Welcome Back to the Land of Pork

We guessed that it would be like this. It's comforting, in a way, to find a country this in love with one animal - Czech people are infatuated with pork and it's a monogamous relationship. Menus and butcher shops are crammed with body parts and dishes. Sides and heads leer suggestively under pink lights in store windows. This seductress was hung up on hooks, whole, to be purchased as-is or in pieces. It would be unsettling, except that this lust for pig has been so normalized here.
One popular dish that I had to order: "pečené vepřové koleno," or "roast pig's knee" - what would probably be called pork knuckle in America. Barely seasoned, the meat was nothing more than flesh, fat and bone. Served on a spit with a knife, fat dripping luridly onto the board, it was a masterpiece of simplicity and carnal excess. There wasn't much to cover up the lewd thing, only a few pools of mustard, ketchup and horseradish to smear it in.
Gruesome, of course, and enjoyable - to a point. It was my dinner on the first night in the Czech Republic, and it was a hedonistic reception. A hearty re-introduction. Pork is something I try to avoid, actually, so the reacquaintance was less welcome than it was inevitable. On this flat, old plain at the soft heart of the continent we encounter it all to much. A traveler here, if they aren't cautious, will end up with pork at every meal.
Czech people (according to allcountries.org) consume more pork per capita than the citizens of any other country except Denmark (which is a surprise). Poland, Hungary, Austria and Germany - all part of this mitteleuropean swineyard - are also in the top twelve, which I could have guessed. The United States sits at number seventeen, for comparison's sake.

The Jewish Garden

A character in The Unbearable Lightness of Being describes Bohemian cemeteries as gardens - with grass and wild flowers growing between and on the grave stones, all but consuming the more modest markers. It turns out that was less of a well worded opinion or personal impression than I read it to be. In fact, an ancient Jewish burial ground, discovered in an excavation in Prague, was dubbed "the Jewish Garden." We visited its descendent, the Old Jewish Cemetery.
It had a fairly exorbitant entrance fee and a tour group moved in through the narrow entrance as we approached the ticket office. There will be other cemeteries in Bohemia, I thought, maybe I should skip this one. But it's Europe's oldest surviving Jewish cemetery and it's hard to pass up "Europe's oldest surviving Jewish" anything, to be honest. It, along with the surrounding synagogues, were preserved by the Nazis for a "museum of an extinct race."
Jewish law prohibits the destruction of graves and the removal of tombstones. So, when room inevitably began to run out in the cemetery, soil was layered atop the existing plots and the stones were moved up to the fresh dirt. This continued to happen for centuries, resulting in approximately 12,000 visible headstones and 100,000 graves beneath. Twelve layers of burials dating back to the 15th century.
Some clusters lean against each other, some are blown back or forward in unison, like a field of sunflowers bent toward the sun. The ones above reminded me of a family portrait. Rarely would you see any markings left on the weathered stones and something about the anonymity made it all less morose. Some sections looked like nothing but a rock garden.
It felt redemptive, somehow, to be here. When I attempted to visit family graves in Seda, Lithuania, the cemetery was nowhere to be found. The temple that I thought would help mark the spot was a loose structure of decomposing wood that a moderately big bad wolf could have blown right down. Time and time again, it felt like there were ways to connect to the memory of Holocaust victims and Holocaust survivors, but none of Europe's long line of Jews who didn't fall into one of those two groups. The cemetery in the Kazimierz neighborhood of Krakow, Poland was another wonderful exception, but something about this one was just so beautiful. Human history almost indistinguishable from nature.

Prague Trolleys

We drove straight from Vienna to Prague, stopping only to eat the sandwiches we'd packed. The quick transition put us in a comparative mood. When the streets of Praha didn't feel quite as Bohemian as they did well-trodden, I began to miss Vienna. A truth: the city of Kafka, Mucha, Kundera and Havel is touristy. Perhaps, though, it is also more accessible than Vienna - a thought that surprised me. Vienna was more closed to outsiders, except for the artifice of museums and chain stores. One got the feeling that the people there maintained some distance, that they kept a certain identity separate from the grand facades and Hapsburg finery.
Maybe because its tourist industry came of age more recently, Prague doesn't feel quite the same. There is more of a feeling - probably false - that the life of a citizen isn't quite so distant. It's been easy to find atmosphere (doesn't that word seem like the currency of this city?) and feel that the revolution is still echoing in the streets. It's an idea that is grounded, of course, in the mirage of Prague as wilderness, outside the bounds of travel normalcy. Sometimes that idea is all it takes to make a place feel more immediate, even when American and German voices fill the air.
The pictures are almost an illustrative aside at this point, but they do serve a purpose here. We've been so impressed by the trolleys, cruising the streets quietly and smoothly, making up the bulk of the excellent public transportation system. Politely, the drivers ring a little bell if they perceive that a pedestrian might be stepping into harms way - it's less bullying than the blast of a bus horn, I think. The routes run everywhere and trolleys are omnipresent - two things everyone wants from their trains.
There's something so much nicer about standing in the sun, waiting for a trolley, than entering into a subway warren. It has a democratizing effect, I think - with clear vision and a more accurate sense of direction, moving about in the streets is much easier than it is in a subterranean system, and it makes novices feel more at home amongst the commuters.

Of course, I'm sure it's not as nice if it's raining.

Things Austrian People Like

Single-Serving Pâté. This is something that Merlin wrote home about the first time he went to Austria with his father and brother. Every breakfast buffet would serve these meat spread cups alongside jam, honey and butter. What surprised me was the variety. Even in the most humble of breakfast settings, there would be more than one liver pâté to choose from: calf, goose, chicken and sometimes "meat," which I imagine was some combination.

Dirndls. It's true. Austrian people really do like and often wear them. Lederhosen are around as well, but we didn't see them nearly as often. At first, there was something unsettling about them to me. I think it's the apron, which seemed to scream "gender roles!" It was hard to understand choosing to dress like this, in a sort of out-of-date uniform, for non-religious purposes. In the end, I decided it was just like the cowboy hats and bolo ties and embroidered denim of American Western wear. Like the red carpet at the Country Music Awards, it's just a way of keeping some cultural traditions alive.
Apple Strudel. You can have it for breakfast, at lunch, for a mid-afternoon snack, after your dinner or at midnight. No matter where you are, be it a gas station or a fine dining establishment, it will not only be offered, but ordered by everyone around you. It made me wonder if the phrase "as Austrian as apple strudel" exists here. If it doesn't, it should. The one above had the surprise addition of rhubarb, a rare break from tradition. "Topfen" (cream) strudel was another popular pastry, but definitely played second fiddle.
Walking Sticks. I am purposefully not calling them "hiking poles," because in Austria that didn't seem to be their most popular use. Throughout Germany and Switzerland (along with anyplace that had German or Swiss tourists), we saw people using these folding poles along trails. On a few big hikes in the Alps, we wished we had them. Here, though, we would hear the click, click, click of people walking just about everywhere. Merlin came up with the explanation that it must be an exercise technique. The poles make you move your arms and the clicks help you keep pace with your partner. (Most stick-walkers came in pairs). Somehow, that reasoning made us like them even less.

Mozart Souvenirs We get the importance of Mozart and the national pride involved, but the sheer number of items bearing his likeness was astounding. Wolfgang Amadeus 'endorsed' chocolates from the grave most often, but items ranged from edibles to porcelain dishes to pocket books. Even outside of touristy areas, you'd see the red and gold border and white powdered wig on something or other.

Maypoles or Maibaum. The first time we spotted one, we had no idea what it was. I guessed it was a dried out leftover from Christmas, but Merlin correctly reasoned that it wasn't that dry. Then, we realized May Day had just happened. It's been German and Austrian tradition to erect a Maibaum on the first of May since the 16th century. Depending on the region, it can stay up for one month or one year. We saw a few Charlie Brown-looking ones, so I hope those were only one monthers.

Pumpkin Seed Oil. It's nutty, delicious, has health benefits and is used to cook just about everything in the Styrian region of Austria. Once heated, it becomes much more of a neutral oil, but uncooked it packs quite the flavor punch. We grew to like Kürbiskernöl just about as much as Austrian people do - even if it does turn everything slightly green.

Viennese Green Spaces

Vienna is a city of parks and trees. Leafy and full of shade, it is a place where eighty-degree weather can feel tolerable and where there seems always to be a grassy spot to sit down for a rest. Beyond the proper parks, though, there are also surprising pockets of green - like the farmers market near our apartment. On saturdays, the already terrific Karmelitermarkt is filled with produce from the fields and pastures around Vienna. Usually a hot, crowded lot with hard angles and sweating cafe waiters, the market looked fresh and sumptuous filled with these leaves and roots.
The Danube runs by Vienna, but one might be tricked into thinking that it flows right through the center of town. In fact, the water in the city center is only a canal - the Donaukanal - and, although it's connected with the Danube, there is a big distinction to be made. Something I learned: "kanal," in German, is a word evocative of open sewers, and many people in Vienna want to change the name of the Donaukanal to make it sound more appealing. There are beaches and a bike path (above) lining the banks of the "little Danube," dressing up the concrete and cutting a pretty line along the ringstrasse development.
In the Augarten, in Leopoldstadt, a confusing labyrinth of hedged spaces is enclosed by walls and dotted with more formal baroque gardens. During the second world war, massive flak towers were built here to defend the city against allied bombers. One, still standing, is fenced off and grim. It's a huge thing, once able to house ten thousand people during an air raid. A prickly crown of gunning stations is visible from a long ways off, soaring above the treetops. The profile is foreboding and out of place in the garden, looming over laconic sunbathers and slowly-pushed baby carriages.
Nearby, there is a restaurant partly housed in an old bunker, open to the outside and hemmed in by trees. The name, "Bunkerei," called attention to an aspect of it I would have missed. Scraps of wartime Vienna are mostly hidden or painted over. Perhaps the most noticeable remnants of that time are actually voids - places where something used to be. A lot of Vienna's small parks are new, created after the war in the empty spaces where buildings had been destroyed.
Just outside the main city, the Danube lies in a long ribbon, stitched over with a few low bridges. It's wonderful - especially on a hot day - to walk across, taking in the fresh breeze and feeling a bit of elevation. Although they aren't very tall, the bridges give a feeling of height and space in a largely flat and horizontal city. Unlike other urban spaces, the buildings in Vienna haven't reached upwards much, and maneuvering through its landscape can feel almost too terrestrial.
We left town in love with Vienna - it was a city that seemed more cosmopolitan and unique than anywhere we've been in a long while. It was a place that invited urban trekking of the type we used to do in New York. Neighborhoods and avenues stretched into new territory and scenery easily, like a network of country trails. Walking here can be a meditative, aimless experience - uncrowded, expansive, interesting in an everyday sort of way.

The Danube

After days on the shore of the Danube in the Wachau region, we met back up with her today in Vienna. She'd traveled here just like us, and will continue on to Slovakia and Hungary just like we will.

A little motor skiff ferried passengers across to this town, answering the ring of a bell. Cruise ships moved across often, bicyclists could be seen moving along the shoreline as heavy busses pushed over the road above them. The castle ruin, looking down on it all, seemed especially still.

Patrick Leigh Fermor stuck to the Danube's side as much as he could on his walk from Holland to Constantinople. He writes about it a little obsessively, really - and being similarly mobile, I can see why. Rivers make the perfect travel companion. They're just moving along on their way. In a mapped out direction, they give a sense of purpose as opposed to the ocean's sense of eternity. Of transience, as opposed to the containment of a lake.
It being Austria, we were able to get so many vantage points like this one. High up over it all the Danube felt and looked so dominant. The river, unlike the expression, didn't seem 'to run through it.' It all felt huddled up close, clinging on to stay still, clinging on to keep moving.
Sometimes, in our tent at night, the sound of a passing cruise ship would sound almost like it was coming from above us - which conjured up all sorts of pre-dreams of being on the bottom or the ocean and feeling a submarine pass above us. Or a Close Encounter of some third kind.

Gypsy Kitchens: (Not Really) Wienerschnitzel

Before we get to pictures of fried stuff, two things should be mentioned. First, we're not proud about cooking schnitzel. It's a gross, greasy experience that leaves both cook and diner soaked in oil. If your stomach is easily turned by pictures of unhealthy food, don't continue reading the post.

A second clarification, this can't really be called "wienerschnitzel." In Austria, only veal may be used if a dish is to be called by that venerable name. By law, a pork schnitzel - what we made - must be called a "wiener schnitzel vom schwien," so that nobody gets confused.
Schnitzel can't really be called Austrian, even if they would like to claim it as their own. Similar foods can be found everywhere - breading and frying meat is a universal urge, it seems. Its essence is mitteleuropean, though, and months in Belarus, Ukraine, Poland and Germany have made us less than enthusiastic about its ubiquity.

In this country, avoiding this national dish can be difficult. Rebecca and I were successful except for two occasions, when necessity and bad luck forced capitulation. Above is my first Austrian schnitzel, served to me in a campground restaurant by a proud waitress. There were seven different variations on the menu, and almost nothing else. This preparation involved pumpkin seeds, which were mixed in with the breading.
This is Rebecca's "fish schnitzel," or, as it was described on the menu, "gebackene forelle." Mistakenly translating this into "baked trout," she ordered it. Later, it was revealed that, in Austria, "gebacken" means "breaded."

After this dinner we made a pact. No more schnitzel until we get to Vienna - "Wien" in German - and can cook it for ourselves. Tonight, we actually heated up the pan and did it.
The supermarket was out of veal, so I decided to go with pork instead - which is actually much more popular here, and easier to find. The packaged meat was already made into thin cuts, so I didn't have to pound it. Also, we decided to do some mushrooms at the same time, and Rebecca got a filet of trout from a man at the farmer's market. We used packaged breadcrumbs because we don't travel with a food processor.
The process is quite easy. First, if the veal or pork isn't pre-flattened, pound it until it's about a quarter inch thick. Heat a lot of oil in a large pan until very hot. Flour both sides of the cutlet (or fish, or mushrooms) until the meat is completely dry. This is a good time to add salt, too. Next, dip the meat into beaten egg, then cover in bread crumbs. Immediately put into the pan, cooking for about three minutes on each side. If you are cooking fish, reduce the cooking time to about a minute per side. The mushrooms can just be cooked until they are nicely brown.
Some notes:

- Use enough oil that the meat is really almost floating, maybe an eight of an inch in the bottom of the pan. We used a mix of olive oil and pumpkin seed oil, which is popular here. Any type of oil or grease can be used as long as it has a fairly high smoke point and you like the flavor.

- Rebecca only breaded the bottom of her fish, but still turned it over (for about twenty seconds) to cook the top. The picture above is of her trout, freshly out of the pan.

- Be gentle with the breading. Don't mash it into the meat - that will cause it to stick on and lose the puffy airiness which is (supposedly) desirable. Also, don't give the breadcrumbs time to soak in the egg.

- I won't give exact proportions for the recipe, as they will depend heavily on how many people you're feeding. Use at least two beaten eggs and a half cup each of the flour and breadcrumbs. Any less and it might be difficult to cover the meat.

- We ate it with a slice of lemon, squeezed over the top. It helps the flavor and brightens it up a little.

Here's my schnitzel. It wasn't bad, except that all schnitzel is mostly bad. The pumpkin oil, which we had hoped would give it some nuttiness (and had feared would turn it green) ended up tasting fairly neutral after it was heated up. A surprise: the mushrooms were the best part of the meal.

Austrian Sangria a.k.a. Our Apricocktail

While walking along the river toward Spitz, we smelled something sweet all around us and realized that apricot trees lined the walkway. Finally, it dawned on us that the "marillen" we'd seen advertised in every form imaginable were apricots. Marillen strudel, Frische Marillen, Marillen Saft. The Wachau region is as proud of their apricots as they are their grapes. I would argue, more so.
A father-son pair from Krakow who camped next to us two nights ago described a farmstand "selling apricot everything" and shared their bounty with us: chocolate covered bits of apricot pit and jam. Our own grocery store-bought sampling of the local fruit swayed in a more adult direction. Bailoni apricot schnapps is produced in Krems an der Dauner, the largest town around here. We bought some fresh apricots at the Spar and set out to create a Wachauner cocktail.
Naturally, the perfect mixer for the schnapps was local wine. Grüner Vetliner and Bailoni were poured into a Klean Kanteen and our two little orange globes were cut up and dropped in to marinate. A few hours later, we poured the mixture over some frozen blueberries, which acted as our ice in a country (continent, really) in which it's impossible to buy any cubes. We purchased some tonic to top it off, but never wound up using it. The sangria was just sweet enough without it. As our new friends Andrej and Patrick tucked into their tent, Merlin and I sat on the sand and toasted the Danube.

Castle Hunting: Danube Ruins

When, as a child, I used to think of castles in Europe, they were generally complete structures inhabited by knights and villains, fully functional. It’s the dream of the American castle-fanatic, and it’s quickly dispelled when presented with a real, stone fortress – peopled by other tourists and housing a quaint self-service restaurant and postcard shop. For some reason, ruined castles feel more historic than their better-preserved neighbors. Decrepit, tumbling walls and roofless rooms conjure up medieval echoes better, I think, than repaired and refurbished rooms do. It doesn’t feel like a recreation, it’s the real thing. In the past few days we’ve hiked to two ruins in the Wachau region of Austria, both with great views of the Danube. One was satisfyingly crumbly (and deserted), while the other was being fixed up and had an ambitious, tour-highlight feel (and a lot of people).
The Burgruine Aggstein is slowly trying to lose the “ruine” suffix. The brochure insists that this isn’t merely a “fabulous castle experience for all the senses,” but also a “party spot, wedding chamber, exhibition hall and cultural climax.” Castles are big attractions, of course, and they can make a town or an owner some money. If they’re left alone to disintegrate, people won’t come as readily. It’s possible to drive right up to the gate, which was a little disappointing to us after a difficult, steep walk up from the river.
Built in the twelfth century, Aggstein was once a nearly impenetrable stronghold. In fact, the castle has been captured several times, but never by direct force – many sieges were successful, largely because of limited water within the walls. But the walls were nearly perfect. The site is amazing, incorporating two jagged pillars of stone on this jutting spur of mountaintop. The rock helps protect the flank of the walls, while also providing a nice spot for two tower-like structures. The rear of the building is so secure that a balcony was cut into the edge of the residential quarters, more for taking in the view than defending the keep.

More than fifty-five thousand visitors filter through here every year, and much of the generated income goes towards construction. A brand new dining hall – adorned with suits of armor and smelling of new wood – took up a good deal of the space in the old armory, conceivably to house all those weddings and “cultural climaxes.” A chapel, with nice new pews, stood empty, though a tape recorder played clerical chanting noises. The concession shop was busy and most visitors seemed to spend more time at one of the picnic tables than walking through the ruin.

A more satisfying ruin - Hinterhaus, above the town of Spitz - really was ruined. There were grape vines planted right up to the lowest tumbles of rock and we didn't see a single person while looking around. Although there are some guardrails and steps installed, it's pretty much been left untouched. It's fun to clamber up to the top of the surviving tower and to go spelunking in the "keller." There are no off-limits places here, and no information boards marring the photos.
Only about fifteen miles downriver from Aggstein, Hinterhaus was built around the same time and expanded several times. There is little information about it available, but it seems to have been well-defended enough to have survived into irrelevance, when a number of similar structures likewise began to fall from neglect.
The path up from below was described in our walking guide as being angled in such a way that the attacker's right side would be vulnerable during attack - the right side of the body was left unprotected by a soldier's shield, usually held in the left hand. The castle's small size seems to have been an advantage. Strong towers and few exposed walls made it easy for a small force to maintain control of the defenses. This, however, is more purely a military structure than Aggstein, which was occupied by some of the more important people in the area and thus needed larger residential quarters.
It was a lot of fun to look around without knowing what we were looking at or having a prescribed path to follow. The view over the Danube and the vineyards was beautiful, and - in a strange way - the crumbling ramparts made it easier to imagine that the countryside around was full of roving bandits and armies on the march.

Grüner Pastures

The Wachau region in Lower Austria is wine country. By "Lower Austria," I mean elevation not Southern. It is a stretch of the Danube valley, one side looking over at the other. Forests turn into vineyards, which stretch on until a cluster of red roofs, pastels and stone pops up and then disappears into more green. These are the towns, all of which have a tall impressive steeple of some sort peeking out from its center like a raised hand announcing its attendance.
We stayed in the picturesque town of Spitz for a night when setting up our tent would have been a cold, wet affair. It was all cobbled and narrow, with an imposing castle ruin and a small stream. A lot of the town seemed to be built right into old stone walls or sides of cliffs. A house near the stream had a back corner that seemed to melt right into a bulbous rock which had been covered in white plaster to match the facade. The resulting look reminded me of a Macy's Day Parade balloon all rounded out and puffy.
Spitz seemed smaller than it actually was, something we realized only when looking down at it from its Medieval gate. From the landmark, a number of walking trails began, taking us deep into the forest. Whenever there was a slice of a view available out and down, we would see terraces and vines. A lot of people see this part of the world on a wine tour. Driving, biking, bussing, cruising along the river, they stop at one heuringen another. The family-run wine taverns are each open for only two or three weeks per year. I assume that's a diplomatic way of making sure they all share the tourist wealth. The info office had a list of openings, but we were more intent on walking sans tipsiness.
Our hotel wasn't really a heuringen, but it did serve its own house wine. As you can see, the label had a particularly homemade feel and the young woman who served us looked suspiciously like an older version of the little girl in the photograph. Neither of us could muster up the courage to ask if she was, indeed, Famous Label Girl. It would have been an awkward question, made worse by our Germglish (English infested with badly pronounced Deutsch every now and then - an injustice to both languages involved). For the record, Austrian Riesling is typically less sweet than German. That's a piece of information I brought with me into Europe and has served me well. Cheers!