMa_N9B7ExESM0UCWCYt2iZfJx5TCzp3Vah/s200/bogphoto.jpg" style="float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Angela, David, Jamilah and I set out to explore the Philbrook, Cricenti Bog in New London, New Hampshire.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqARjv0PC4W_0kEM8XAB-leJ7QvczhOvLWgvMFgZZgAf7jQasuxOU3zbHtaz9KyuIklDPTlnSFMpFzt-c9PZ56QmiPedU4qchEfCSnNZOCYGg1H8anIR8P-gBk9tzqP3kcU-zsIE2XuI/s1600/IMG_2197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqARjv0PC4W_0kEM8XAB-leJ7QvczhOvLWgvMFgZZgAf7jQasuxOU3zbHtaz9KyuIklDPTlnSFMpFzt-c9PZ56QmiPedU4qchEfCSnNZOCYGg1H8anIR8P-gBk9tzqP3kcU-zsIE2XuI/s200/IMG_2197.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Remember, you must stay on the path.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Qznf-xRaKeTjyrvKAQv0FaLASHzAVp-GgPsSmeMbkiTEgTPxdz9tP14wullWlt-Uxc7SPEWJsMc1D6iA5t7Am7q79NyR7e4zGBZvPZ_feJ9NoHHsih3fDeRkKdmNIWHkrcAEjjJo_OQ/s1600/IMG_2199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Qznf-xRaKeTjyrvKAQv0FaLASHzAVp-GgPsSmeMbkiTEgTPxdz9tP14wullWlt-Uxc7SPEWJsMc1D6iA5t7Am7q79NyR7e4zGBZvPZ_feJ9NoHHsih3fDeRkKdmNIWHkrcAEjjJo_OQ/s200/IMG_2199.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Why? Pull up the stick...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q43DmQh5Tqog4PlTzR4lz-GkVQMhwHG837nfIcYvpcwTfq6kTrn06kMMmj7cdmM5fTgOzeUPulKvSlV1lS8w1J4zg50MK4AuIiiYwHCx2NjNhHAUpB_zhFoMtCOTZd1AHR64dSseVwuu/s1600/IMG_2201.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641840182283552402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q43DmQh5Tqog4PlTzR4lz-GkVQMhwHG837nfIcYvpcwTfq6kTrn06kMMmj7cdmM5fTgOzeUPulKvSlV1lS8w1J4zg50MK4AuIiiYwHCx2NjNhHAUpB_zhFoMtCOTZd1AHR64dSseVwuu/s200/IMG_2201.JPG" style="height: 200px; width: 150px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">...below you are 20 feet of water. There are whole cows and horses down there, probably <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bog_body">pretty well-preserved.</a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Quaking Loop</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhcxmkiU38mVDQO01lMKGTBP-UUmOFGCdZZS1X6EhRPWwMkBfqp0nxPL6lW9jwNfLaA9ydjn8c8Sbd_kISRS5WaQ43kylBaI7JijGO7kukFO07laqzObr3IawpZEXb8n1t5m2znQM6fM6/s1600/IMG_2208.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641840845050765810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbhcxmkiU38mVDQO01lMKGTBP-UUmOFGCdZZS1X6EhRPWwMkBfqp0nxPL6lW9jwNfLaA9ydjn8c8Sbd_kISRS5WaQ43kylBaI7JijGO7kukFO07laqzObr3IawpZEXb8n1t5m2znQM6fM6/s200/IMG_2208.JPG" style="display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The ground shakes and jiggles beneath you like a waterbed. A path two planks wide provides support.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-Uo-8BhJLedAUBw6xyOpwVREqhi7leidvO4hXhTiorZsAhVf_UHD0ncLkGBod0Oc13uuLbk7Uvi-LyjMCgXNpY9euEP7ic4yWLKlVVxwRw8t8H3wr1z_HA3RDVswEU2SbLv4G8-Gf2zt/s1600/IMG_2209.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641842865076895138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2-Uo-8BhJLedAUBw6xyOpwVREqhi7leidvO4hXhTiorZsAhVf_UHD0ncLkGBod0Oc13uuLbk7Uvi-LyjMCgXNpY9euEP7ic4yWLKlVVxwRw8t8H3wr1z_HA3RDVswEU2SbLv4G8-Gf2zt/s200/IMG_2209.JPG" style="display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 150px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jamilah, David & Angela... all staying on the path.</span></td></tr>
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CCMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09196123656680270070noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-27837575718229720212011-08-01T21:47:00.000-07:002011-08-17T12:51:30.886-07:00California Practice<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We spent two weeks in Oakland visiting Chris and Tania, my (Dave's) brother and sister-in-law. We had a fantastic time with them, enjoying the local scenery around Almeda and <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=sidewalk+guitar&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&tbm=isch&tbnid=TskhwPmB4IN3CM:&imgrefurl=http://www.seattlepi.com/local/article/SF-mayor-wants-to-take-Seattle-style-sidewalk-889208.php&docid=vest5xSZEUuU3M&w=628&h=437&ei=nAdMTurzMYnLgQesnaRz&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=256&page=5&tbnh=133&tbnw=177&start=75&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:12,s:75&tx=139&ty=44&biw=1280&bih=622">Berkeley</a>. Their neighborhood is really quite nice despite some <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=burning+car&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&tbm=isch&tbnid=Kn7uraS-Hs9_oM:&imgrefurl=http://asma-rehan.blogspot.com/2010/10/robosaurusthe-most-horrifying-machine.html&docid=LgGZKULdoWtVnM&w=1170&h=850&ei=KAhMTszWG4m_gQfVybBz&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=397&vpy=164&dur=237&hovh=131&hovw=192&tx=133&ty=103&page=3&tbnh=131&tbnw=192&start=30&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:30&biw=1280&bih=622">rougher elements</a> and we spent a great deal of time at their newly purchased house, helping them in the early phases of lawn construction and exterior tweaking. Several of our anticipated workstays will involve similar kind of labor during parts of our days, so we welcomed the elementary carpentry work that was done to enclose their washroom, as well as the rubble clearing and brick retrieval that cleared the way for their ultimate dream patio. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">We look forward to seeing what happens in the final execution but it was great to be there and contribute to Chris and Tania's home. We're hoping to entice them into a visit at some point later in the visit so look for them to show up again in these pages.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6QdaFlanq7HiXTT0muhtG-tBYbftDum-ZTAZoeK29e2cZbFhY1WhP4ndpauktU8WTL3lbe2_O7Uh7tL9TSFB8R2XmP3aqIhbPnytd0ELqElbV0oIU_XwqaVTQsgoiU-NleBDOAAqQ-4/s1600/IMG_2110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS6QdaFlanq7HiXTT0muhtG-tBYbftDum-ZTAZoeK29e2cZbFhY1WhP4ndpauktU8WTL3lbe2_O7Uh7tL9TSFB8R2XmP3aqIhbPnytd0ELqElbV0oIU_XwqaVTQsgoiU-NleBDOAAqQ-4/s320/IMG_2110.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave and Christina, wedding reception-ready</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3cW_k2Ugzj7_7kRhnFtEmy7SZv5qZlIdRKCYYvub6A3ez56yVJqAkTCBCd-KUfA7Qn3ZrWxIGp0V8Md8CLrqik88EsXSjgYEnea7UcHR7fEwrc51YRTkG4RgQejTuwj-PxFnWX51JQg/s1600/IMG_2115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3cW_k2Ugzj7_7kRhnFtEmy7SZv5qZlIdRKCYYvub6A3ez56yVJqAkTCBCd-KUfA7Qn3ZrWxIGp0V8Md8CLrqik88EsXSjgYEnea7UcHR7fEwrc51YRTkG4RgQejTuwj-PxFnWX51JQg/s320/IMG_2115.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At right, the man of the hour Evan Jones, plus some of his wedding party, plus Bradts</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3rBOfjsXVkjLvbWweU6MgBKw6j3XQLfgWm2qo1I9loJJfk_nNq4N3biPdHD25D5Ta_YaFdfQOc5V06TXWeSv8ghkYiJtf2qaJwMNoOUArlIwB4YoIJA2fMEjaGb9G_dX1jTVlkmdUC4/s1600/IMG_2121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3rBOfjsXVkjLvbWweU6MgBKw6j3XQLfgWm2qo1I9loJJfk_nNq4N3biPdHD25D5Ta_YaFdfQOc5V06TXWeSv8ghkYiJtf2qaJwMNoOUArlIwB4YoIJA2fMEjaGb9G_dX1jTVlkmdUC4/s320/IMG_2121.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aforementioned Bradts, thoughtful and <a href="http://www.webmd.com/hw-popup/intoxication">capable</a>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZGGCkXPlqOBoYNkHGqT8usi34svAX3kaHPdwbkdDKhCWfgjasSm9unOwl38RqwKJOxqPQh6k-Hrw6ADSDUl5g3jyEjltXAxmBk4icrTb8OFLl1IEbUpChIhvtj77mvokglUElWFomMg/s1600/IMG_2127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZGGCkXPlqOBoYNkHGqT8usi34svAX3kaHPdwbkdDKhCWfgjasSm9unOwl38RqwKJOxqPQh6k-Hrw6ADSDUl5g3jyEjltXAxmBk4icrTb8OFLl1IEbUpChIhvtj77mvokglUElWFomMg/s320/IMG_2127.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orienting ourselves on an Oakland freeway; I was thinking <i><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=matrix+reloaded+highway&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=X&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&tbas=0&tbm=isch&tbnid=1WkKMB3_grtBHM:&imgrefurl=http://www.awn.com/imagepicker/image/6560&docid=ZO0VtJ_QxmQp7M&w=620&h=281&ei=MX83TuPiCujZ0QHfwYThAw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=915&vpy=359&dur=513&hovh=126&hovw=279&tx=248&ty=50&page=2&tbnh=87&tbnw=191&start=15&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:15,s:15&biw=1280&bih=616"><i>The Matrix Reloaded</i></a> </i>but Christina went with <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=The+Scream&um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&sa=X&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&tbs=isz:l&tbm=isch&tbnid=gBS-U7_gvaU9AM:&imgrefurl=http://www.ece.mcgill.ca/%7Eelotay/scream.html&docid=nbquY8HleUWKeM&w=804&h=1061&ei=SoA3TsmyL4L00gGJ5qjRAw&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=234&page=1&tbnh=132&tbnw=100&start=0&ndsp=26&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0&tx=37&ty=48&biw=1280&bih=616"><i>The Scream</i></a> </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_ZW2Od668-t1CkbQqzHwedt-LrkhbAv4aFFhVCTQwNCHhb9IRAZyD0QK8511dlebcH03NPJgRdnJ83ae1wFSNbVT0ce23XtPxShLshl25dBFehrXgdlpUl5ROGUHvj_hKgyHWfeTbA0/s1600/IMG_2128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_ZW2Od668-t1CkbQqzHwedt-LrkhbAv4aFFhVCTQwNCHhb9IRAZyD0QK8511dlebcH03NPJgRdnJ83ae1wFSNbVT0ce23XtPxShLshl25dBFehrXgdlpUl5ROGUHvj_hKgyHWfeTbA0/s320/IMG_2128.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wook and Bradt construction, Door 1</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uX0jwgpaxAmrgHIil79-8VLWb7s_7gbooywd1dzb7ZySwI07Rx0Qe9Vqk3lR1HvBlA4-fxztodMu4NZ6t4KZqdjp-DHDPFvv1Wr2NUeMq9D9CHBTgRFOOuVQtb6kwBo6uGyP3HlgmU0/s1600/IMG_2129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uX0jwgpaxAmrgHIil79-8VLWb7s_7gbooywd1dzb7ZySwI07Rx0Qe9Vqk3lR1HvBlA4-fxztodMu4NZ6t4KZqdjp-DHDPFvv1Wr2NUeMq9D9CHBTgRFOOuVQtb6kwBo6uGyP3HlgmU0/s320/IMG_2129.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wook and Bradt construction, Door 2</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jMN6mldYKQ64YSjwBUzJTw_LPJB9zrXtk4USoX9LwP4XVAXPCY40ZhNCD9cccDMPi-qZJPBaVS1njpY05is1igk3FF4RtWUzqPZ2_aYzle3enaVDASm1zIbfE33ewwbVVQUVKx2C6tY/s1600/IMG_2134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jMN6mldYKQ64YSjwBUzJTw_LPJB9zrXtk4USoX9LwP4XVAXPCY40ZhNCD9cccDMPi-qZJPBaVS1njpY05is1igk3FF4RtWUzqPZ2_aYzle3enaVDASm1zIbfE33ewwbVVQUVKx2C6tY/s320/IMG_2134.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laying groundwork for brick laying<br />
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2246429391906425625.post-81213437051879545592011-08-01T14:01:00.000-07:002011-08-17T12:50:55.522-07:00New Hampshire Training<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
We began to train for the work ahead once we arrived in beautiful Acworth, New Hampshire. Though some distinction can be made between South Acworth (our home during the summer stay) and the more unsightly <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=dumps&hl=en&gbv=2&tbm=isch&tbnid=Q2G6sUa3jzIxVM:&imgrefurl=http://www.pastfoundation.org/2006Garbology/PhotosOct30.htm&docid=8k7SBmp_fDU3AM&w=750&h=938&ei=nQBMTsuWMpC_gQfjhJlz&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=373&vpy=111&dur=301&hovh=229&hovw=182&tx=93&ty=156&page=1&tbnh=142&tbnw=108&start=0&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0&biw=1280&bih=622">North Acworth,</a> the overall town is an active and welcoming place to be in the summer season. Check out the online guide to Acworth, not to mention it's best source of local political information, at the <a href="http://acworthian.org/"><i>Acworthian.org</i></a>.<br />
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We were present during the middle stages of the growing season and saw many fruit and vegetable crops come to harvest, while also learning how to make savory and useful preserves so as to extend the surplus of ripening produce that can quickly seem overwhelming. We made some basic raspberry preserves, gathering berries from a <a href="http://acworthian.org/Blueberry_Acres.html">Elsesser Blueberries</a>, a local pick-your-own treasure. After getting about four pints of juicy raspberries, we ground them through the food mill to separate some of the seeds, added 1.5 cups of sugar to the roughly 2 cups of raspberry juice (a 0.75:1 ratio), then simmered for about an hour until thickened. Proper recipe and instructions can be found in our <a href="http://davidchristinaouryear.blogspot.com/p/recipes.html">Recipes Page</a>. At a later trip we also harvested too many pints of plump blueberries and had to find means to store them after having our fill of blueberry pies and pancakes for three days. We settled on a <a href="http://davidchristinaouryear.blogspot.com/p/recipes.html">Spiced Blueberry Recipe</a> that has a nice, savory sweetness to it. Apparently it goes well on everything from toast to ice cream to pork roasts. Vegetable harvests will later offer their own sort of preserving wisdom, but for now the trip and it's lessons have begun.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37yHXxGAdNk2E-WID1AfdA9Qhg9aGV1meP0q5xwp6RzyVmKFGWO2vC3iAxYarNd0HHYh-UJoVv4xCN_NicRyAE28UjkAiobnip9pwVUs3CNnjIsszAfAoon-9nauNA7XyD7EwRTyNx_0/s1600/IMG_2151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh37yHXxGAdNk2E-WID1AfdA9Qhg9aGV1meP0q5xwp6RzyVmKFGWO2vC3iAxYarNd0HHYh-UJoVv4xCN_NicRyAE28UjkAiobnip9pwVUs3CNnjIsszAfAoon-9nauNA7XyD7EwRTyNx_0/s320/IMG_2151.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina and Mama Bradt gathering volunteers</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3Ibpb_eY4GdL6RpCXMuB8QJ4CYV6dWi5Kqp1O1wXHnk0-vNpAWOBjlUcn4WhQgzFOXdcYZacfcS_izLJnrFCEUmP19DnJmplRWQrK_y2nJ96cUieiJ2nm1beUYTLcqzfERYck8jXUY8/s1600/IMG_2152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3Ibpb_eY4GdL6RpCXMuB8QJ4CYV6dWi5Kqp1O1wXHnk0-vNpAWOBjlUcn4WhQgzFOXdcYZacfcS_izLJnrFCEUmP19DnJmplRWQrK_y2nJ96cUieiJ2nm1beUYTLcqzfERYck8jXUY8/s320/IMG_2152.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4 pints picked, about 1 eaten</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUL3NYm2YbbljamMY0gk1mxswgkMl1w_09ImyiViCYSohWmaYuoTVIuc3Fsskx1ywG1WTg7V1-kGwUtYmhdeJo_eRJgQtmdYE0tCLPclmqRDg7HwOJweGuokao4pS25rnQLmwvf41CvHM/s1600/IMG_2145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUL3NYm2YbbljamMY0gk1mxswgkMl1w_09ImyiViCYSohWmaYuoTVIuc3Fsskx1ywG1WTg7V1-kGwUtYmhdeJo_eRJgQtmdYE0tCLPclmqRDg7HwOJweGuokao4pS25rnQLmwvf41CvHM/s320/IMG_2145.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Already Dave is assimilating into the natural world</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfoiSwOSAQzPWlnBbD5X7H9kQkIKpz3u4w9OXdmRpJNgNG6FH3QkJNU484rAW9ScJOJdl5Ff7ArkRVrJ81S5KP29ZI_albhzoXHf2oTcM6e0jFK1E8HiXiBPHhLHvf-6cuocKufdZvUU/s1600/IMG_2156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfoiSwOSAQzPWlnBbD5X7H9kQkIKpz3u4w9OXdmRpJNgNG6FH3QkJNU484rAW9ScJOJdl5Ff7ArkRVrJ81S5KP29ZI_albhzoXHf2oTcM6e0jFK1E8HiXiBPHhLHvf-6cuocKufdZvUU/s320/IMG_2156.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christina and Dave dispatching of evidence, ala <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?q=fargo+wood+chipper&hl=en&sa=X&gbv=2&tbas=0&tbm=isch&tbnid=UgoTsXgUm5ajOM:&imgrefurl=http://rustbeltphilosophy.blogspot.com/2010/03/why-watching-fargo-should-be-universal.html&docid=N8KjrBnNUUjd6M&w=528&h=288&ei=rRg3Trn-GKy20AGisKzqCw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=640&vpy=112&dur=694&hovh=166&hovw=304&tx=108&ty=124&page=1&tbnh=119&tbnw=219&start=0&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:2,s:0&biw=1280&bih=616"><i>Fargo</i></a></td></tr>
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</div>David Bradthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17427731351181988133noreply@blogger.com0