360 Degrees Longitude (12 page)

• • •

We had no agenda, no itinerary; in six weeks we planned to have Katrina's cast removed, return to Zermatt, pick up our tandems, and resume cycling. In the interim, we packed up and caught a bus to Prague, city of a thousand spires and perpetual graffiti.

Our first priority in Prague was to find a wheelchair. Katrina was now able to use her crutches for short distances but still needed help to cover more ground than that around our new hostel.

“Where are my crutches?!” Katrina demanded after breakfast one morning. “I
obviously
used them to come and sit down at the table, but they aren't here now!”

Of course we all knew where they were; the crutches were a cool toy. Jordan was constantly taking the crutches out for a spin.

Looking for a wheelchair to rent isn't a standard tourist activity, but for the next several weeks it became the first thing we did once we got settled in a city. Anyone who feels like they need an extra challenge in their lives is invited to travel to an unfamiliar place where you don't speak the language, and then make finding a wheelchair to rent a top priority.

Being illiterate really had its disadvantages. We just couldn't fake the language in Eastern Europe. In France and Switzerland, we could see the English words hiding, disguised as French or German, whether on the street signs or on a bottle of aspirin. For example, any fool can see that the German word
schweinefleisch
means “ham,” yet in Prague you could think you were buying a box of sugar only to get it home and find out it was foot powder. This could be a big surprise if you had already sprinkled it on your cornflakes.

In Western Europe we were
danka
-ing and
merci
-ing with every other multilingual wannabe the day we arrived. I think you need to gargle with razor blades before you can acquire a Slavic dialect. And the letters no longer are faithful to the sounds that a boy from California would expect, having some other variant invented for the entertainment of the locals. Despite the language barrier, we found we could communicate most of our needs; all it took was a smile while pointing with one hand and holding up a credit card in the other. Of course this didn't work so well over the phone.

We obtained a wheelchair from an obscure social services agency and went to discover Prague. We found a lot of beautiful architecture—every building, every bridge, every corner has received a lot of detailed attention by some ancient craftsman. Luckily, it all survived World War II. But the reality is that unless one enjoys looking at a statue of a nobleman made anonymous by centuries of grime and soot, the overall impression is that the entire city needs a good scrubbing.

We ventured on a few short side trips from Prague, such as Kutná Hora. Kutná Hora rose to fame in the 13th century as one of the richest towns of medieval Bohemia, thanks to a nearby silver mine. Today it is probably most (in)famous for the Sedlec Ossuary, commonly known as “The Church of Bones,” final resting spot of 40,000 souls whose bones are arranged into works of art.

The ossuary is a functioning church, holding services every Sunday; it also does a steady business in tourists. We paid our entrance fee and walked down a flight of stairs into a macabre chamber in which the bones were used to construct ordinary objects. I wondered how the dearly departed would take the news that their bones were being used as chandeliers and tables.

The bones started piling up in 1278 when King Ottokar II of Bohemia sent Henry, a bishop from Kutná Hora, to Jerusalem. Henry returned with a little bit of soil from Golgotha, the hill on which Jesus was crucified. For centuries the local townsfolk wanted to be buried on the land because of the holy dirt, and it eventually became the resting place to an estimated 40,000 souls. In the mid-1700s a church was placed on the site and bones from the cemetery were stockpiled in an ossuary. What does one do with an ossuary full of bones? Decorate, of course! A century after the church was built an artist was commissioned to do just that. Not exactly what I would have done with thousands of centuries-old skeletal remains, but I clearly do not have the imagination it takes to build a world-class chandelier made entirely of human femurs or a garland made of skulls.
We spent time examining the teeth on various skulls. Dental work sure has come a long way over the centuries.

While returning to Prague, the four of us were sitting on a train facing each other. “That was cool,” Jordan remarked. “Better than any of the other churches we've seen.”

“I thought it was creepy,” September disagreed. “Who would want to go to Sunday school with a bunch of skulls staring at you?”

“What's creepy about it?” Katrina asked. “It's not like they're going to spring to life and start chasing you.”

“Although that'd be cool, too,” Jordan quipped.

I stared at Jordan and imagined his
real
reaction if bones sprang back to life and started chasing him. “All talk,” I said. “You'll be having nightmares tonight.”

“The flying monkeys kind of nightmares?” Jordan responded. He was referring to my prediction of the impression that
The Wizard of Oz
would have on him when he was five. He thought the flying monkeys were cool, too, and never did have nightmares.

“The flying monkeys still creep me out,” I said, recalling how I was terrified of them when I was five.

September and I had been discussing visiting another place that could give someone nightmares, but we'd been warned about taking the kids there. Turning to September, I whispered, “I think if they didn't freak out in the ossuary they can handle Auschwitz. It's something we shouldn't shy away from.”

“Shy away from what?” Jordan demanded.

“What don't you think we can handle?” Katrina asked excitedly.

“Can't your mother and I have a simple conversation without you both interrupting?” I said, exasperated.

“We are discussing the fact that we should get tickets to Krakow, so that we can visit Aushwitz.” September explained calmly.

The journey from Prague to Krakow, Poland, was an all-day affair in one of those trains built before air-conditioning was invented. We once again found ourselves on a train platform, watching the train depart, with a mass of bicycle panniers at our feet.

“The panniers worked out great when they were attached to the tandems,” September said, “but they're a terrible choice as general luggage. Maybe we could attach wheels to them.”

“We'll look for a luggage cart along with a wheelchair,” I replied. “For now, let's just grab a taxi to our hostel.” Taxis aren't exactly the budget traveler's transportation of choice, but after a long day with so much luggage to schlep and a daughter who needed to be carried, we splurged. As I tumbled into the back of the cab, my ears were affronted.

“Wasn't ‘Stayin' Alive' banned by the United Nations or something?” I asked on the way to our hostel. “Isn't it like 30 years old?”

“Yes, dear. And so is
Dark Side of the Moon.”

The door-to-door service was pleasant, despite the disco. And the fare was so low I couldn't see how the driver could cover the cost of fuel. Taxis in Poland became a habit, even though, much to my chagrin, disco was the genre of choice for four out of five cab drivers surveyed.

We came to Krakow for the sole purpose of visiting Auschwitz, but stayed longer than planned because we really liked it. Krakow was everything Prague was not. It was clean, it was a manageable size, and you could buy a train ticket without having to stand in the information line, followed by the reservation line, and then the purchasing line. Krakow was also teeming with just the kind of history that we wanted the kids to see.

• • •

“It's bloody hot,” I complained. Europe was in the grip of a heat wave, and we were preparing to go out. “I'm going to have to hand wash this shirt before we go. It'll feel nice to put it on damp, though.”

“What happened to your other short-sleeved shirt?” September responded.

“It's in Zermatt with the tandems. I figured if we weren't cycling I wouldn't need it, so I left it with the other camping and cycling gear.”

September gave me the same look of feigned patience she gave Jordan when she was trying to teach him the multiplication tables. “Well, we'll have to get you another one then. We need to divide and conquer. I'll look into getting a wheelchair with the kids.” She gave me a stern look. “You go buy yourself a short-sleeved shirt. Get a pair of shorts as well.”

“Can't I get you to pick me up a shirt and a pair of shorts?” I asked. “Most wives prefer to pick out their husband's wardrobes.”

“Be brave. You can do this.”

“What if I just ordered some stuff from Lands' End and had it sent with our next box of books?”

“We haven't received our first box of books yet.”

I was defeated. “We will meet you back here in a couple of hours,” September said, as she and the kids disappeared out the door of our hostel.

I proceeded down the street and walked into the first department-looking store I saw. On one of the upper levels I found some men's clothes on clearance. I picked out a shirt and a pair of shorts, tried them on, and purchased them. Victorious, I went back to the hostel, donned my new stylish threads, and waited for September and the kids.

An hour or so later I could hear them coming. They were still across the street, but the traffic was not enough to drown Jordan's voice in his excited state.

“Do you think Dad's back? Can I tell him? He'll be so surprised!” The door to our hostel room burst open. Two simultaneous conversations started up immediately.

Jordan was saying, “Guess what we saw? You'll never guess!”

September wasn't actually saying anything, at least not yet. She just stared at me, slack jawed, for several moments. Then, ignoring the fact that Jordan was playing twenty questions with me, she said, “You bought that just to get back at me.”

I was confused. “What?”

Jordan said, “I want you to guess!”

September said, “That shirt. It is the ugliest shirt on the planet. You bought it to get back at me for not shopping for you.”

I replied, “I wouldn't do that. Okay, maybe I would, but I didn't. It was on sale and it looked decent enough. What's wrong with it?”

“Dad! You aren't guessing!”

September explained, “It looks like… well, it looks like you work for some drive-up hamburger joint in the Midwest. It looks like a uniform for Bill's Burger Barn. Where's your name tag?”

Jordan was on the verge of hyperventilating. “Dad! You're not guessing!”

I decided that September was not a professional fashion critic. The shirt was a huge step up from a simple T-shirt. It was tan with navy blue sleeves and had buttons and even a collar. But I needed to focus on Jordan before he passed out. “Jordan,” I asked, “what did you see?”

“We found a go-kart track and Mom said we could go!”

Go-karts weren't exactly what we came to experience in Krakow, but I agreed with Jordan; the brochure he had with him looked fun. It also provided a cultural counter to where we were headed the following day.

As part of the kids' education we had been studying World War II ever since we arrived in Europe, as it arguably had the biggest influence on world affairs for the last fifty years and likely will continue for the next fifty years. We tried to present a balanced view of the war by having the kids read accounts written from the perspective of both the Allies and the Axis powers. We talked about both viewpoints, that people on both sides did some really horrible things, and as in any war, it is the civilians who suffer. September and I both believe that most people the world over are innately good, but we aren't so naïve as to believe evil doesn't exist. We wanted to show the kids what can happen if evil goes unanswered. So, in our World War II discussions there was no denying or sugarcoating the atrocities of the Nazis. We were going to see those atrocities firsthand. I
wanted
the kids to be horrified.