Thanksgiving 2015 in Prague

Prague, Czech Republic
November 26, 2015
Latitude 50º 4' N

Thanksgiving morning from my fabulous apartment in the Žižkov district of Prague was grey and foggy. Another typical November day in Central Europe, I thought. I'd arrived the day before from Amsterdam, spent that day in, and still didn't want to leave the apartment on day two. I'd landed a delicious place to stay—a sixth floor, totally modernized, two story apartment with wood floors, fabulous kitchen and even a jacuzzi. Some pre-Christmas homing instinct made me want to run out, buy a tree, shop for ornaments and spend the long weekend decorating the place. I'd satisfy this urge later on with the purchase of 4” $3.00 poinsettia.

But I finally separated myself from the apartment, bundled up against the cold and tackled the metro. My first stop was Prague Castle, where I spent the better part of the day until about 3:00 pm. The views from some of the towers was astonishing—a city of spires, gables and turrets. The city lay out below me. It had taken a long time to get to this fabled city, undamaged during World War II.

I wandered off the castle grounds, meandered through the Mala Strana neighborhood, through the twisty streets below and ultimately to the Charles Bridge, which I'd heard about and for good reason. It was packed with tourists—mostly Japanese—and it made me wonder what this city was like in season. By the time I'd gotten to the other side I was in a lot of pain. I saw that an organ concert was going to be held at the St. Salvator Church in the Klementinum district so I paid my 500 Crowns, took a seat and just sat for an hour.

The church was cold and even my leather jacket and wool mittens weren't enough to keep me warm. But the music was wonderful—a series of Baroque classics for almost an hour. At the very end a mezzo-soprano sang Ave Maria. I was momentarily overwhelmed. It was my mother's favorite hymn, sung at her wedding and again at her funeral.

I was alone this Thanksgiving. And it was the first holiday when I was truly alone My parents were dead and my estranged brother had been dead for six months. I was the sole survivor ofmy immediate family. Except for an aunt and uncle, and a bunch of cousins, there's no other immediate blood family. When I heard Schubert's music I could feel the ghosts of Thanksgivings past surround me—my family, my aunts and uncles and cousins who came for dinner, Elaine Cranston, her daughter Diane and Elaine's mother, Mrs. Dumas. What was a holiday growing up without those dear people?

I wrapped around me all the adult years of my parents and Steve, of putting the lights on the outdoor Blue Spruce on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, of snow storms and blizzards that blew in on that day.

I wrapped around me more recent years when it was just Mom, then Ed and Rita, and how Thanksgiving moved from one home to another.

I wrapped around me all the traditions that emerged over the years--gathering of the greens on Thanksgiving morning, a walk at Point au Roche, illuminating outdoor trees, decorating the house the day after the holiday and always, the first day of skiing that weekend.

It wasn't a sad reminiscence, just a healthy remembering of those people I loved who are no longer with me and events that are just on hold this year.

When the concert finished I walked out into the early dark of late November's night in Prague. The temperature had dropped and a very light snow was falling--flurries, really, but snow nonetheless. Nothing could have been more perfect. I walked across the Charles Bridge, this time in the dark. heading to the metro. The lights of Prague illuminated the Vltava River. Tourist boats plied the waters and Japanese tourists were in abundance. I felt as I were in night setting of a Moravian fairy tale, but it was the real thing.

But my evening wasn't quite over. Half way back to the train, I heard the strains of Dixie Land. New Orleans jazz on Thanksgiving night on the left bank of the river. Well...what with the snow and the music, it was the perfect cap to the day!

I finally did wander home, overcooked some chicken, Skyped with home, with my family of choice, fielded thoughtful emails and texts from home and collapsed into bed about midnight.

My Czech Thanksgiving. While it wasn't a day set aside here in Prague, it was in my heart.

And that is all that counted.

In Flanders Field: Ieper/Ypres and World War 1 Cemeteries

Ieper, Belgium

November 17, 2015

Latitude 52º 49' N

Ieper, or Ypres, six days after the 98^th observance of the Armistice that ended World War 1. The timing was perfect for a visit to this area that saw far too much activity between 1915 and 1918.

We arrived Monday after a six hour drive from Hillegon, The Netherlands. By 4:30, after driving in a steady rain, we arrived at our destination, 55A Kriekstraat, Ieper, Belgium. It would be Lomme and me for three days before Ina and Steven would join us later.

It was a moving and somber day as we visited a string of allied cemeteries in the area known simply as Ypres Salient or, as it is better known, Flanders Field.

There was a solid uniformity about the stones—simple white marble tablets each bearing the name of the soldier, his death date, his age and, often, a representation of his regiment's insignia. In death, all these soldiers were equal. The day was intermittently sunny and wonderfully quiet. Few people were out and about on this mid November day which allowed us to wander amongst the perfectly manicured cemeteries.

We stopped as several memorials, but held off until the end to visit Tyne Cot, where over 10,000 men were buried. These were, of course, men, but as we traveled among the stones, their ages were disconcerting... 19, 21, 23... These were just children—older children, but children none the less. And they were children far from home.

Private

J. Black

8^th Bn. Canadian Inf.

10^th November 1917 Age 19

Corporal

A. K. Pearce

Bn. Australian Inf.

21^st September 1917 Age 22

Private

J. Condon

Royal Irish Regiment

24^th May 1915 Age 14

Private J. A. Bull

Royal Warwickshire Regt.

27^th August 1917 Age 19

But most stones listed no name. The vast majority of bodies buried in these cemeteries were never identified. Imagine sending a son/brother/grandson/friend/husband/nephew off and never knowing what happened to them? For the unnamed bodies that were found, there was no one at home to contact to offer a sentiment to be added at the bottom of the tombstone.

                                                              A New Zealand Soldier

of the Great War

Known Unto God

And reading the stones made me think of the subtitle to Kurt Vonnegut's book Slaughterhouse Five: the Children's Crusade. The “men” buried here were boys, at least from the point of view of my 66 years. Boys far from home—the UK, Canada, New Zealand and Australia—dominated these plots. Because this was 100 years ago, and because it didn't affect me in any way, directly or indirectly, there was an emotional disconnect. Unlike the Vietnam Memorial in Washington where the names of my peers are listed, this was from a different time and place.

Still, it was difficult not to be affected.

It were the inscriptions that moved me the most. Simple one and two line sentences that families far away were permitted to put on the stone:

Rest Well Brave Heart

A devoted son and brother

Thy will be done

We shall meet

to part no more

Mother

He died

amidst the short and shell

our son, brave and true

In loving memory

of my only son

by his sorrowing mother

Sleep on beloved

until the day breaks

and shadows flee away

My dear friend Lomme and I spent a wonderful day sharing this moving experience. It was a lovely day and the bucolic Belgian countryside spread out before us. Small villages with brick homes and terra-cotta colored slate roofs, were punctuated by a single Catholic church. Cows and sheep filled fields and crops were still being harvested—sugar beets, cabbages, carrots, brussels sprout and dried brown rows of corn. Every now and then we'd pass a muddy field and tried to imagine the hundreds of thousands of men who had to endure mud, rain, snow, cold, life in trenches and the constant threat of death.

 A hundred years ago, however, this was a landscape of utter desolation where thousands upon thousands of allied and German soldiers died. Everything had been destroyed.  Everything we were looking at was "new."  Even now, bodies surface each spring. On this soft mid-November day, it was hard to imagine the horror the men who lived through this experienced each day.

At day's end we attended “the Last Post” at the Menin Gate in Ieper. It was hard not to have an emotional reaction to this ceremony. Even I, fortunate to have lived my entire life in peace,  was moved by the simplicity of the bugles and the simplicity of every day people laying poppy wreaths in this great memorial to the 54,9976 Commonwealth soldiers engraved on the walls who had no know grave in this area.

This could have been me had I been born in another place time, and the expression “There go I but by the grace of God,” crossed my mind more than once. Those young men were no different than I. They had dreams, and hopes for the future. They were loved and loved in return.

When the last bugle had blown, and after we toured the memorial and pondered the thousands of names, we slipped back to our comfortable home we'd rented for the week. We would sleep warm and secure.

A hundred years ago it was a very different story.

But the story didn't end there. A week later, as we were returning to The Netherlands, we stopped in Middleburg for lunch. By chance we landed in a restaurant operated by a hotel management school. The dining room was filled with young people. I couldn't avoid looking at them and thinking that these boys were no different from the names on the tombstones in Flanders. I could not imagine a world so demonic that 11,000,000 military would die. It was a sobering lunch.

I gave silent thanks—for them and for me—that we lived in a time of relative peace. American Thankgiving was coming later in the week. I had a lot to be thankful for.

In Flanders Field

John Mc Crae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow

Loved and were loved

In Flanders Field.

Take up our quarrel with foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be your to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Hillegom, Amsterdam and the Arrival of Saint Nicholas

Hillegom, The Netherlands

November 15, 2015

Latitude 52º 17 N

First things first... one doesn't travel to Central Europe in the middle of November for the weather. While it wasn't exactly “a dark and stormy night” sort of scenario, it was far from “gloriously warm and sunny.” And all of this was just fine with me. I'd come to Europe to experince the start of the Christmas Season and I was quite happy have what I've always called “St. Nicholas weather”--cold days, gray skies, rain and the hope of snow.

I'd arrived at Schipol Airport fifteen hours after I'd arrived at the airport in Montreal. I'd gotten there early the day before only to find that the flight to Amsterdam would be four ours late. Oh, to have checked KLM's webpage earlier.

I was a zombie the first day I arrived, Friday, but far better by Saturday when Lomme and I walked Hillegom's main canal to watch the arrival of Saint Nicholas. I could barely contain myself, having waited a very long time to see this. It was cloudy and light drizzle fell much of the day. The sky was spectral gray, but all of these things hardly dampened my mood. I was as excited as the little kids who'd come with their parents. Unlike them, though, I'd come to watch this purely as a cultural observation. While St. Nicholas has nothing to do with Christmas, Christmas, on the other hand, has a whole lot to do with the good Saint.

We arrived at the Ringvaart Canal just in time to see two small boats trolling down the canal. These boats were filled with loads of Black Peter's, St. Nicholas' helper, who were throwing small bags of candy to kids on land. I was content just to watch. Following the small boats was a much larger boat carrying The Saint himself in the front, with another entourage of Black Pete's and a band playing a combination of traditional St. Nicholas Day tunes and Dixie Land jazz, including “When the Saint's Go Marching In,” which made me chuckle. As an American, you're never far from your own culture.

Once these boats passed us, we walked the half kilometer to Hillegom's town square. There were hundreds of people waiting in front of the Rathuis, where the mayor would personally meet St. Nicholas. Well, I wasn't disappointed. I pushed my way forward and had a front row seat, as it were, to see a local school's cadet corps and marching band escort the Saint, who was riding in a vintage early 1930's Ford. He was dressed all in a red robe, wore a red mitre and carried a large shepard's hook He looked nothing like Santa Claus, but our image of Santa Claus is historically liked to his image. He was very much the bishop he was supposed to be.

The kids were agog, just as I was. Hey, for the first time I got a chance to see the real thing, and I was excited. But this poor Saint Nicholas—he looked so unhappy, so dour. Where was his joy, his joie-de-vivre? He must have left it in Spain where he and Black Pete allegedly spend the rest of the year.

And that was is for Hillegom. The next day Lomme, Ina and I made our way to the train station in Haarlem where we met their daughter, Marlijn and their new grandson, Koen A quick train ride to Amsterdam and a longer walk to the Shipper's Canal where we were just in time to see a literal parade of boats filled with myriads of Black Pete's and people out for a good time. More than one of the these smaller boats had jazz bands and small combos on them. At the end, the boat carrying St. Nicholas was much larger than Hillegom's and carried far more people. And in front, waving happily, was a much more cheerful St. Nick! This was the real thing!

We lingered a bit, met Joris, Marlijn's husband, who was one of the Black Pete's on roller blades who helped maintain control, not that any control was needed.

Joris, as were all Black Petes, was dressed in medieval garb and had his face painted black. Pete's origins date to the mid 19^th Century when he first appeared in a children's book as Nicholas' attendant. The author depicted him as black and dressed in Moorish clothing of the Renaissance. The tradition has continued.

And that was that! Unlike a Santa Claus parade Thanksgiving weekend, St. Nicholas would not park himself in a Mall for the next few weeks 'til St. Nicholas Day. He'd make visits to schools and nursing homes, but he really wouldn't return until his feast day, December 6^th when he'd leave goodies in childrens' shoes. Pete, on the other hand, would leave switches to children who weren't all that good.

After lunch, it was Lomme and me. Our goal: now that St. Nicholas had arrived in the harbor, he'd now enter the city via his horse. The parade reminded me of a classic weekend-after-Thanksgiving Santa Claus parade sponsored by local businesses. Different stores had different floats, but none were Christmas related. Instead, there were heaps of Black Petes (Lomme said more than 5,000 had volunteered) who handed out candy and small gingerbread cookies.

By parade's end the Saint had appeared, and unlike is Hillegom counterpart, this one was clearly enjoying his role. He rode his white horse slowly and retraced his steps on both of side of the street, so all could get a good, long glimpse of him.

No sooner was he there, then we was gone. Like the Santa Claus he would become, he was just as illusive.

But what a great two days. I'd wanted to see this for a very long time and I finally did. This was just the beginning, though. Once Advent begins, I will switch gears to Christmas markets.

The fun was just beginning.

Here We Go: Holland, Belgium, the Czech Republic, Austria and Hungary

Plattsburgh, NY
November 12, 2015
Latitude 44º 42' N

I don't care how often I travel, it's still hard"getting out of Dodge."  And this time is no different.

But off I am for this "Christmas Market" tour of Central Europe, a trip that will bring me first to The Netherlands and onwards a few days later to Flanders where my friends Lomme and Ina and I have rented a home in Ypres, Belgium for a week to tour southern Belgium.  The day before Thanksgiving I'll fly to Prague where I'll spend a week before heading to Vienna and, hopefully, Budapest, for another week.  I'll fly home December 8th, in time for Christmas at home.

This is a trip I've wanted to do for a very long time, an opportunity to visit Christmas markets in several European capitals.  I don't imagine it will be the last!