Polska

I left early on a Monday morning after a road win the night before, driving 30 minutes before realizing my team hadn’t given me back my passport after our last FIBA cup game. After a frantic phone call, I was assured that the borders are now open and that passports are unnecessary. Sure enough, one can now drive through most of Europe without border control. The only sign of the change in country is some deserted communist check point that a few months ago contained government employees sitting around drinking Nescafe.

I had all my road maps set out and cruised through Polish country towns until I saw the sign for Oswechim, which I learned is the real name of the infamous place we know as Auschwitz. I parked the car and walked into the museum, intent on spending the remaining opening hours immersing myself in the nightmare of the haunted complex. After a minute of walking through the museum, I realized I was in way over my head and immediately joined a tour group. Definitely a good decision.

People from all over the world were crammed into a bus, colored name tags according to native language, and shuttled to Birkenau. We started with a tour of the grounds, saw the latrine where concrete holes were set up, one next to the other, like orderly swiss cheese, balking at the proximity of each unseperated facility. The first stop and I’m already cringing at the thought of rubbing elbows with someone while defecating. The facilities turned out to be the least of their problems however. The guide elaborated on the queues and the limits of use (twice a day) and how they couldn’t go to the bathroom at night. For any offense of course they could be beaten or punished in horrible, inhumane ways. Remind me never to complain about Turkish toilets again.

Then we entered the next wooden building, built long and meant for the holding of 50 horses. Instead, hundreds of people were crammed into bunk beds, sometimes as many as twelve, skinny, starving bodies sharing a single bed. As people died, others moved up the bunks in order to get away from the mud and rat infested floors. The heaters never worked and blankets and clothing were scarce. It was a beautiful sunny day but the chill in the air was a faint reminder of normal winter days.

We then went up to the watch tower looking out over the acreage where millions of people lived and died over the course of five infamous years. We saw the remnants of the gas chambers and crematoriums, destroyed by the Nazis to hide the evidence as the Allied troups advanced. We stood in the exact spot where SS officers watched the trains enter the camp for the first analysis.

I’ve read a fair amount about the atrocities commited at Auschwitz/Birkenau yet actually seeing the remnants of life, feeling the cold on my face, witnessing the places people slept and ate and went to the bathroom, certainly put a new level of reality on the text I’ve read. The sheer number of people brought and tortured and killed in the very same spots I was standing, and walking, and taking pictures was a bit like standing in a deserted cemetery; one needn’t believe in ghosts to feel the emptiness of a place where human energy is no longer.

There were two things that struck me the most. Primarily, I was fascinated by the organization of it all. The Nazis for all their lack of humanity, were not stupid. They started by deceiving a country, continued by holding secrets from the world, and continually and systematically killed millions of people, most of them unaware of what was happening to them until the very last gasp in the gas chambers. People disrobed willingly, expecting showers instead of cyanide. They devised new, economic, and efficient modes of death through suffucation, disposed of bodies in record numbers, and stripped bodies of gold, teeth, and hair. They experiemented on humans in the name of progress, and organized a hierarchy where power hungry officers lost their conscious. All this in a modern age, in a country and world of literate, intelligent people where we have access to information and like to think we have a collective conscious on what is right and wrong.

But I knew all this. I’d heard the numbers, I’d read about the political prisoners, the Soviet prisoners of war, the ‘Final Solution’ for the Jews of Europe. I knew that people were denied justice, that any offense could bring on the firing squad. I’d read accounts of the hunger the victims faced in the camp, how a single piece of bread could make people kill or die but that in other cases, people sacrificied themselves in rape or death to save another. I know how the Holocaust started, how the Nazis played up the fear of Communism and the feeling that German morality was losing its footing. I know that it started slowly, the Nazis picked on the least powerful people, the criminals the defects, the dregs of society and slowly moved their way up, taking control of the courts and the media along the way, until their power was ubiquitous and unstoppable.

The second thing that really touched me was the depth of evil. It wasn’t just the amount of people that died or the horrible conditions they lived in or even the brutality they faced. All this was staggering of course but it wasn’t new. What I didn’t know, or expect, or hadn’t let myself feel before was the lack of humanity. I really felt the absence of empathy. I was in a space that held the memories; a place where the very thing that makes us human had disappeared. I remember reading a victim’s account of Auschwitz and I understand more now why he said that regardless of all he had faced, he would never want to trade places with an SS officer because while he might die, at least he still had a soul.

Humans are a mass of contradicting emotions, we can love and hate and be filled with passion in an instant. We can be vulnerable and strong all at once. Our minds are pliable and malleable and capable of incredible changes. In the correct circumstances, we can transform ourselves, amend who we are and what we believe. This is our greatest strength, seen in the adaptability of the victims, and our greatest weakness, exemplified by the SS officers and Kapos. But still, I like to think that humans really are different than other animals, that at our core we connect with other humans, that there is a soft spot in each of us that hurts when we see others hurting. So I thought, as I walked down the sunny dirt roads of Auschwitz, that this place not only remembers the dead, it remembers this phenomenon; people didn’t just lose their lives here, people lost their humanity.

I tried to hold onto this thought, tried to feel that spot in my heart to convince myself that it is real. But slowly my hope in the goodness of the world started to waver. It was the deviousness of the acts. . Its why we punish premeditated murder more than murder done in the heat of the moment. There is a deeper seeded evil to killing when you’ve thought it out. They had the time to stop, to analyze what they were doing, to let their conscious step in. Instead, the thought up more ways to be deceptive. For example, the Nazis tried to convince Jews they were leaving their homes for a new life, even offered fake ownership papers to new houses. Then after stacking them like livestock into trains, cold and thirsty and starving, for up to two weeks, they separated them when they arrived, men from women and children. Then the twisted parody of judgement day began. The SS officers playing God, choosing in an instant who would die immediately and who would die slowly from forced labour, freezing to death, exhaustion, and malnutrition. Many headed directly to the gas chambers, women holding onto babies, young children excited to be outside, running excitedly to their death, men standing around talking, thinking they were headed to the showers. I saw big black and white pictures of this; children were running to die.

The museum really focuses on the small traces of life left behind. Victims brought with them the things they thought they would need for their new homes; shoes and shaving kits, eyeglasses and toothbrushes, pots and cooking utensils. The museum had huge rooms separated by glass filled with inconsequential things, things made only important because the people that had packed them with care and hope and trepidation were never able to use their cracked blue water vase or wooden comb. I saw piles and piles of prosthetic legs and back braces, their crippled owners no doubt killed immediately, the only part of them they left behind. I saw women’s hair stripped from freshly dead bodies, sold to wig makers and textile factories, preserved by the museum and place ominously behind glass. It was haunting to see the little signs of life, proof that
the people that perished had lives before Auschwitz, normal lives with innocent, diurnal tasks.

Then we came to the room filled with suitcases, names and birthdates written across the leather. Our guide pointed out the suitcase of a girl named Sarah. It read “orphan” in German and had a birthdate that made her no older than eight years old. I imagined a little eight year old girl in a dress, holding onto a suitcase bigger than her, scared and alone and certainly sent immediately to die since she didn’t make the age cut off. I started to tear up. When I saw the baby clothes, and tiny innocent shoes, taken from gas chamber victims and given to SS officers children, I teared up even more.. I suppose it was then that I felt my world shake a little, like everything I had known or thought or believed in, was threatened. I know war brings out the worst in people, and I know that brainwashing and group pressure make people do horrible things. But killing children? Cyaniding them while still in their mothers arms, or worse, killing families by firing squad, making the parents watch as their children were shot first. I can’t seem to grasp this complexity of the conscious; the SS officers committed mass murder at work, returning home with new presents for their kids, taken off the corpses of Jewish children.

I continued to tour the grounds of Auschwitz, saw the one meter by one meter concrete room where four people were forced to stand together overnight and then work 11 hours the next day; I stopped outside the check point and listened to stories of roll call taking 19 hours as people with thin clothing on dropped dead from the cold, myself shivering in my new ski jacket;I stopped in front of the wall where executions were carried out, the covered windows of the human experiment building watching over the courtyard; I walked through the first gas chamber and crematorium, where they would park a truck outside with the engine running until the screams stopped. The first gassing wasn’t estimated correctly and two days after the cyanide was administered, there were still people breathing, suffocating to their death slowly. I could go on and on but I won’t. Its enough to know that humans are capable of such atrocities, that that little soft spot in our hearts is not infallible, that we must always nurture the empathy within us. And so, in the most hopeless of places, I walked out with a strange feeling; that all that is bad in the world, and all that is good in the world can exist in the same place or in the same person, and that it is up to us to remember this scope of human potential and choose to fuel the good in all of us.

I got back in my car after the tour, a bit overwhelmed, unable to quite process all I had just seen. I had an hour drive into Krakow, which gave me some time to sort my thoughts and transition back to reality. I got into the city about dinner time, found a place to park, stumbled upon my hostel, and started to explore. I was staying in the heart of the old town so I hit the cobblestone street with a renewed energy. It was dark out so the enormous plaza was all lit up, a huge market building in the center glowed, and the church and pubs and restaurants glistened in the cold night air. There were people everywhere, walking home after work or headed to meet friends. I was hungry so I stepped down into a basement pub, drank Polish beer and ate tomatoe soup, savoring every bite, reminded that food is something to be grateful for.

Later that night I headed to the Sheraton bar to have a drink, excited to relax in a swanky spot. I ended up sampling vodka with some English couple and sharing West coast stories with a 35 year old Apple computer retiree, traveling around the world to decide on his next career. Must be tough.

Tuesday morning I woke up and hit the ground running, intent on finding a paper and a coffee shop. For some reason the former proved to be difficult and I could only muster up a Krakow news but did stumble upon an ecletic café with old wooden tables, a loft and students sitting around studying. I had a wonderful cappuccino and almond croissant as I read about the Polish economy and emigration problems. Then I walked down through the Jewish Quarter, old winding streets with houses built on top and around each other and finally made it to the enormous and beautiful Castle. I toured the outside but opted out of the intense thourough tour, a bit worn out from the day before. I felt I’d done my duty as an informed world citizen for one weekend. I’m a bit of a contradiction when it comes to traveling; Historically significant sites must be balanced with cafes and random conversations with locals.

Since I was on vacation my afternoon consisted of nothing much prodtuctive. I ate duck soup in a beautiful Italian restaurant, napped, and read my biography of Dorothy Parker. I made it out of my hotel again, found a bar with a USA today and savored every bit of news over hot chocolate. The table next to me was filled with family members of the bar owner, all of them from Minnesota, so we shared stories for awhile before it was time to get ready for dinner.

I had big plans for the night. I showered and dressed and decided on another beautiful Italian restaurant around the corner where I sat by myself, drank red wine and ate steak. There is quite a unique sense of freedom and autonomy that comes from eating alone in a nice restaurant. The food was fabulous and so was my book for company.

I returned to the bar where I drank South African red wine and started talking to a white haired Professor of Architecture, sipping on jagermeister. Since he had taught in America, his English was great and we spend the whole night chatting about life and love and everything in between. It was somewhat of a relief to meet a foreigner that had so many good things to say about America. He was more in love with it than I am. Sadly, mostly these days my conversations consist of how stupid Bush is or how we need to stop taking sides with Israel. Rarely do I meet someone that not only knows American intimately but also has good things to say about it. Seems like people either romanticize it and still hold on to believing the streets are paved with gold, or bash our arrogance. Since he was about three times my age, he’s spent most of his life living under communisim, which is why he appreciated America as a land of economic freedom. I took the opportunity to rack his memories about what life had been like under communism and he laughed when I just couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He said that as an American, there is no way I could ever imagine life without choices, without individual property, without the freedom to make my life how I want it. He spoke of after WWII when the government took everything, individual apartments, corner grocery stores, and then limited consumer goods to few items they approved. I just can’t grasp the idea of a government taking away something I had earned and paid for. He loved that I spoke of doing exactly what I want career wise and reminded me that my culture has a lot of do with that belief in myself and my ablilities. Americans bleive they can do anything.

Soon we moved on to other things; his marriage, his affair, my zodiac sign. He was full of life wisdom, saying things like most major disagreements in our lives come from two places; fights between the sexes and fights between the generations, none of which understand each other. He knew way too much about what kind of man I need and said quite plainly that I have high expectations for life and therefore it might take me awhile to find someone suitable. Then he said he understood aries women because his lover is one. We are difficult women, both easy and hard to love. Such wonderful company to have in dark bar on a late, cold night in Eastern Europe.

The next morning I walked around the city one last time, finally found my International Herald Tribune and snuggled into a Nescafe cafe for a long morning. I found the parking lot with the old guy sitting in his booth, the same man I had negotiated with in Polish two days before, both of us laughing and agreeing on a price. Then it was time to head back south, to my little town nestled in the mountains of Slovakia. Wonderful trip, always nice to return home….

Amateur Hour

After the Tel Aviv trip we were all pretty tired. There is something about five hour bus rides and four hour flights, all done during normal sleeping hours, that creeps into your bones. A few days later we had a three-hour road trip to play the 4th place team in the Slovakian league. After the travel we’ve had this season, three hours is leisurely and we sank onto the bus like a second home. We stopped as we always do, bathroom breaks, coffee and candy bars picked up along the way. Our coach put on game film for the last half of the trip, which bugs the hell out of me; film watching is important, don’t get me wrong but right before the game seems a little late and fills up time that should be dedicated to the upcoming game. But I’m notoriously inflexible when it comes to pregame rituals. The latent type A in me comes out in full force. I admit it, its my one fault.

That being said, there are some common sense things that have nothing to do with my game preparation rigidity. The most important has to do with time. Probably because my recurring nightmare isn’t missing college exams or showing up naked to work but instead always retains the theme of being late to a game. That or forgetting my basketball shoes on the way to a game. So, when we are still rolling through small towns at 4pm with tip-off an hour away, anxiety starts seeping in. At 4:10 I lean over and ask my GM who decides what time the team bus leaves Ruzomberok. He says it’s a collective decision between the coach, the manager and himself. I say with as much patience as I can muster at the given moment that I think we need to leave earlier so that after a three hour bus ride we can take our time, get our legs under us, and have a proper warm up without rushing through taping and stretching and maybe even get our mind a little bit focused. And then he answers with a nauseatingly typical, passive answer. “We waited too long at the gas station getting coffee.” As if the damn coffee shop held us hostage and I should bring the issue up with the cappuccino and tiramisu they were leisurely enjoying.

At this point I was pretty close to irate. Especially since after dressing and taping and team meeting, warm up and stretching, we had all of 15 minutes to shoot. The men of the group sat on the bench, content after their dessert break, while we suffered through stiff muscles, still waking up from the long bus ride. I was ready to punch someone. Who the hell is in charge around here?

Sure enough, two minutes into the game our small post player lands wrong and messes up her knee. Just a guess that it might have had something to do with not being warmed up. She’s out for the whole game. Then our main post player, already not the sharpest tool in the shed, gets three fouls in the first quarter, remains in the game for some reason, and fouls out in the 3rd quarter. After her third foul in the first 8 minutes of the game I look over at the bench to make sure they know she’s already in foul trouble. Sure enough, they leave her in the game as if she is smart enough to keep her hands off people. At nineteen years old she hasn’t exactly grasped the idea of trying to stay on the court. She fouled out on a very obvious over the back call. To make a long story short, we won by 1 against a team we beat by 20 the last time we played. We had 17-year-old post players with very little game experience in for most of the game so it was piles of fun. Its then that I dribble down the court counting off the players on my team that I can’t pass too and racking my brain for plays that involve them the least.


Back on the bus it was more idiocy when I hear we have video the next day after the spa. I’d downed about two beers by this point and was very much looking forward to a real day off. Plus I’ve about had it with the amateur hour shenanigans. I explain that the post spa mindset it not one for concentrating on watching game film. I felt like a genius when I proposed we watch it before the spa. Duhhhhhh. I have to hand it to them though, they do listen to me. Usually.

The rest of the week was two a day practices in anticipation of the Israeli game. To be honest by the time the game came, I think most of our team was a little tired. Our coach hasn’t seemed to grasp the idea that sometimes less is more or that sometimes one quality practice is far better than two averages ones. Furthermore, we only play about 7 or 8 players so I think most of our starters play 35 plus minutes every game. Anyway, the game was disappointing to say the least, even more so because we are now eliminated from FIBA cup.

Later in the night, I went to see Jackie, my friend from the other team. I walked into her hotel to find her coaches and management drinking in the bar so I joined them. They kept asking if I was coming to Tel Aviv next year to play and if I had any Jewish grandparents. I joked that I once had a Jewish boyfriend and they proceeded to tell me “no problem, we will find you Jewish husband.” I ended up sitting next to their equipment manager who despite being married and speaking no English had asked Jackie to give him my number earlier in the day. We nodded and smiled and said “shalom” to each other over and over again, which was a lot more entertaining than it sounds.

Needless to say it hasn’t been boring around here.

Tel Aviv pics:

Shalom

I can’t say that I didn’t have some anxiety in my anticipation of our Israeli trip but I’ve traveled enough to know that it was most likely unwarranted. The people I’ve spoken to that have actually been to Tel Aviv always rave about how wonderful it is, despite what CNN makes you think. Mostly I was incredibly excited for a new and different adventure and the city didn’t disappoint.

We started off in security in Vienna with a hard-nosed Israeli woman asking us thorough questions with a no bullshit attitude. It was the usual questions about luggage and so forth but then she started asking about Syrians, Iranians, or basically anyone from the Middle East. The questions were so intense I felt like I was hiding something from her when I didn’t confess that three years ago my sky diving instructor was in fact Iranian. Luckily, security never found out that my coach had coached the Syrian National Basketball team. We would have been forced to leave him in Central Europe for sure. Time for my player/coach debut.

From that moment on, I noticed Israeli women with a toughness lacking in most women. Something pretty cool about a country where women join the military not as an anomaly or to hold up certain ideologies, but as a perfectly normal occurrence. I suppose that is what happens when a country has been defending itself virtually its entire history.

As we waited for our flight, I saw a group of young Australian Jewish boys praying and started asking them questions. They were studying the Torah outside Jerusalem on their break from university. Not every day you see 20-year-old guys with enough faith to wear a yamika (I obviously forget to ask them how to spell it), religious tassels hanging from their clothes as they stood up praying in the middle of Terminal 1. Typically not the most spiritually deep demographic.

I was very much looking forward to witnessing a very controversial, misunderstood, and volatile part of the world. Getting on the flight I grabbed the Jerusalem paper and devoured every bit of writing, fascinated by the different perspective. As expected, the news contained what was relevant to their world and just served to remind me how isolated we all really are with what information we get. Even in this global world we really do look at everything through the prism of our own experiences. The articles varied of course, from human interest stories to news about Gaza but most were fairly politically charged. I read about an Israeli woman who is afraid to put her children in seat belts when she is driving for fear she wouldn’t have time to get them out when the bomb sirens wail. Its things like this that obviously make Israelis mad, when the rest of the world cries out for the poor Palestinians, the Israelis maintain they have a right to protect themselves from Hamas. And with the recent blockade, seems like they finally pushed the issue for other countries in the area to open their borders especially since they say Israelis and Jews are completely void of the Gaza strip, only monitoring the borders. Of course, then I pick up an International Herald tribune and read an editorial about a Palestinian who had no food or electricity and is tired of being punished for the few extremists in their area. What a complicated issue.

Traveling makes the political issues come to life though. When I read about the PKK or secularism in Turkey, I know what that means. I've been around the people living those issues, drank tea with them as we talked about head scarves or watched the news on Kurdish rebels. When Greece caught on fire, it wasn't a paragraph I skimmed in the paper or a headline I heard on NPR; I was huddled around Greek television at my Greek friend's home, watching the country I called home for two years go up in flames. When I watch EuroNews and see Greeks protesting in the street, I know the avenue, but also know that it they might be disgruntled workers or just upset that their soccer team lost.

Thinking about all this, I turned to the Israeli man next to me and asked him about Gaza, curious what his perspective was. He turned the tables on me and I responded with a seemingly evasive answer about how I’m not sure I have enough information but that I can see both sides of the issue. Not sure he liked the sound of that and didn’t seem too keen on enlightening me. But the Jew from Belgium behind me spoke up immediately, telling me of his three years in the Israeli army, yet proudly lamenting that there was plenty he couldn’t speak about. Nothing like a comment like that to spark my interest!

I was at the back of the plane, away from most of my teammates, and surrounded by Jewish men from all over the world. The talk soon moved from Middle Eastern politics, Jewish text, and Elie Weisel to women as we started toasting vodka in Hebrew. Soon they all agreed to come to our game and cheer us on. Then dinner came and was quite possibly the best airline food I’ve had, kosher chicken and rice with hummus and pita.

Soon the alcohol was finished so I bought a duty free bottle for my new friends who at 20 years old obviously hadn’t learned how to hold their alcohol. One proceeded to get sick and vomit in the airsickness bag; another became belligerent and wouldn’t sit down when the seat belt sign was illuminated. Another opportunity for me to witness a tough Israeli flight attendant that threatened to have the police waiting for him in Tel Aviv. I felt like the irresponsible big sister who shouldn’t have shared her alcohol. I suppose on some level I was relieved that despite all their religious dedication, they were still 20-year-old boys being boys. The Belgium Jew, now sitting next to me was holding my hand through intense turbulence and enthusiastically offering to show me Tel Aviv. I miss that Mediterranean hospitality. We finally landed safely and he started clapping and shouting out throaty Hebrew blessings.


We landed in Tel Aviv after 2 in the morning, tired and ready to sleep. After a short drive into the city we made it to the hotel. Unfortunately, since the other team apparently has too many managers that don’t communicate, we were taken to the wrong hotel. Our team was sprawled out on the hotel couches, half of the team nearly asleep, the other half taking pictures of them. My team doctor told me that him and I would have to share a bed. The professionalism just oozes of out him. Finally, we got to the correct hotel and sunk into our beds at four in the morning.

The next day began late, but before lunch I took a short walk with Dita and our trainer, Johnny, exploring the quaint streets around our hotel. I fell in love with the city immediately, waving at friendly locals and saying “shalom” to every shop owner and juice stand attendant. The weather was uncharacteristically cold that day, raining monsoon style every 10 minutes and then stopping. But we walked along, admiring the chic coffee shops on every corner and winding our way down residential streets. The architecture was very much like Greece, with large concrete apartments, large patios and gardens around the building, and cats looking like they hadn’t a care in the world. There were palm trees everywhere, swaying in the wind along the stormy beach.

Lunch was amazing. Dita and I could barely get past the salad bar. We walked into a rainbow buffet of fresh vegetables, salads of all kinds, pickled everything you can think of, spices in every shade of fire red. Our teammates, being all of 18 years old went straight for the spaghetti, looking quizzically at the strange salads and sauces quickly leaving my plate.

After lunch we had a team walk that soon turned into every man for himself, running from covered buildings to stay out of the rain. Finally we made it to Jafa, the old town of Tel Aviv where we walked the cobblestone streets and took pictures of the sea next to seasonal cafes and discos. After finding our horoscope sign and making a wish on the wishing bridge, we got to the highest point of Jafa where we had a clear view of the sea, the beach and of Tel Aviv.

Since we still had some time before practice, Dita and I hailed a cab to the center of town. We shared the back seat with an attractive, young Israeli woman who swapped stories of being a nanny in America with Dita and then we broke bread with the cab driver who insisted on sharing his snack with all of us. The flat bread was amazing, sesame and currant paste inside, made all the better because of his enthusiasm in telling us about his life. We exchanged “shaloms” as we exited to the bustle of downtown.

We walked the downtown streets of Tel Aviv, marveling at stylish cafes and pointing out brightly colored fruit stands. After getting slightly lost on streets with names all starting with ‘Ben’ or “Moshe”, we made it back to the hotel with time to rest before practice.

Practice was an hour away so we got a little tour of the outskirts of Tel Aviv before rolling into the town Ramlas. Practice was nothing out of the ordinary except for my teammates gawking when the 6’5” Michelle Snow, a newly acquired player of the other team, walked in. I exchanged greetings with the Americans I knew on the other team, the basketball community being extremely small. People I played against as far back as middle school keep popping up on opposing teams in far away places. This team had Jaclyn Johnson, whom I played against in college when she was at Kansas and Greece, where we played dangerous friendly games against each other every other week. Always nice to see a familiar face. Then I ran into the assistant coach of the other team who said they had heard good things about me and inquired as to what my plans are for next season. Hmmm, Tel Aviv might be a nice option.

The next 24 hours was nothing out of the ordinary. The sun finally broke out and we had more wonderful hummus filled meals, shoot around and pregame meal and nap. I won’t bore you with the details except to say that there was yet another 6’5” player on the court for the other team, one who had literally arrived since practice the night before. Pretty sure we would have noticed her. It didn’t bother me, I know a whole lot of worthless footers, especially ones who come onto teams without having practiced, but it did make me long for a team that invested in success. How many times had I told my team we needed to gear up for the next round with new players like every other team we will face.

The game was a disaster. They rotated three guards in every minute or so to guard me, pressed in the backcourt and denied me in the half court. I had ten assists, far too many turnovers, and too little good looks at the basket. It was frustrating to say the least especially since the player I had pushed my team to buy after Christmas would have made things so much better since she can play the 1,2, or 3 position. My backup is a 17-year-old 5’4” player who tries real hard. Needless to say, I didn’t come out of the game. Come to think of it, I never come out of any game.

We lost by 15 although it was much closer than that for most of the game. I was upset of course but set my sights on beating them at home the next week. We would still advance if we could beat them at home by 16.

After the game I went out to eat with Jackie and her two American teammates. Like most places in Europe, Ramlas has a handful of American players despite the fact they can only play two during FIBA cup matches. Conveniently, three of her teammates are Jewish, or their great grandparents are, and thus have Israeli passports. I’m still hoping we find out our family name is really “Wilsonstein”.

Anyway I got a small taste of Tel Aviv life. Beautiful café/bar/restaurants with couches and young professionals smoking and talking. The food was great, it was nice to be around some native English speakers, and fun to be in a bustling city again.

We were to leave the hotel at 4 am to fly out of Tel Aviv yet my coach wanted me back at the hotel at midnight. By the time we left the gym, it was nearly 10 ‘clock so I wasn’t too happy. I felt like a child and had half a mind to stay out till 3 just to piss them off but in all honesty I was tired. It was more the principle of it.

After two hours of sleep, I rolled into the lobby and onto the bus. I didn’t know why we had to fly red eyes both ways but I later heard its so terrorist can’t aim their rockets at the planes. Sweet. I’m glad I heard that after I flew.

Anyway, I’ve now been to the Middle East and highly recommend it to anyone. Its really an amazing part of the world and despite some obvious downsides, really has a lot to offer. It’s definitely a place I want to return to…..

Back in the Saddle....

I arrived back in Slovakia on a sunny Thursday morning. The prop plane from Prague was filled with three people including myself, which solved the mystery of why the one-hour flight was so expensive. I was really happy to be back. I had flown from Seattle on New Year’s Day, spent a day and half totally alone in Prague, basking in my quaint hotel room and exploring the winding old streets of downtown. I took pictures as the city got dark and drank vodka in a hotel lobby. It felt good after being home with day after wonderful day of seeing people.

My manager and my teammate Dita picked me up at the airport and we had girl talk for the whole hour ride back to Ruzomberok. One good thing about language barriers; you can have girl talk and not worry a bit. I got word in the car that we were supposed to go to the spa hotel for the next five nights but had to veto that idea and decided to stay in my own apartment at least long enough to get some laundry done. I wasn’t at all excited about unpacking just to pack again. Part of the reason I was glad to be back ‘home’ was to be in my apartment, with my things, and my food, and clean clothes folded in a closet. The things you miss when you’ve been living out of a suitcase for three weeks.

So after rushing to unpack I made my way to the gym for practice. It was there that I revealed to my coach that I didn’t have a contract any longer with my team. It’s a long story but basically I had a contract until Xmas and I wanted to resign for more money, they tried to play hardball, I had to be a bitch. The problem is now solved but there was a week of drama filled nonsense; meetings with me and my GM and coach, meetings with my GM, my coach, my President, meetings with me and my coach, meetings with me and my coach and assistant coach, and lots of phone calls to my agent and my parents. And since nothing gets done on the weekends in Europe, I played a game in good faith without a contract because I just couldn’t let my team and coaches down. It wasn’t their fault. My coach supported me through the whole thing like 1000%. He was in the meetings nodding as I went down the list of demands, saying he completely understood and just to give me what I want. Nice….

So there was five days spent at the hotel, eating as a team, practicing, and going to the spa. I never really understood why we were there since we go to the spa anyway twice a week but at least I got free food for five days. However, might have been the worst food I’ve eaten here. I was totally Debbie downer though about everything. Not like me at all but I was super stressed, jet lagged, and sick of being on the road. The upside was it was beautiful outside. Since I had left, snow had blanketed all of central Slovakia. It was a winter wonderland as we drove through little villages and over rickety bridges on our way to practice. The skiers had flooded the area and the spa was packed with people soaking sore muscles. I sat outside in the mineral baths, soft falling snow tickling my face. This place comes alive with snow on the ground.

On Sunday, we drove three hours to this small little town where the whole gym shows up to the games and sits over the court, banging plastic sticks together. As I was in line to get coffee before warm ups, a group of 20-something year old guys were all taking shots of hard alcohol. Yeah it was going to be that kind of game. The gym was freezing, the court was slippery and conveniently short for the 40 year olds on the opposing team, and the ball was worn down. I had my winter coat and gloves on when I was on the bench. To add to it all, the shot clock broke 10 seconds into the game and after a 10-minute delay where we all ran around to stay warm, it was decided they would just yell out the time. As if we could hear anything. Not to mention the fact that it wasn’t until after the game that I realized they were counting the time UP and I thought they were counting down. So the very few times I actually heard them yell, ’10 seconds’, I thought they meant 10 seconds LEFT, not we had played for 10 seconds. Who yells out the time you have played? This isn’t soccer!

Anyway, we won and got the hell out of there. On the bus ride back I had a little come to Jesus talk with my GM about not pissing off your best player when she is home for Christmas and could potentially not return. We came to an understanding.

Finally I got my contract resolved on Monday. It needed to be done with. I was so sick of talking about money and really needed to just focus on our next game, which was going to be tough. It was a FIBA cup game in the round of 32 on the Hungarian team’s home court. We took another 8-hour bus ride to southern Hungary and aside from the first room only having one bed; it was a beautiful hotel with fabulous food.

The game didn’t start so well. Our best post player sprained her ankle during warm up, I look over and see two teammates on the ground during a shooting drill and I could feel that some people weren’t ready to play. After many years of playing, one gets sixth sense about these things, especially when most players are under 18 years old. But we recovered and won a pretty tough road game by 11. We didn’t play great but when you take 29 more shots than the other team and out rebound them by 20, things tend to go your way.

After the game, Dita and I started drinking at dinner and ended up drinking with our GM, manager, trainer, team doctor, and bus driver. It was a mix of Slovakia, English, Russian, and Hungarian (but only when we needed more booze). It was super fun. Sad that my only male interaction consists of a group of men that I shouldn’t and wouldn’t ever date. But we did get to hear about our team doctor’s sexual escapades with his last team. As if we really wanted to hear about his threesome. Got to love Europe; where nothing is inappropriate!

Speaking of inappropriate but hilarious. I had an eye appointment when we returned from Hungary. My trainer picked me up and we drove 30 minutes to the next city over. I was over my Debbie downer stage but wasn’t quite embracing life or living in the moment. I hadn’t quite returned to the mental state I am used to. But as we drove and I looked out at the landscape, I finally snapped out of it. The snow had melted in the low country and the sun was out. I could see the High Tatras on my left and the Low Tatras on my right, jagged and white with snow. We passed a huge lake on the way, still frozen over from the cold front but glistening from the sun. It was a perfect day for a drive through the country and I melted into my warm seat.

The eye appointment was uneventful. I’m not sure I actually got an exam but got some contacts that I think are correct. They basically had me look into the machine, shot some air onto my eyeball, asked me my prescription, and had me try on some contacts. Judging by my history of doctor’s appointments in foreign countries, I was just glad to get out of there without having to undress. For once, the only thing I had to remove were my old contacts.

My trainer and I drove back, talking intermittently in Slovakian, English, and international sign language. Saying we were having a conversation is drastically over exaggerating my Slovakian skills and his English proficiency, neither of which are really worth elaborating on. We did take a small detour to a little village behind the lake, driving through the spa town, over streams, down one-lane roads. We stopped at a field where I think he said something about having planted the crops. At this point I’m thinking our luck has ran out on understanding each other. We keep driving and stop in front of a small cottage and suddenly I realize this is his family’s country home. It was really cute, two whitewashed houses with a barn out back and a full view of the melting lake and snow covered mountains.

We took a u-turn at the end of the road and continued back. But first we stopped at the little white cottage as my trainer told me his ‘one sex time’ was here when he was thirteen years old. I start laughing hysterically when I realize what he is saying and he continues on to tell me the girl was 16. That’s when I high fived him.

Nothing like a little trip down memory lane, with your trainer, who despite not speaking English, proceeds to tell me how and where and with whom he lost his virginity. Totally made my day!

A few days later we had our second of two FIBA cup games against the Hungarian team. Since we had won on the road by 11, we had them at home with an eleven-point cushion. We played like we only had to not lose. Such a weird way to do it. Anyway, we got down early, came back, then found ourselves down by about 8 for most of the second half. Our fans were going crazy and our team was nervous I could tell. The game was to advance to the final 16 of EuroCup and our young players got a little tight. It wasn’t pretty and a little strange to play a game where as long as you lose by less than 11, you still advance. We end up losing by 6, the last two minutes had us shooting free throws to hold on and I played keep away from the other team like we were ahead. As the buzzer sounded, the gym erupted and we jumped all over each other at half court. One of our girls was hyperventilating on the side. Kind of scary really. It wasn’t until we got into the locker room and sat down that we reminded ourselves that we just lost.

After the game, I went out with an agent friend who was at the game, never in my life feeling so good after a loss. We had some dinner, drank some wine and then met up with the partiers. That night our whole team went out; players, managers, coaches, fans. It was madness. Everyone was extremely drunk and doing something regrettable. Managers were kissing players, players were kissing each other, and our drummer guy was making out with another super fan. This is of course the week after I write about how I can’t stand going out here. There I was, dancing till four in the morning.

A few days later we had a road trip to Kosice, the second largest city in Slovakia. They are a EuroLeague team, and first in the Slovakian league. It was embarrassing. We were without one of our best players, who after seriously hyperventilating a few days earlier, was advised to rest. We basically have some good core players, then it’s on to the junior team. It wasn’t pretty.

Dita and I had decided to stay over in the city since my parents had raved about it and we needed a break from Ruzomberok. So after the game, we wandered the streets of Kosice, asking every person we saw for directions, until we found our cute pension, picked because my mom couldn’t stop talking about the caviar they serve for breakfast. It was an H-shaped building that looked like it once might have been an aristocratic families home. Music was coming from the center atrium area and as we looked down from the big wooden staircase we saw a bride dancing with her flower girl, happy people clapping all around them. We made our way through the labyrinth of hallways, with rooms named ‘quiet splendor’, and ‘tranquility’, out to the balcony, in through the back staircase to the numbered rooms. I think we might have been put in the old servants quarters but it was equally as splendid, even if we worried about finding it later on our way home from the club.

We were a little tired, irritated about the game, and extremely hungry. So after pampering ourselves in our hotel for a bit, headed out on the town. We had looked forward to a good meal since the four restaurants we rotate through in Ruza are starting to taste all the same. The Italian place we chose did not disappoint. It was very cute, candlelit, with old wood beam ceilings and roped garlic and onions hanging from the wall. There were dusty bottles of wine and wooden tables and chairs, and a young Italian standing next to the wood fire pizza oven. We started with red wine and spinach bruschetta, caprese salads and soft bread. We ate slowly and talked, drinking lazily into the night. I had lamb with rosemary and roasted potatoes; Dita had salmon with roasted vegetables. I had forgotten how good food can be. Dessert was Italian cream mouse with ice cream and hot apple strudel with whipped cream and chocolate. It was pretty much amazing. We both needed a meal with good company and good food.

Afterwards we had planned to meet up with some of the players from the opposing team so we went to the disco. After a few drinks, however, we realized we were tired and not really feeling another night of techno dancing and colored lights.

Breakfast was in the atrium and just as beautiful as my mom had said. We sat around drinking cappuccinos, eating fruits and cheeses, caviar and eggs, and flaky pastries. We had a long lazy morning and finally made it out of the hotel to walk around. It was Sunday so all the shops were closed and all the churches were open. We walked down quiet streets until we heard music and snuck into churches as the congregation sung along to organ music. It was beautiful.

The main street in Kosice is cute, with an old streetcar, typical European architecture and a huge gothic cathedral that we stepped into during mass. After one lap along the main street, and some other walks through small cobblestone alleys, we
decided it was time to go back to the hotel. But first we stopped at the theatre where my parents had seen an opera. The hotel concierge had told us there weren’t any show until nighttime but I didn’t believe there wasn’t a Sunday matinee we could catch before boarding the train home. Sure enough, there was a ballet at 2:30. We were so excited.

After a nap, we headed to the opera house, bought our ticket for 70 crowns (that’s like 3 dollars!), went and had some hot soup, and made it back to our second row seats in time for the performance. The opera house itself was small but just as magnificent as any I’ve seen. There was gold ornamentation everywhere, statues, and red velvet walls. We had no idea what we would see and as the live orchestra started up with the opening number for the ‘Nutcracker’, I still didn’t believe it. Sure enough, Clara and her Godfather pranced around the stage at their Christmas Eve party. I’ve seen the ‘Nutcracker’ many times and although nothing can really compare to the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s rendition, this was pretty special as well. It was complete with the Sugar Plum Fairies and Toy Soldiers, the Evil Mouse King and dolls from all over the world dancing. It was fantastic and in some ways more real than the expensive ballet. We were literally in the second row and although they were skinny, the dancers looked a little bit more like real women. They were ballerinas with boobs! Which just means that they probably eat once in awhile. My favorite part was when the children in the audience, watching from the private opera boxes on the side of the theatre started singing. I thought for a second it was a recording but look up to see all these children perfectly following the conductor. It was magical.

We took the train back that evening to Ruzomberok, always happy to return to this cute little town and my warm apartment.

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When did this happen?

I have been thinking about old people a lot lately. I think it was this grandmother and granddaughter on the train a few weeks ago that got me thinking. I started thinking about my grandmothers and how much they did in their lives. How brave and independent they were for their time, how I think I got the wanderlust in me from both of them, since they both traveled the world, getting on planes well into their 80s.

I am feeling older but definitely in a good way. I guess that is how aging goes; you live life, and then realize time has passed. It’s a little bit like new shoes. Even after the laces have yellowed a bit and the leather turns grey, I always think they look white until I finally see them next to really new shoes. Seeing myself now next to my teammates has confirmed the fact that I am officially mature or at least older. Man, that sounds boring. I hadn’t realized I had moved into a new age group really until recently and now it seems like it’s so obvious. Everywhere I look is examples of how I have moved on.

The average age on my team is 19 and despite the fact that many of these girls have lived on their own for years, they aren’t exactly mature for their age. Most of the team is 18 or younger, with me, soon approaching the old age of 27, being the oldest by 3 years. How did this happen? I’m much more drawn to talk with my coaches, managers and trainer than to all but one of my teammates.

I started noticing a few years ago that I needed less socializing and more Lindsey time but now I feel like an old grouch sometimes when the whole bus is screaming and giggling and shrieking and I have to tell everyone ‘children please be quiet!”. I feel like I went back to my high school team sometimes. I’m sure they wonder how I can have my nose in a book all the time while they watch animated movies or why I am perfectly content to settle into my hotel room instead of running down the halls to check out everyone else’s identical room.

At first there were just little signs like when I stayed at a hostel in Bratislava with Dita, my Latvian teammate, and I started noticing that almost everyone there was in college, traveling through Europe with their backpack on school breaks. When I told them I was 26 they immediately said, ‘Really? Oh well you don’t look 26’; as if 26 is something you don’t want to look like.

Then I was getting into the back seat of a car with my teammates, which is something you get used to when you are the point guard. My teammates are always taller than me. I tell our 6’4” player to go ahead and get in the front because ‘ you are tall’. To which she replies, ‘yes but you are old’. Haha, wow!

The differences are pretty obvious to me now and never more so than when we hit the clubs. And I use that term very loosely. I live in a mountain town so the ‘clubs’ consist of one that looks like someone rented a room and put up some lights and threw a DJ behind a desk. I walked through there hoping no one would touch me and vowed never to go again. The second club is the basement of a hotel in town and is the size of a small restaurant. Neither are the kind of places that I look forward to hanging out at. They are more like the kind of places that I get pleaded into going, avoid every single guy on the dance floor, and go home while most people are arriving.

I had a party at my house with my teammates one weekend and although it was fun, realized that I’ve mentally moved on from house parties to dinner parties. Instead of sampling wine with outstretched pinkies and eating hor’doevrs with fancy names and fatty cheeses we were taking shots of bitter Slovakian brandy and eating pretzels. I’m not sure when the change happened within me but I’d much prefer the former these days. The night continued as we walked down the main street, my teammates stumbling the whole way and apparently peeing in my bathtub on their way out. In college, might have thought it was funny, but now, the guilty ones got banned from my house.

We made it to the club and since I was mostly sober and completely older, I became the team mom, babysitting the young uns as they got trashed and made out with every possible man in the whole bar and then turned on each other. I had to keep the 40-year-old men away from my 16-year-old teammate and then drag her back inside when I finally found her straddling some random guy on the front steps of the hotel. I’m pretty sure every guy in there hated me.

Anyway, needless to say, I don’t go out much. It is interesting though since none of my teammates have gone through their college crazy days. I get impatient with the age difference sometimes but then remember I wasn’t exactly a saint in college. There was a time in my life when peeing in an alley outside a football party was an entirely normal part of a weekend and although I didn’t make out with any of my teammates, I also wasn’t in a small mountain town with no tall men around. I am realizing that most of what they do is just out of boredom and I might be going crazy here too if I hadn’t gotten it all out of my system in Ames.

Its not that I am totally old and boring yet. I still love to go out, I just like a little more class I guess and don't feel the need to get crazy drunk so I don't notice how bad the music is. My teammates here are still in the keg stand period of their life while I’m onto the drinks and socializing time with little patience for old men taking off their shirts, gyrating their hips under florescent lights. That was my cue to leave the bar last night.

Killing 'em on the road

I could romanticize these past few weeks and speak only of traveling the snowy European countryside by train, sitting in cafes in Vienna watching fat, flaky snow fall, walking by closed shops with workers inside hanging wreathes and balancing Christmas trees, ornaments and bows waiting on the ground around them. I could speak of watching the sun go down over the houses and buildings of a small Swiss town, walking the brisk old town of Bratislava, or browsing a Christmas bazaar in Western Hungary. I’ve done all those things. In fact, in the last three weeks I’ve been in Austria, Germany, Hungary, Switzerland, and Ukraine and even sometimes in Slovakia. I’ve bought bottled water in Euros, coffee in Swiss Francs, vodka in Hungarian Forints, potato chips in Slovakian Crowns, and orange juice in Ukrainian Hryvnia. Buying a candy bar was like working out an SAT question. Remind me never to go into currency trading. The other story of course is laden with 18-hour bus rides and below freezing temperature, days spent in overcrowded airports and nights stumbling through gas station bathrooms, one time even sharing a stall with a mouse. But in all honesty, the last few weeks have been both romantic and miserable but all in all experiences to remember.

I’ll start my story with the last leisurely weekend I have had in awhile. After a Slovakian league blowout (winning by 60 points) my parents and I got dropped off at a train station somewhere in western Slovakia. Since nothing was open we ended up eating gas station bought sandwiches and avoiding drunks walking around the train station. It seemed we found the one happening spot in town. It was freezing cold outside as we boarded the train and rode to Bratislava, excited to have a couple days free to travel. We woke up the next day to a beautiful sunny day in our very strange but comfortable former Communist hotel. The building probably hadn’t gotten a touch of paint since the 1950s and I kept imagining my grandfather sipping high balls in the ancient bar on one of his business trips back in the day.

After a beautiful European breakfast, mom and dad and I hopped on a train to Vienna where we stopped at the famous Opera House and talked of Mozart, window shopped along the snowy streets, and kept warm inside the Gothic Cathedral. We snuck into cafes where we sipped coffee with whipped cream and almonds, ate cheese strudel with rich vanilla sauce and watched the umbrellas bobbing up and down outside. At every possible opportunity mom and I toured the beautiful hotel lobbies, basking in a small taste of western high class.

After the nice weekend in Bratislava and Vienna, it was time to get back to Ruzomberok and prepare for the travel ahead. The first road trip was to Switzerland, 18 hours away by bus. We left on a very cold and snowy night, slept as well as one can on a bus, stopping every so often for bathrooms in Austria, coffee and breakfast in Germany, and finally stumbling off the bus at a rest stop somewhere in Switzerland only to look up and see the Swiss alps in all their jagged glory. I felt like breaking into “The hills are alive with the sound of music”….. but couldn’t muster up the energy. The trip was long and a bit confusing. Bathroom and snack breaks were a bit of a crapshoot, fumbling around through a mélange of currency, deducing the country from the change collected in the bathrooms or from the foreign profanities thrown at us by bathroom attendants when our currency didn’t match up with their toilet paper charge.

Finally we rolled into the little town of Neutchatel and settled into our beautiful hotel with Swiss chocolate on the pillow and fluffy white towels. Never had a nice hotel room felt so good. I pulled back the old window and looked out over the city with its large beautiful lake and snow-capped mountains. I could see the sun going down over rooftop decks of the buildings in the old town below.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time in Switzerland although it was limited to the gym, the hotel, and an overpriced mall. Mostly I spent time in my lovely European hotel, sipping silky coffee and eating flaky croissants. The morning of the game I found myself in the café at the train station catching up on two years time with my college teammate, Brittney Wilkins who would be on the other bench that night. It was so great to talk to her, weaving our lives together again, remembering old times, and relishing this magical winter spent in Europe.

The game was incredible. There were three people in the packed stands cheering for our team and two of them were my mom and dad. I played probably the best game I’ve ever played and we won by 2. It was exciting and dramatic and a huge road win for our team.

After the game we drank beer and ate pizza at a small Italian restaurant. The refs were at a nearby table, the owners of the other team in the opposite corner, and all of our entourage was toasting the victory over wine and eating huge whipped cream covered sundaes. I sat and felt the wave of happiness that comes from intense well fought battles, thankful that the 18 hours on the bus would be wrapped in the happy cloak of victory.

After a weekend home win in the Slovakian league it was time to leave again. With hopeful anticipation we looked forward to flying after the long bus ride. Unfortunately, fate had other things in store for us. Since we were going from Nowhere, Slovakia to Nowhere, Ukraine the trip was bound to be complicated and when I was informed that we would be leaving at 2:30 in the morning I just knew the trip wouldn’t be simple. Sure enough, we left Ruzomberok at 2:30 am, arrived at Budapest Airport at 7 am only to find our flight to Kiev was delayed, as it would be most of the day. I sat around reading the International Tribune, buying duty free vodka, and sleeping on the benches. Finally we left at 3:30 pm and arrived in Ukraine soon after.

I had heard Ukraine was a bit different. I looked out the window when we landed and felt like I had arrived at the end of the earth. It was -7 degrees C and if it’s possible for darkness to have a personality, this one was heavy and dismal. I stepped off the propeller plane, the one flown by an unpronounceable airline, and probably rejected by another mainstream one back before ‘Nam’. We walked through the airport, through the parking lot in the freezing cold to the domestic terminal for our second flight to southern Ukraine.

To add to the depressing darkness, color seemed to have been swallowed up by the bleak surrounding. The buildings were all mottled gray or faded mustard colored, the walls were the color of dirty water. The only sense of liveliness were some icicle lights hanging loosely from a small adjacent building. The terminal felt like an old, overcrowded, decrepit bus terminal and I immediately felt like I was doing something wrong. Call me crazy but it felt like the kind of place a lippy young woman like myself could get in trouble.

Stepping into the airport was like stepping into a brothel. Most of the women looked like they got dressed with the sole intention to go stand on a corner and the men all had round faces and old jackets and solemn expressions. Many men have told me that Russian women are the most beautiful in the world and now I know why. They generally dress like hookers. It felt a little bit like Halloween. The hooker attire went a little like this with few exceptions: knee high boots, tight jeans with tassels or zippers or rhinestones or studs, push up bras and leopard print low cut tops, green eye shadow with fake eyelashes and glitter, a huge fake fur coat in bright orange or purple, and peroxide hair expertly teased so that it appears larger and thicker than it is. It was hard not to laugh. On the upside I now have plenty of ideas for my next 'pimps and hoes' party.

We made our way up to the front counter somehow despite the fact that there was no line and it felt a bit like we were all pushing ahead for our bread rations. After getting through security, including being felt up by a women custom’s officer and remarking to my GM that ‘that was the most action I have gotten in awhile’, we all huddled together in the small waiting area where no one laughed or smiled or looked remotely happy about anything in life. I stood next to the heater and started taking pictures, feeling like at any point my camera might be confiscated and holding myself back from pointing it at the 40 year old woman with platinum blonde hair feathered into a bird’s nest, and a purse with a giant kitten embroidered in gold with sequins. Mostly I was laughing to myself and talking to my coaches about how unreal this place was and thankful they hadn’t put us in the outside waiting area, which looked like a cross-country meet holding tent. It was then I taught my teammates what ‘ghetto’ means in American slang.

We finally arrived in southern Ukraine and after taking yet another bus ride checked into our hotel at 11 at night. A full 21 hours of traveling. For those of you not entirely clear on your geography, Ukraine and Slovakia share a border. If we are talking distance, its like taking 21 hours to get from Seattle to Salt Lake City. I was exhausted. Our hotel was nice but the view consisted of more mottled grey, a deserted concrete plaza with bare trees, and lots of buildings that all looked alike. We did see cuter areas when we drove around the next day but most of the older buildings with character were covered in giant store signs in over the top colors like hot pink and electric blue. For some reason this reminded me of their women.

The next day, after practice in the airport hanger type gym, we had pregame meal. I wasn’t expecting much; pregames always seem to be chicken and rice, nothing exciting but digestible and consistent. Instead they gave us plain spaghetti noodles with melted cheese and a side of ketchup. Did I mention it just happened to be Thanksgiving? I thought of mashed potatoes and gravy as I shoveled my glorified mac and cheese in my mouth thinking that the meal was better suited for my 9 year old cousin and comforted myself with the fact that bad food makes me lose weight. Finally my GM stepped in and told them we need some real food. But by that time I was tired and full and wanted the whole experience to be over with. Plus I was pissed as hell. I am fairly flexible with travel, I know most things are out of my control so I don’t sweat it. However, a line gets crossed when my pregame nap or meal gets messed up. And since we had to wait for them to go kill the chicken and cook it, and seemingly harvest the rice, both my nap and my meal were seriously screwed with.

Even the pregame coffee and dessert was a joke. They wheeled coffee and bananas into the conference room and as I poured coffee into the thimble sized cup I realized they hadn’t brought milk. I politely asked the servers if we could have some milk with our coffee. They responded by telling me that they had provided sugar. Thanks. Obviously customer service isn’t emphasized here. Then I went on to hit 6 three pointers and score 28 points. Maybe the pregame meal wasn’t so bad. Either that or I just took it out on the other team.

We got a traditional Ukrainian dance performance before the game with 10-year-old girls tiptoeing around the court in elaborate vests and the shortest skirts I’ve ever seen. Guess they start them early. It was really sweet though. At the end a young woman adorned in fake flowers presented a huge round loaf of sweet bread and deposited it in the arms of my teammate who just happens to have the biggest sweet tooth I’ve ever seen. Last week she bought her twelve year old brother a huge bag or duty free chocolate but ate it before she could give it to him.

Despite all the craziness of the previous two days we somehow managed to pull off a win. It was another huge game for us, making us 3-0 in FIBAcup and beating everyone in our group. We thought about going out to the pub but since the country has something against credit cards and our hotel wouldn’t exchange euros we were out of luck. I had to veto the idea to find men to buy us a taxi. The thought of being a chaperone to my 16 year old teammates with Eastern European men was not my idea of a good time. So, we spent the night in the hotel, drinking and laughing in our rooms until the front desk called. We were up at 6 the next morning for our two flights and two bus rides and by the time I arrived home in Ruzomberok late the next night I felt like I had been run over by a bus instead of on one. Luckily my parents were home waiting for me with a clean house, poinsettias and candles. I’ve never felt so pampered.

I spent the next two days sleeping and fighting a cold, playing and winning a home game, and getting ready to travel again. My bag practically packed itself. Our last big road trip! This one was the shortest but maybe most difficult because everyone on the team was sick or tired or both.

We left at 10:30 am on a sunny, slightly snowy Wednesday morning for our 8 hour bus ride to Hungary. The ‘short’ trip. I put my head on the arm rest, my feet up on the window and looked up at the tree tops whizzing by, the jagged rocks of the mountains jutting out between soft snow covered hillside. It was relaxing, the swooshing of the bus over slushy roads, the feeling of looking up at the earth, and I thought of the rather deep things one does when passing such natural beauty and being reminded of their small place in the world and of trivial things such as how crazy our bus must look riding through the Slovakian winter wonderful. The bus that is completely covered in Ruzomberok team logos with multiple action shots of a female basketball player that no one seems to recognize.

After a meal in a small border town, famous for producing Zlatzy Bazant beer, we rode into Hungary and melted into our beds at the hotel. Players were dropping like flies with fevers and sore throats. Practice consisted of 7 healthy players playing soccer with every spare male we could find: our coach, manager, general manager, team doctor and trainer. The men were exhausted after five minutes of course since their normal road trip behavior consists of lots of drinking. At noon they toasted the small town and their famous beer, on the bus it was back to the vodka and orange juice premixed in large water bottles, after the game its beer or wine, sometimes outside of the bus before we even leave the gym. Rest stops are just long enough to take a shot of fernet, their herbal hard alcohol, and pregame warmup sometimes has the men going for a ‘team meeting’ on the bus for their apple brandy. They love my dad because he joins them, part of his ‘cultural experience’. They were definitely drinking screwdrivers at 9 in the morning last bus trip. Probably why we never hear any complaints about the 18 hour bus ride from any of them.

In the game the next day, we played and looked like we’d spent the last three weeks on and off buses and planes. But we dug deep and somehow did enough to win. It wasn’t finesse and we all walked off the court limping. I spent the night icing various parts of my body in the hotel room, thankful that I would be sleeping in my own bed for five out of the next five games.

I've never been so happy to be back home in my little mountain town. My apartment feels like luxury and buying food at my small grocery store is a small no longer insignificant pleasure. Nothing like some completely unbelievable travel crisis to make you appreciate home......

Just put it in the budget.....

There are two things about traveling that, no matter how prepared or road savvy you are, will most definitely come up at some point. The first has to do with taxi drivers. Its pretty much guaranteed that you will be ripped off by them so you might as well put it in the budget and just roll with it. When you don’t know the language, the city, or the meter fees, its recipe for someone taking advantage. And they will. I haven’t had any really bad experiences, my worst experience was actually in Seattle, so I can’t complain too much. But it probably helps that I can usually give directions in the native language. Plus when you are talking about a few dollars here and there, it’s not enough to stress out about.

Saturday night I was in Bratislava, the main city of about 500.000 in Slovakia. We finished playing our game at about 6 and after quickly going to an Internet café and getting on ‘hostelworld.com’ had a place to crash for the night. I was with my new teammate from Latvia via college in the USA. We booked into our clean but very former communist dorm like hostel where we found ourselves bunking with 12 Portuguese guys, all under the age of 23 and ready to party.

Anyway, later that night after dancing at a disco till 2 am, we hailed a cab. Sure enough, the fare was about 10 dollars and I swear we were in the car for 2 minutes. This was the same route we had made earlier with about 20 Portuguese guys, drunk, lost, and yelling and still managed to walk it in 10 minutes. Hmmmmm. At that point, after driving on the bus for four hours, playing in a game, and partying all night, 10 bucks to get into bed seemed like a bargain.

The next day Dita and I went wandering around the city. It was a Sunday so it was quiet, mostly tourists roaming the downtown streets or people flooding out of church. The center of the city was absolutely adorable, with cobblestoned streets, plazas with fountains and cafes along the perimeter, beautiful architecture at every turn. The buildings in Slovakia are all painted different colors but instead of clashing, it makes for a fun look. They are strong colors: burnt orange, pale pink, baby blue, that only look good because they are unique. I suppose after the communist left and they were allowed to have beauty again, people wanted the boldest most obvious color. A big ‘F you’ to the Red. But maybe I am sensationalizing it because that is what I would do.

We stopped at a newsstand and I picked up an International Herald Tribune before heading to a café to drink Viennese coffee. What a perfect start to the day. I was SO happy to have an English paper. After a light breakfast we made our way through the windswept streets until we came upon the city’s famous St. Martin’s Cathedral. It was a huge stone church with stained glass and a wrought iron gate. Not too different than any other ancient European church. They are all beautiful and heavy with history, sadness, and hope. It isn’t until you see the people that worship there that the place really becomes special.

We walked in during communion, people lined up through the aisle waiting their turn, the choir singing behind the priests. It was wonderful to be inside, a magical Sunday morning. The church felt like a little sanctuary from the cold and wind, the stress and problems of the real world. The singing was so peaceful and everyone was so serene. I really do love churches and sometimes I wish I was a believer. And then they started talking…and that was my cue to leave.

Outside we started talking pictures, the trolley like bus that takes tourist around, nuns walking in the street, statues outside the church. As we turned the corner and began walking down a narrow street, the alter boys soon followed, their white robes hanging low, their arms holding gold crosses and leading the priests into the convent. It was a beautiful site and as we turned to take pictures, my camera in one hand, my cell phone in another, I felt a little too 21st century. But I stopped and
watched them walk towards us, the leaves above changing color and blowing in the breeze, their solemn faces flushed from the cool morning, the church bells ringing like every Sunday morning. They formed a cocoon around the priests, their flowing ornate green and gold robes and large headpieces, as they entered the building. The sentimentalist in me loved the site, the innocence of a Sunday morning; papers, and coffee, and church. The pessimist in me wondered how many of them were closest pedophiles. Oppps did I say that out loud. I wish my mind didn’t go to that.

We continued walking up to the large castle that overlooks the city, winding our way up streets of closed shops till we reached the summit. It was a beautiful view but disappointing castle. The outside was impressive but the inside was nothing but a courtyard. We didn’t have time for the museum and needed to eat before the train so after a few pictures started down the hill. We ran into some of the Portuguese guys and continued to do so the rest of the afternoon. The city is quite small obviously since after being there 12 hours, we were already recongnizing people on the street.

After a lunch of sour cabbage soup we roamed through the center of the city, which is a maze of historical streets mixed in with chic shopping and overpriced tourist menus. We stopped at a bronze circle imbedded in the cobblestone that had distances to some of my favorite places in the world; New York (6856km), Istanbul (1231km), Athens (1253km), Buenos Aires (11,835km ).

Finally it was time to pack up our things at the hostel and make our way to the train station to meet our teammate for the journey back home. It was here that the second aspect of traveling comes into play. Taxi drivers will rip you off and you will be confused about public transportation. Don’t get me wrong, the public transportation in Europe is good, the maps are usually color coded, clear, and cover the city well. In fact, I had a much more difficult time figuring out how to get from JFK to Manhattan than I ever did in Paris. It’s the ticket buying that gets you. Every city is different. Sometimes you buy a ticket from a booth, sometimes its automatic, sometimes you buy on board, sometimes it’s cash, and sometimes it’s a card. Even within cities the buses can be different from the metro and the tram ticket can look the same at the metro but be more or less expensive. Sometimes you even have to buy two tickets if the route is extended. It’s a mess and only after you’ve lived in a foreign city long enough can you really grasp the whole experience with confidence.

Dita and I waited in the cold for about 15 minutes, anxious for the very cute trolley car to sweep us away to the train station. As we were waiting, I asked a lady how much the train costs in Slovakia (my first question to a stranger!) and surprisingly enough understood her answer. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to ask her where to buy the ticket but since there were no ticket booth or automated sellers, we assumed you must buy on board. But we all know what assuming does….

As we board the trolley we quickly realize that the driver is not selling tickets through the glass door and there is no automated machine. I am standing there with my perfect change looking around, hoping to find someone interested in our confusion. We did find one guy interested, and he was carrying a badge and quickly approaching us.. He comes at us like a secret service agent and immediately become upset when we communicate our lack of tickets. We’re speaking through sign language mind you so the anxiety of everyone involved is increasing rapidly, especially when he gets out the penalty paperwork. I’m doing my best negotiating and stupid American act, which isn’t too difficult seeing as our confusion was anything but staged, and attempting to tell him we’ll just get off the tram and go buy a ticket. Then a woman looks at me and says in English, “ well I’m a tourist” as she waves her perfectly punched ticket in front of me. I guess you are just smarter than me, I think as I turn away. Then I turn back and ask her where she’s from. France. Figures.

So as I try to wave the guy off with promises of punched tickets a second guy stands up blocking our path to the door. What is this a freaking sting? Then a nice Slovak man with extra unused tickets attempts to offer them to us but the Gestapo aren’t having it. The original FBI guy is irate and red in the face, obviously disgruntled over the situation and threatening to have the police meet us at the station if we don’t pay the fine. One thing I have learned to avoid in foreign countries is custom officials and police because you never know what you are going to get. My GM tried to tell me after the fact that there is nothing they could have done but I have a healthy distrust of police officers I can’t communicate with. You just never know when one of them had a fight with his wife that morning and can’t stand women for the day.

Anyway, Dita and I shuffle around in our wallets to find the fine money. We come up short since the fine is 1400 crowns, the equivalent of 50 US dollars and a small fortune in this country. We only have enough for one fine so we tell them we’ll go to an ATM at the train station. In a moment of weakness or laziness or pity, the man tells us to leave and we stand there for a second shocked at his sudden mercy before getting the hell off the trolley lest he changes his mind.

What a day! I would have liked to have been really angry at our predicament, angry at the man who fined us, and pissed off at country that preys on unsuspecting tourists but I don’t like to spend my energy that way. It’s just a part of traveling, and he is just doing his job. All in all, it was a fun weekend in Bratislava and a relaxing train ride back to my little mountain town..