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Hiking With Emma In Divoká Šárka

2012-01-26T14:08:00.005+01:00

From our new flat in Prague 6, we can basically walk out our back door and be in the huge park known as Divoká Šárka. Emma had the day off from school, so I took the day off, too, and we went for our first exploratory hike. It was sunny and snowy and cold and crisp.

These photos were taken with my iPhone 4S, in some cases using InstaGram.

Dining In Delta's Business Elite, Redux

2012-01-21T20:51:00.006+01:00

Daisy and Emma enjoy the good life in Business Elite.

Ever wonder how much better the food is in first class?

Daisy, Emma, and I are Delta frequent flyers, and every once in a while we cash in our miles and upgrade to first class, or Business Elite, as Delta calls it.

In September 2010, I wrote about the last time I did this, flying with my mom as I took her back home to Maryland after she fell and broke her hip in Prague. And I just did it again, flying with Daisy and Emma from Prague to Gainesville, Florida, for the Christmas and New Year's holidays.

(I'm happy to report that my mom is doing great, by the way.)

What'd they serve us in Business Elite?

For an appetizer, a Mini Corn Cake With Salmon, Asparagus and Pickled Onion, and Cream of Onion Soup. I also enjoyed a glass of their house bourbon, Woodford Reserve, on the rocks.

The corn cake suffered from a classic airline food faux paus. It was too cold and dense. But the onion soup was delicious.

That was followed by a second course of Fresh Mesclun Salad, with Sweet Peppers, Radishes and Walnuts. A surprisingly good salad at 36,000 feet. The greens were fresh, the radishes and walnuts crisp.

For the main course, I chose the Grilled Beef Tenderloin, with Peppercorn Sauce, Mashed Sweet Potatoes, and Sauteed Spinach. I told the flight attendant that I'd like mine medium rare. That gets a laugh every time. They love me up there.

Much better, of course, than what you'd get in coach class, but this particular tenderloin left much to be desired. Well done, lukewarm and rather flavorless. (The Seared Beef Tenderloin with demi-glace sauce, wasabi mashed potatoes, and sugar snap peas that I had on my return flight was excellent, however. It can be done!)

With my steak, I had what was probably a bottle's worth of Casillero Diablo Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon 2008 from Chile. I love Chilean reds, and this was no exception. The onboard menu describes it as being Bordeaux-like, with dusty cedar, lead pencil scents, and dark cassis fruit. I'll concur on the dark cassis fruit. But lead pencil scents? Love it!

For dessert, I opted for the Selection of Fine Cheeses with Fresh Fruit, instead of the Chocolate Tart or the Vanilla Ice Cream Sundae, the latter of which I had on the return leg.

A lovely selection of unidentified fromage. Although they could be more generous with the crackers. (I'm sure they'd have given me more if I'd only asked.)

I also had a few glasses of dessert wine -- Pacific Rim Riesling, Vin de Glaciere 2007, from the Selenium Vineyard in Washington state. Though I love deep, chewy reds, I'm also a sucker for dessert wines, and this Pacific Rim tasted like the nectar of the gods.

For the so-called pre-arrival meal, I tucked into an excellent Hot Turkey and Cheddar Cheese Sandwich with Carmelized Onions and Peppers and a Carrot and Raisin Salad. I thoroughly enjoyed this sandwich. It would not have been out of place at any decent American deli. Kudos.

The service on our flight from Paris to Atlanta on December 16 was top-notch. Hats off to that particular Delta crew.

I'm still waiting for Delta to upgrade its comfortable but rather tired Business Elite cabins on all of their planes. They're in the middle of a fleetwide upgrade, but I have yet to actually fly an updated cabin, probably because I fly out of Prague, mostly, and not London or Singapore.

The Business Elite cabins feel very 1995 to me. Hard to complain, though, when you're enjoying a fine bourbon and watching "Curb Your Enthusiasm" on your personal video screen. Can't wait for the next time.

A Little Bit Of 'Mad Men' Part II

2012-01-16T16:50:00.000+01:00

Back in May 2010, I wrote a blog post about what I considered to be a very cool set of vintage glassware that I had purchased at an antique shop in Cumberland, Maryland, a few years ago. The glasses featured different world cities and appeared to date from the 1950s, considering that Havana was one of the cities and that the United States imposed an embargo on Cuba starting in 1960.

Turns out they were made by the Libbey glassware company and do, indeed, date from the 1950s. How do I know? You see, I'm not the only one out there who thinks these glasses are way cool. That blog post garnered almost 30 comments, and it's consistently one of my most frequently visited posts.

In addition to the comments on the blog post itself, I've heard personally from a few other collectors out there, including John Warming from "sunny Minnesota." Over the holidays, John sent me some photos of his incredible -- and complete! -- collection of this line of glassware, which come in three distinct styles -- Beverage, Double Old Fashioned, and Continental Goblet.

I'm publishing some of John's photos with this blog item. I love the brass-plated caddy for the beverage-style glasses (pictured below). Me want!

Thanks for taking the time to share your collection with us, John.

I also heard from Ayla Freeman, who has a cool blog, Vintage With A Vengeance, and who also wrote about this particular set of Libbey glassware.

As she notes, the set originally featured eight cities: London, Bombay, The Hague, Madrid, Havana, Athens, Rome, and Paris.

Happy collecting, folks. I'm really glad to know so much about my glassware!

I'd love to complete my set, but I doubt the glasses would make it all the way to Prague intact.

Limited Collector's Edition

2012-01-15T17:24:00.002+01:00

I found all sorts of funny stuff as I went through my old papers ahead of our big move a month or so ago. Including what I'm sure are the only existing copies of "Ye Olde Tribune" or "The Apartment Tribune," proudly serving the Garden Apartments of New Alexandria, Pennsylvania, near Pittsburgh.

My good friend Tony Bezich and I wrote, typed, and distributed this "newspaper" in August 1975. I was 14 years old. Tony and his family lived in the Garden Apartments at the time. My family lived in a house down the road a bit.

Pretty embarrassing for a 14-year-old, but I guess it's an interesting artifact, considering that I did become a journalist.

I will say, we did a pretty good job of filling two typed pages considering the complete news vacuum in New Alexandria.

Fascinated By Fonts

2012-01-14T09:03:00.007+01:00

I've always been fascinated by fonts. And living here in the Czech Republic, I often come across store names and various other types of signage still in their original fonts dating from the communist era. I've sporadically taken photos of these signs and will try to post many of them here.

I was reminded of my obsession when I went to an audition yesterday in the OKD Vltavska building near the Vltavska metro in Prague 7. I found these incredibly cool numbers on lobby signage indicating which office was on which floor. I love them.

Sky On Fire

2012-01-13T10:17:00.006+01:00

I happened to be driving near the village of Horomerice, west of Prague, last night and was astounded by this sunset.

Acting The Part

2011-12-13T09:19:00.013+01:00

Checkmate from Umer Durrani on Vimeo.

When I was a younger man, I used to dream of being a filmmaker and an actor. A good friend and I used to write, direct and star in some pretty awful amateur 8mm horror movies. (I wrote about them and posted them previously here.) I was also in my drama club in high school.

I even had a small speaking role in a low-budget drama that was filmed in Syracuse, New York, back in the late 1980s. (You can see a clip of that film, "Worst of Enemies," here.)

Living in Prague got me to thinking about getting back into the game, at least from an acting standpoint. Prague's illustrious Barrandov studios has long drawn big-budget films from all over the world ("Mission Impossible IV" being the latest Hollywood blockbuster filmed partially in Prague), and both the Film and Television Faculty of the Academy of Performing Arts (FAMU) and the Prague Film School (PFS) attract talented young actors and directors from all over the world.

The director of "Checkmate," Umer Durrani, and the wonderful Sarah Brown, who plays my put-upon wife.

I was also inspired by the success of my good friend, Stewart Mooore, who threw himself into the acting game a few years back, with excellent results (including roles in "The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian" and "Solomon Kane.")

So, I mustered up my courage, registered with some casting agents here in Prague, and put my name, photo, and details into the database at the PFS.

I don't know if I'm any good, but I'm having a lot of fun. It's amazing how close you end up feeling to the cast and crew of each film, despite having spent only a couple of days together. But I guess they are days of intense emotion and hard work, so the bond develops.

Monogamous Man from Doron Tempert on Vimeo.

So far, I've had roles in seven PFS films (one of which, "Dream House," directed by Eirini Karamanoli, has been officially selected for the 2012 Angeleno Film Festival in L.A.). I also nabbed a small speaking role as "Embassy Official" in one episode of the upcoming ABC-TV series "Missing," starring Ashley Judd, Sean Bean, and Keith Carradine. It debuts in the U.S. at 8 p.m. on March 15.

For some reason, I keep getting cast as either the abusive husband or cruel father, or, in my latest film, a cop who loses his cool. Weird.

Two scenes from "Dream House," in which the main character, played by Nicole Gay Grisco, is buying a house where each of the rooms reveals a snippet of a bleak future. Of course, I play an abusive husband. The film also stars the great Peter Hosking as the creepy real estate agent.

I will admit, it's hard to hold down a full-time job and fit in these acting gigs. I may be forced to take my name out of the PFS database and simply hope for a few more major jobs, like "Missing," to come along. If they ever do.

In the meantime, I'm eagerly awaiting the final cuts of three PFS films I've been working on. If I'm allowed, I'll post them here when I get copies. Many times, the students can't enter the films into festivals if they're available online somewhere already.

In the PFS film "Checkmate," I play a chess master who becomes obsessed with the game at the expense of his wife. In the end, he gets his comeuppance. Interestingly, that's a real gun, and we had to have a gun handler on set from Barrandov to supervise while we filmed.

I hope you enjoy the surreal "Monogamous Man" by Doron Tempert, in which I co-star with the incomparable David Worden. That film was supposed to be an entirely different script, and filmed outside, but since it was raining quite hard on the day of the shoot, Doron and his PFS pal Raam Reddy rewrote the script in one day and we filmed inside from about 6 p.m. until 2:30 a.m.

In the PFS film "Blue Lines," directed by Zach Nanus, I play an overly aggressive cop who is filmed abusing an Occupy Wall Street protester.

A scene from an as-yet-untitled PFS film directed by Sarthak Johar, in which I play a father who heaps abuse on his dying son in an effort to get him to come to grips with his life.

Paris Restaurant Tips & A Question

2011-11-01T15:30:00.011+01:00

Fantastic escargot at Le Vin de Bellechasse.

Daisy, Emma and I spent a long weekend in Paris a few weeks ago. I thought I'd share some of our culinary adventures, a top-notch restaurant recommendation, and ask my readers a question about sardines.

We stumbled upon Le Vin de Bellechasse at 20 Rue de Bellechase, near the Musee d'Orsay, and were very happy we did.

Lovely grilled lamb chops at Le Vin de Bellechasse.

The house red at Le Vin de Bellechasse.

Steak tartare at Cafe Cassette, 73 rue de Rennes.

Help me with this one. At Cafe Cassette, I ordered sardines as a starter. I figured it would be grilled sardines, or perhaps fresh sardines with a little lemon and olive oil. Instead, a tin of Rodel sardines were brought to the table, with a serving of butter and a few toast points. The dish cost 14 euros (around $20). Am I missing something here? I must admit that I was quite shocked to pay 14 euros for a tin of sardines. They were good, but my tastebuds couldn't discern anything extraordinary about them.

Some friends of ours took us to La Casserole on Rue Mouffetard for raclette, something I'd never had before. Basically, each table has a number of burners, and you cook your own charcuterie and cheese on little frying pans. Steamed potatoes are also brought out to the table. It was great for the kids. The problem is that the restaurant becomes a sauna once it's full of patrons, what with all those little burners going full blast. It's also not very subtle cuisine, but a fun way to spend an evening, nevertheless.

La Casserole on Rue Mouffetard.

The amazing food markets on Rue Mouffetard.

The amazing food markets on Rue Mouffetard.

The amazing food markets on Rue Mouffetard.

The amazing food markets on Rue Mouffetard.

A plate of eggs and pommes frites? 10.50 euros, or about $14.50. Small beer? Oh, another 4.50 euro, or about $6.15. It will come as no surprise to learn that food in Paris is ridiculously expensive. Even a simple cappuccino is $6.

Teen-Age Kicks

2011-10-13T12:37:00.001+02:00

I've lovingly carried these comic books through about 20 moves across two continents over 35 years, but it's time to see them off to a good home.

What To Do About Oscar?

2011-10-02T07:45:00.002+02:00

He waits for us to come home in the evening, then jumps up on the fence to say hello.

We need some advice from our animal-loving friends: What to do about Oscar?

As those of you who follow this blog know, we've had a steady stream of homeless cats show up at our door ever since we moved out to Černý Vůl. We've been lucky enough to find good homes for six of them (Flakey, Flukey, Maddie, Chaz, Pee-Wee, and Luna), but we still have a regular brood of four strays who show up twice a day for feeding, as well as one permanent and mostly indoor cat. (And we had to say farewell to poor Oscar Junior.)

After four years here, we're moving on.

Our landlord has decided to sell the house, and we're using the opportunity to get back to an apartment that's closer to the city and public transportation. There are some aspects of country living we won't miss that much -- coal smoke and winter roads chief among them. But we are very worried about our adopted cat family, and just can't figure out the right thing to do.

Three of the four outdoor cats are probably too wild to ever come inside. But one -- our first stray, and the one we love the most, Oscar -- well, we just don't know. Oscar spent a few weeks in our bathroom one winter when he was suffering from pneumonia. Since then, he's occasionally taken a few steps inside to see what's going on, but otherwise seems determined to live the outdoor life.

He lived in our bathroom for a two or three weeks while recovering from a nearly fatal bout of pneumonia. But as soon as he was feeling better, he wanted back outside.

One week during his recuperation we left him at the apartment of a friend, and it was a disaster. He spent his time alternately hiding and flinging himself at the windows in an attempt to get out. He has lived through brutally cold winters, always showing up on our doorstep twice a day, happy to eat and socialize but not at all interested in coming in to get warm.

On the other hand, Oscar seems attached to us.

Every evening he waits for our car to pull into the driveway, and then jumps onto the fence to say hello. He then runs back into the yard and hides under a tree so he can pop out at us again as we walk down the path to our front door. (He has a sense of humor.) He is sometimes skittish, but most of the time he loves to be petted, submits very readily to tick removal, and with a little encouragement will even sit in our laps or our arms and purr. He's even very gentle with other outdoor cats, and often shares his food bowl with visiting strays.

In short, a very saintly beast.

I always thought Oscar kinda looked like he's wearing eyeliner, like some sort of glam-cat rock star.

His relationship with our indoor cat, Chicho, is unclear. They are curious about each other and not particularly hostile, but not particularly friendly either. Both are fixed males, but still tend to express their moods by peeing on things. So thinking of them both in a house together has some potential for unpleasantness. But we still admit to wondering: Could Oscar could ever become a house cat? Or is it a mistake to try to take him out of his established territory?

It's hard for us to think about Oscar waiting outside a house and no one ever coming home. But it's just as hard to imagine an attempt to domesticate him going terribly wrong.

Can anyone offer us any good advice? We have two months until we move.

-- Daisy & Grant

What Do I Want To Do For My Life?

2011-09-25T11:03:00.008+02:00

I was going through some old boxes of papers from my student days last night, throwing stuff away in preparation for an upcoming move, when I came across this list: WHAT DO I WANT TO DO FOR MY LIFE?

It dates from around 1978 or 1979, when I was a junior or senior in high school, as best as I can determine.

It's taken more than 30 years, but I'd say I can safely check off 10, maybe 11, of those 18.

Still got some hard work left in front of me, though.

Of Oysters, Lobster Tail & Cocktails

2011-08-30T18:44:00.002+02:00

The oysters at Zdenek's

I love oysters (see my post about my 50th birthday trip to Whitstable, the oyster capital of England). Daisy loves oysters, too.

So it was not without a small degree of excitement that I read Brewsta's review of Zdenek's Oyster Bar, a new restaurant in Prague. He waxed lyrical about the freshness of the oysters and raved about the lobster roll, which I was also eager to try.

Daisy and I had a free evening recently. Guess where we headed?

I can confirm that the oysters are fresh, cold and delicious (albeit expensive at around $13.50 for three Tsarskaya oysters), and presented very attractively. Although for me the choice of condiments is superfluous, as I like to eat my oysters naked (the oysters, not me.)

Zdenek's lobster roll

The lobster roll ($25), too, was heavenly (including that giant slab of claw meat right on top), though I expected the entire sandwich to be slightly larger than it was based on the photos I'd seen. It's served on a toasted buttered bun and with a choice of two sauces ("red island," with brandy, ketchup and egg, and a dill sauce), as well as some spicy Andalusian gazpacho and delicate rosemary potatoes.

Daisy thought her lobster meat left a bit to be desired in the texture department, and she didn't finish her sandwich. Indeed, Brewsta tweeted me that he'd had the lobster roll again. "Tail meat was fine, but claw was overcooked and dried out, tasted odd. Subtract a star." Daisy was right.

A half-liter of very drinkable Pinot Grigio was 300 CZK. It seemed to disappear too fast. Hard to believe that little carafe held a half-liter. We ordered another.

An impressive tray of homemade breads with olive oil was automatically brought to our table. Only when we got the bill did we notice that we'd been charged 65 CZK for the bread. I would say either include the bread in the price of the pricey seafood, or ask customers if they'd like the bread platter.

I really liked the vibe of Zdenek's Oyster Bar. And I liked the fact that Zdenek himself was there, presiding over the evening and making sure the customers were satisfied.

The tall bar tables and stools on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant are pleasant on a summer's evening, but not the most comfortable place to sit for an extended period.

I'm definitely going back. Zdenek's is a worth the splurge. Just try not to think too much about the final bill.

From Zdenek's, we walked over to the Hemingway Bar. I'd been wanting to visit the Hemingway Bar ever since I'd heard about its authentic absinthe, served using the classic ice water drip and sugar cube, not the stupid Prague method of setting a shot glass of absinthe on fire and stirring in a melted sugar cube. I've heard of tourists setting themselves on fire this way. I'm quite sure this method is a Prague affectation and that absinthe was never drunk this way in its heyday.

The Hemingway Bar's very cool promotional video also had me eager to stop by for an after-work drink:

I'm also a big fan of Ernest Hemingway.

Sadly, once we arrived, we discovered that the bar was closed for a private party. A peek inside revealed a very cool, cozy dark wood bar, perfectly lit (that is, dimly). We'll be back.

Instead, we walked over to Bugsy's, my favorite cocktail bar in Prague but one which I feel doesn't get its due. Other cocktails bars, such as Tretter's, seem to have more buzz, but Tretter's is a meat market, and I don't believe the bartenders are the artists that they are at Bugsy's.

Gentlemen, choose your poison.

One of my favorite evening occupations is to walk into Bugsy's in the early evening, sit at the bar, order a cocktail, and just watch the bartenders at work. They are gifted.

Daisy and I sat at the bar. Erik was our bartender. I liked Erik very much.

I ordered a Vesper Martini, the original drink of James Bond in the 1953 Ian Fleming novel, "Casino Royale." It's made from a mixture of vodka, gin and Kina Lillet, a French aperitif that's difficult, if not impossible, to find in Prague. I'd always wanted to try one. It was delicious. Daisy ordered a Negroni, a sort of bitter Martini, one of our favorite cocktails when we're at home, Campari being the operative ingredient.

The Scotland Breeze

For my second round, I ordered something from the exhaustive bound menu simply because the ingredients intrigued me. It was called a Scotland Breeze, and it contained whiskey, vanilla syrup, freshly ground ginger and grapefruit juice. Let me just say that I have found my new favorite cocktail. A little smokey. A little sweet. A little sour. And a lot delicious. Daisy ordered one, too. I had another, as well.

I've been trying to find the recipe so I could make the Scotland Breeze at home, but I can't find it anywhere. I'm guessing it's a unique Bugsy's creation.

The Maple Old-Fashioned

For my last round, I ordered a Maple Old-Fashioned (not cheap at 195 CZK), made with maple syrup instead of caster sugar, as well as bourbon, bitters and orange zest. Fantastic. Even the ice in the Old-Fashioned was hewn into a rough ball from a solid brick of ice as I watched. I loved that. Here's a video of a bartender making one. Believe me, the bartender at Bugsy's has it all over this guy:

Bugsy's is such a class act that the bartender even had nice things to say about the Hemingway Bar.

I can't wait to go back to both.

Even in Prague, in the middle of tourist season, it was possible to find a deserted Old Town sidestreet as we walked to the Hemingway Bar.

We Have A Winner!

2011-08-24T20:55:00.001+02:00

The complete puzzle answers as supplied by Merl Reagle.

I was honored to have famous crossword guru Merl Reagle create a puzzle for me in honor of my 50th birthday. The clues are based on my life and my two blogs.

I offered a prize of $25 to any blog reader who could solve the puzzle. And I'm please to announce that we have a winner!

Robin Wisdom (aka Wissy), a regular reader and commentator on my blogs, sent in the winning entry. While he didn't fill in every answer, he filled in the most clues of any contributor. And frankly, the clues he didn't get could only really be solved by those who know me really, really well.

Wissy's winning entry.

Here's what Wissy had to say:

"Attached is the uncompleted crossword as discussed. I'm really annoyed with myself for not completing it but really enjoyed doing it and going through your old posts. Hope you and your family are all well."

Being the upstanding guy that he is, Wissy wanted me to donate the $25 prize to my favorite charity, so I'm sending 500 Czech crowns to the Prague Animal Welfare Society.

All the best to you, Wissy, and to all those who had a good time attempting to solve the puzzle.

And if you've never heard the Captain Bravo joke (19 Down), here's an audio clip of my father-in-law, Paul Sindelar, telling us the joke during a recent trip to Prague. I've heard it many times now -- the first time during a trip to Croatia a few years ago -- and I never get tired of it, especially in his telling. Enjoy.

Captain Bravo Joke (mp3)

Quite A Puzzle! And A Prize Awaits!

2011-07-17T09:06:00.009+02:00

Click on the image to enlarge.

I received a belated -- but very special -- 50th birthday gift a few days ago. A crossword puzzle, with my life as the clues!

And not only that, the puzzle was created by none other than Merl Reagle, world famous puzzlemaster extraordinaire.

How famous is he?

Sure, he's got his own puzzle syndicate and website. OK, he sells a popular line of puzzle books. Granted, he stars in the movie "Wordplay," which explores the fascinating world of crossword puzzles and crossword puzzlers (such as Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart).

But the true measure of his success, the achievement at the top of his resume, is that he voiced a cartoon character version of himself on "The Simpsons," in an episode from the 20th season in which Lisa enters a crossword tournament, only to discover that Homer bet against her. (That's him on the left.)

How cool is that??

Why did Merl Reagle create a crossword puzzle based on my life?

Back in the early 1990s, when I was the features editor at the Syracuse Herald-Journal in Syracuse, NY, Merl -- who was then, I believe, at the start of syndicating his own puzzles -- contacted me about buying his work for our games page. I was intrigued by his puzzles, which were an obvious cut above the usual fare that comes across a features editor's desk.

We had a few phone conversations, and I ended up buying his puzzles for the Herald-Journal. Reader response was enthusiastic, to say the least.

Jump ahead to just a few years ago, when after all those years I contacted Merl (that's him in real life, at right) through his website to see whether he would autograph one of his puzzle books as a gift for Paul Sindelar, Daisy's father, who is a keen crossword puzzler. In fact, Paul hosts an annual tournament in his hometown of Gainesville, Florida. I didn't know whether Merl would remember me, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he had a soft spot for a certain editor who helped him get started in syndication (or so he says).

So Paul returned the favor when he and his wife, Alyson Adams, and her daughter, Hannah Sholar, visited us in Prague a few weeks ago. He had contacted Merl about making a puzzle for my 50th birthday that contained clues from my life, my blogs, my career. For some crazy reason, Merl agreed.

I was, and still am, so tickled by this wonderful gift. Thank you, again, Paul and Alyson, and thank you, Merl Reagle.

In celebration, I'm going to award $25 via PayPal to the first person who returns a completed puzzle back to me, with all the answers right (family and friends not eligible).

You can send it to my e-mail at grantpodelco@yahoo.com, post it on my Facebook page, send it to me on Twitter at @grantpodelco, or mail it to Grant Podelco, Za Cihelnou 198a, Statenice-Cerny Vul 252 62 Czech Republic.

If there's a tie, I'll randomly select a winner from the correct entries.

Paul Sindelar, Alyson Adams, and Hannah Sholar. Thank you, folks!

Stormy Weather

2011-06-29T08:30:00.000+02:00

Daisy, Emma and I went for a little hike the other day from our house in Černý Vůl to the top of what we call The Crag in the neighboring village of Únětice.

From the top of The Crag, we could see what looked like a pretty major thunderstorm approaching. I love storms, and it was quite thrilling to see it bearing down on us like that.

Fortunately, just before the rain and lightning hit, we managed to find shelter in an old huntman's camp in the forest.

There was enough of a break in the clouds to afford a stop at the new Únětický pivovar, where we enjoy a few mugs of their delicious 12° pilsner.

Sometimes, living in the country has its advantages.

The Best Biker Bar In The World (Or How To Have A Devil Of A Good Time)

2011-05-15T13:34:00.029+02:00

It's said the caves were once used to shelter fleeing religious refugees...

... and a Nazi weapons factory during World War II.

For my 50th birthday, I rode my motorcycle inside a cave. And no, I'm not prematurely senile.

If that wasn't enough, the cave is so large that it has its own roundabout. Oh, and it's also got a bar, where you can ride your motorcycle right up and order a drink.

Allen Harris, the chief of the Expat Bikers Club, had arranged a trip on April 24 to Pekelne Doly (Hell's Mines), in the Český ráj (Czech Paradise) area, north of Prague, between the hamlets of Svitava and Velenice. I think it was around 90 kilometers or so from Prague. You can see the exact location on Google below:

View Larger Map

It was a gloriously sunny day, but not too hot to make wearing the leathers a chore. We had a fantastic ride through the Czech countryside on winding backroads. You can watch a cool video of the ride, with me and my biking buddies, below. It was filmed and edited by Allen:

We didn't quite know what to expect once we got to the cave. In fact, at first, we passed right by it, since it's not exactly well signposted and sits well up off the road.

The day we visited, it was packed with bikers and bikes of all shapes and sizes. Everyone was as seemingly tickled as we were to have arrived at such a playground.

As Allen says, "This is the holy grail of pubs and all bikers must visit it once to call themselves a biker. This place is addictive and the trip will be repeated many times."

Inside, there are sofas and chairs and even a few mattresses thrown on the floor, if you want to spend the night, I guess. (Or maybe do other things.)

According to this website, the caves were used as shelter by fleeing religious refugees in the 17th century, and then later used for sand mining for a nearby mirror factory. It says the area also housed a Nazi weapons factory.

What's funny, though, is that we're all dressed in leather and sporting tattoos and beards and skull rings and such, and we're in the most amazing biker bar imaginable, but most of us are drinking coffee or soda or nonalcoholic beer, since there's zero tolerance in the Czech Republic for drinking and driving. And even if there wasn't, motorcycle riding in the Czech Republic is dangerous enough without having had a few.

It was a great ride and a wonderful way to spend part of my birthday. Thanks to Allen, Sam, Hayden, and Andy for letting me tag along.

Hayden Murray (left), Sam Graham, Andy Schofield, and I soak up some rays at the outdoor tables. It was just too nice to sit inside.

Allen enjoys a tall, cool half-liter ... of nonalcoholic Birell.

Sam remembers the one that got away.

Bikers can drive inside the cave, which features its own roundabout (above).

The bar, in the distance, surrounded in the cave by comfy sofas and chairs.

My Honda Shadow, getting some serious cave time in.

Best Coast -- Eating Well And Sleeping Well In Whitstable, England

2011-05-10T18:22:00.027+02:00

Jonathan Swift said, "It was a brave man who first ate an oyster." Anyone who believes that has never eaten an oyster.

I was trying to think of a fun trip to take in honor of my 50th birthday, on April 24. My first thought was Ireland (I'm one-quarter Irish, and I dearly love the place) but I couldn't find any direct flights to Dublin that fit my schedule.

Then I remembered Whitstable.

A travel story that ran in "The New York Times" a few years ago had made a lasting impression. It was about the village of Whitstable, on England's southeast coast, and it was famous for its oysters. Which was the reason the article stayed with me, because I -- as well as Daisy -- love oysters, especially on the half-shell, she with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, me, neat.

As if the presence of tasty local shellfish wasn't enough, the village also boasts a Michelin-star gastro-pub called The Sportsman, which also left a lasting impression, because the photos of The Sportsman in "The New York Times" impressed me as much for the restaurant's utter unpretentiousness as for the food.

One of the great pleasures of Whitstable was ordering a half-dozen oysters from a shack on the beach, watching as they were shucked, and then taking them to the beach to enjoy. Emma has yet to discover the pleasure of the oyster.

Shucked while you wait.

Hard to beat the price -- about $6.50 for a half-dozen.

We -- me, Daisy, Emma, and Robin, Daisy's mom -- booked a flight to London/Luton on Hungary's Wizz Air, rented a car, and headed to Whitstable, which is about an hour and a half outside of London proper.

I can't recommend it enough.

We had glorious weather, the oysters were succulent, the locals friendly, the village full of cute shops, and the hotel -- the Hotel Continental -- unique.

Two of the fishermen's huts, converted into comfortable accommodation.

The view from the bedroom in our hut -- just steps from the beach.

One of the more comfortable beds I've ever slept in.

We splurged on one of the converted fisherman's huts -- small two-story shacks right on the beach that have been converted from stinky storage sheds into fairly posh accommodations. The bed was one of the most comfortable I've ever slept in, and it was always a thrill to peek out of the tiny upstairs window in the morning and see the sea and the fishing boats right there.

We shopped and ate oysters and mussels and drank bottles of white wine and pints of Guinness and walked along the beachfront and just basically had a wonderful time.

Robin Sindelar, Emma, Daisy, and me in Whitstable.

Oh, and The Sportsman. I'd made reservations weeks ahead of time, and then set out in our rental, the GPS programmed accordingly. But I guess there must be another restaurant called The Sportsman, for we ended up in nearby Canterbury and I thought for certain that we had missed our meal.

The Sportsman gastro-pub in Whitstable -- as unpretentious as it is delicious.

By the time I'd found The Sportsman, situated in the proverbial middle of nowhere next to the sea outside of town, it was 7:45. Our reservations had been for 7, and I felt certain that we'd blown it, so popular is The Sportsman. I would have given up on me.

I rushed through the door, expecting the worst, but the staff could not have been nicer. They had been holding our table for us all along, offered us a drink at the bar, and said our table would be ready momentarily, becalming my frazzled nerves.

I had not wanted to miss that meal, and I am so glad I didn't. I would say it ranks among the Top 5 meals of my life. I have never had such exquisite food, served in such a relaxed, unpretentious setting, by such lovely wait staff. A meal to remember, truly.

The Sportsman is reason enough to make a return trip to Whitstable.

The grand total for a three-course dinner for four, including a bottle of lovely Delta Pinot Noir from New Zealand, came to just over $250, minus tip. Money well spent.

I'll publish some photos of the food at The Sportsman on this post, and perhaps a few more pictures of Whitstable a bit later.

Go there. Now.

The offerings on the night we visited.

Poached rock oysters with pickled cucumber and avruga caviar.

Poached egg, asparagus and home-cured ham.

Chilled asparagus soup.

Braised turbot fillet with a crab bisque sauce.

Roast saddle of Monkshill farm lamb with mint sauce.

Roast pork belly with crackling and apple sauce.

Crispy duck with smoked chili salsa and sour cream.

The "pudding" board on our visit.

Cream cheese ice cream, pear puree, meringue and crumble crumbs.

Rhubarb sorbet made with Pop Rocks, believe it or not, and burnt cream, along with some simple vanilla ice cream and melted chocolate for Emma.

Warm chocolate mousse with salted caramel and milk sorbet.

At The Mountains Of Nerdness With H.P. Lovecraft

2011-04-05T22:01:00.012+02:00

I used to be obsessed with horror writer H.P. Lovecraft.

Lovecraft, who died in 1937 at the age of 46, is perhaps most famous for a series of interwoven tales centered on a cosmic entity known as Cthulhu.

It seemed to be a sort of monster, or symbol representing a monster, of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful.

No less than Joyce Carol Oates has said Lovecraft exerted an "incalculable influence on succeeding generations of writers of horror fiction," while Stephen King called him the "20th century's greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale."

While I don't read Lovecraft anymore, I still have a soft spot for his overwrought prose.

For some reason, I committed the following passage from "The Hound" to memory when I was a kid and still remember it to this day:

"For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a closepacked nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was the bony thing my friend and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had seen it then, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom."

That really impresses the girls, let me tell you.

In high school (yes, that's me in 10th grade), I wrote reams of horror and science fiction stories in a style that -- unfortunately for my reader(s) -- owed an all-too-obvious debt to the worst excesses of Lovecraft.

Sometimes I'd get one of these stories published in my high school literary magazine, and in some cases I actually sent a few off to legitimate magazines in the hope that an editor would recognize a budding literary genius. (None ever did.)

I also shot a few 8mm horror movies that owed their own debt to Lovecraft.

So it was with great interest that I came across a fascinating profile of film director Guillermo Del Toro -- he of "Pan's Labyrinth" and "Hell Boy" -- in a recent issue of "The New Yorker." Del Toro discussed his efforts (ultimately unsuccessful) to bring a famous Lovecraft story, "At the Mountains of Madness," to the big screen. (There's also a video of some of Del Toro's inspired images for the film.)

Which led me to thinking about my über-nerdy youth, both as a Lovecraft disciple and a stamp collector. And how I managed to combine both of those obsessions by delving into the arcane world of "local posts" in the late 1970s.

Local posts are a kind of micro-mail service. In the most extreme cases, they serve as a surrogate to the national post office, issuing their own stamps and delivering mail in a limited geographic area.

The idea was taken up by some industrious stamp collectors who started their own "local posts." They printed their own postage stamps and often used unusual methods -- boats, balloons, rockets, etc. -- to "deliver" the mail. These envelopes -- with the local postage stamps affixed -- are known as "covers" and are prized by many collectors.

I used to collect "covers" when I was in high school, starting with classic "First Day of Issue" covers of U.S. postage stamps and then evolving into local posts.

And then, in what is perhaps the crowing achievement of my teenage nerdhood, I began my own local post. I called it Pyramid Local Post, both because of my interest in the occult and because I could easily carve a pyramid-shaped postmark out of a cork.

And my one and only stamp issue honored -- you guessed it -- H.P. Lovecraft.

I drew a crude silhouette of Lovecraft and fashioned a postage stamp and my father took my creation to a local printing shop in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania, where we were living at the time. The shop printed up a neat little packet of about 50 stamps, with adhesive backs to boot.

I advertised my Pyramid Local Post in "Linn's Stamp News," the philatelist's bible (or at least it was then), and other collectors would send me 50 cents or so (I can't quite recall) to pay for the stamp and return postage. I would affix my Lovecraft label, cancel it with my snazzy cork stamp, and send it back to them.

I wasn't overwhelmed with requests, as I recall. But I did receive a few dozen, turning each trip to the mailbox at the end of our country driveway into a little thrill.

I no longer read Lovecraft, and my stamp collection lays moldering in a box in the basement.

When I look back at my adolescence, I am amazed at my seemingly boundless energy and lack of self-doubt, and shocked that I spent so many hours alone in my room, reading Lovecraft, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and "Chariots of the Gods," and writing awful short stories that amused only me and my best friend, when I should have been taking girls to the movies and trying out for the football team.

And So It Begins

2011-04-02T22:09:00.001+02:00

The first gins and tonic of the season somehow taste sweeter. And a BBQ to boot. We survived another winter.

Check Out 'The Blender' Podcast

2011-04-02T12:06:00.005+02:00

I'm hosting a podcast, along with a small group of other folks, including my wife, Daisy, over at Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty.

You should check it out.

It's called "The Blender," and it presents the best of RFE/RL -- features from our far-flung bureaus, interviews with newsmakers and correspondents, reports on language, music, and culture, even a little humor now and again.

A new episode is posted every Friday.

Here's a link to the latest episode on "The Blender" blog. You can find earlier episodes here.

We'd really appreciate your support. You can download it at our website, or go to iTunes and subscribe.

Feedback is welcome, either here or send it to podcast@rferl.org.

Thanks, everybody!

-- Grant

My Friend, Mustafa Sarwar

2011-03-23T11:32:00.000+01:00

At the airport in Kabul, before boarding our small prop for Mustafa's first-ever airplane ride. Turned out we were the only passengers. It was like having a private jet fly us across Afghanistan.

I recently had the pleasure of eating a gourmet Afghan dinner at the Prague home of my dear friend, Mustafa Sarwar. (You can see photos of the meal below.)

I first met Mustafa in November 2002 at the Kabul Bureau of Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty. I'd been sent by RFE/RL to cover the situation in Afghanistan one year after the fall of the Taliban. I'd spend a month in the country and would need a "fixer" -- someone who spoke English as well as Pashto and Dari, someone who knew the chaotic city and could help me set up interviews, translate interiews, and generally steer me in the right direction.

Mustafa was that man.

I spent every day of that month with Mustafa. I could not have asked for a smarter, more capable or more sociable companion. Any reporting successes I enjoyed in Afghanistan I owe entirely to Mustafa. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

One of my fondest memories was being able to arrange Mustafa's first airplane ride. We needed to get to the western city of Herat, and driving was not an option. We booked passage on a charter airline used primarily by UN and NGO workers. I think the prop plane sat about eight people, but when we showed up for our flight at Kabul airport, we discovered that we would be the only passengers.

Somewhere over central Afghanistan.

Mustafa sees his vast country from the air for the first time.

We marveled at the view as we cruised just above the snow-upholstered mountains of the Hindu Kush, tiny settlements -- effectively cut off from civilization -- just visible in the nooks and crannies of the valleys and mountainsides.

At some point, Mustafa turned to me and said, "You know, I'd always heard people describe Afghanistan as mountainous, or talk about how difficult it is to get food and supplies to some of the remote Afghan villages, but I never really knew what they meant. Now I know."

I left Afghanistan, exhausted and exhilarated.

Mustafa remained to continue his medical studies at Kabul University. We kept in touch, and Mustafa's career eventually led him away from medicine and toward journalism. He became a famous anchorman on Tolo TV, Afghanistan's most popular television station, becoming the "Afghan Dan Rather," as I heard him described -- a celebrity regularly recognized on the streets of the Afghan capital.

To make a long story short, he was eventually hired full-time by RFE/RL's Radio Free Afghanistan a few years ago to work as a journalist at our Prague headquarters. And he married a lovely Afghan woman named Bahar, who somehow found time to prepare the lavish meal Daisy and I enjoyed a few weeks back, while also keeping an eye on their two young sons -- Solomon, who's 4, and Arsalan, who's 9 months old.

I don't think I have ever eaten so much or enjoyed it more.

It was amazing to peek into Mustafa's new life in Prague and to think about all that had happened since we first met. He's even studying in Prague for a master's degree in professional communication and public relations from La Salle University.

I'm so happy for Mustafa -- for his new life, for his new wife and children, for his successful journalism career, and for all the new friends he's made.

All the best, my friend.

While I was in Afghanistan, I was the guest of honor when Mustafa invited me to his home in Kabul. It was another memorable meal. I'm pictured here with Mustafa's father, Mohmmad Sarwar Siddiqi (on the right), Mustafa's uncle, Mohammed Karim, who served as our driver (on the left), and Mustafa (second from left).

Mustafa in November 2002, offering me dessert. How could I refuse?

Mustafa and I just after our arrival in the western Afghan city of Herat, at that time ruled by Ismail Khan as his personal fiefdom.

The amazing chef, Bahar, Mustafa's wife. Lucky man!

The honey-soaked dessert called Gulab Jaman.

Homemade sweets.

Afghan rice pudding. So simple and delicious.

More homemade Afghan sweets. This is called shirpera.

Spinach. Not usually my favorite, but this was truly amazing

Minced meat patties called kufta.

Chicken Kurma.

Marinated lamb with herbs and spices, called Kabab-e-Degi.

Homemade Nan-e-Tandoori.

Saffron rice cooked with lamb and garnished with sweet carrots, raisins and nuts. It's called Qabeli Palaw.

The Strokes In 2002

2011-03-19T14:55:00.003+01:00

Found this ticket stub today as I was cleaning out my desk drawer.

One of my Top 10 all-time concerts.

If you live in Prague, you'll know Akropolis is an intimate little venue, a perfect place to see the U.S. "It" band of 2002, before they hit it big worldwide. Fantastic show.

I'm looking forward to their new album, "Angles," coming out on March 22.

Hey, Dad

2011-03-05T12:38:00.004+01:00

I've always loved this photograph of my dad and me in the yard of his family home where he was born -- and where his sister still lived at the time -- in Piedmont, West Virginia. This was probably taken sometime around 1985.

I've been thinking a lot about my dad lately.

Edward E. Podelco passed away at home, in the living room that he loved so much, on February 17 of last year, but it seems he's been more on my mind over the past few weeks than he was when it all came down.

He and I had a tempestuous relationship, although we were good at the end, and I was glad that I had been able to fly home and be with him when he ended up in the hospital in early January 2010. For some reason, he liked to call me "Champ," and did so right to the end.

Though we had our differences, one of the things that I credit him with, looking back now, is instilling in me a love of music and the arts, and of writing. He's probably, in his way, the reason I'm a journalist today (although he had always wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer). My mother, too, loves music, and growing up our house was always filled with LPs of Sinatra or Dean Martin, Eddy Arnold, Placido Domingo, Pavarotti, Liberace, The Letterman, Glen Campbell, The Fifth Dimension, or The Carpenters stacked on the turntable.

Since he's been on my mind, I was trying to think of something I could do here to pay him a small tribute. I didn't want to write something schmaltzy, or anything schmaltzier than I've already written.

My dad served as a radio operator in the U.S. Army in Hawaii and the Philippines in the mid-1950s. I have a few slides he took of himself during those days, and recently scanned one in. I'd guess this is Hawaii, but it's hard to tell.

Quite by accident, I came across a small stack of slides in my desk drawer the other day, wrapped tightly in a rubber band. Back in the late 1980s, I'd asked my dad -- who liked to paint -- to have professional slides taken of a selection of his oil paintings in the hopes that I could somehow get him a show at a gallery in Syracuse, New York, where I was living at the time. That show never happened, but I kept the slides, and I thought I'd show the world some of his work on this, the first anniversary of his death. (There are some just below, and more at the very bottom of this post.)

His paintings reflect his hardscrabble upbringing. He was born and grew up in the tiny town of Piedmont, West Virginia. His own father was a coal miner. The area was poor, and the people were hard, and I think that those are the people you see in his paintings. One of his pictures is hanging on my office wall as I write this.

Many of these painting were sold at auction when my mom moved out of her house last autumn. They're now out in the world, hopefully hanging on someone's wall, and appreciated. My dad would have liked that.

A page from the manuscript to "Portal Sun," in my father's distinctive handwriting.

My dad also liked to write, and after his death I found the manuscript to at least one short story, about a spelunking priest called "Show Me, God," and the fragment of a novel he called "Portal Sun." In the foreward to "Portal Sun," my dad writes:

The time is, perhaps, any year during the last 20. The place might well as be West Virginia, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, or southern Illinois where many, many similar dramas have and are being lived. ... The intent of "Portal Sun" is to pay tribute to, and fictionally document the lives and times of a gallant breed who are involved in a magnificently complex and little understood industry where victories are momentary and defeats eternal. ... This book is, to great measure, a collection of sweetly disguised reminiscences of events and of people who are, today, active in the most dangerously glamorous of all industries -- coal mining.

From what I can gather from the hand-written and partially typewritten manuscript, here's the first paragraph of "Portal Sun":

Cliff Roland settled in the worn, gray-tweed seat as the vintage twin-prop of Mountaineer Airlines descended for its approach to the narrow, obliterated strip. Tri-State Terminal had been, very literally, hewn from a spruce-laden plateau, and commercial aircraft landings were, altogether, precise ventures, even in clear, subtle weather. Cliff remembered at least a hundred similar descents to copper leases in South America.

Raised as a blood-heritage miner, educated as a mining engineer and geologist, Cliff Roland had amassed a free-lance record of accomplishment which pleasantly contradicted his 37 years. He carried these credentials so obviously, and yet with a strange unoffensive trace of humility, that absolute trust in him was immediate and unavoidable.

I hope you're having a grand time wherever you are, dad. I miss you.

A Stitch In Time

2011-02-14T12:49:00.002+01:00

Prague doctors seem to take delight in fashioning ridiculous-looking bandages for their patients.

Just a note to say that I haven't been blogging much lately due to both a busy schedule and the fact that I've been taking it easy lately after having had some minor surgery.

I noticed a tiny scab on my forehead last spring that simply never healed. To make a long story short, after a few visits to the dermatologist, the knife was recommended, and I went to the hospital a couple of weeks ago for outpatient surgery.

The lab results tested positive for basel cell carcinoma. That's the bad news. The good news is that they got it all, and that it wasn't melanoma.

I've always tried to be careful out in the sun, what with my ginger complexion, but I guess a lifetime of sunburns finally caught up with me. I've got to be especially careful now, since if you've had this problem once, you're susceptible to being diagnosed with it again.

I hope to be back on the bike and feeling like my old self real soon. Stay tuned.

What's For Lunch

2011-02-07T08:04:00.000+01:00

Yes, that says Kangaroo Goulash. Or Kangaroulash, if you will. Tasted like beef, I must admit, with a slight oceanic aftertaste, for some reason.

As a foreigner traveling around Europe, I'm never not amused by bad menu translations. Here are a few from the restaurant in my own place of work in Prague, as well as a few fascinating main dishes that struck my fancy recently.

Since I possess a gigantic sweet tooth myself, I'm utterly fascinated by the Czech predilection of serving what is basically an over-the-top dessert as a main course. Above, strawberry dumplings with butter. Below, something called Bavarian drop scones, which are basically four large doughnuts. And no, I have never ordered one of these for lunch. I just can't bring myself to do it.

Oh, Christ, not another bowl of bloody soup again!

Sedimentary, my dear Watson.

Death Of A Snowman

2011-01-12T11:06:00.004+01:00

Choose Your Poison

2011-01-03T17:48:00.002+01:00

We had a few friends over a few days ago and decided to make it a cocktail night.

Daisy asked me for 10 cocktails I could make, and I was really tickled with the cool menu board she came up with, including different fonts and editor's comments.

We had a blast, from what I can remember.

Daisy's Trip To Mongolia

2011-01-02T15:21:00.005+01:00

In September 2009, my wife, Daisy, traveled to Mongolia on a 10-day reporting assignment with Margot Buff, a colleague from Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty.

It's taken some time to do it, but here are some amazing photos from her journey. The captions are pretty entertaining, too.

Click in the center of the slideshow to get the full-screen treatment.

For Love Of Luke (A Christmas Story)

2010-12-24T14:47:00.002+01:00

My old dog Luke

In the spirit of Christmas, I'm reprinting this blog post from December 2009.

I almost died 30 years ago this Christmas.

I am prone to exaggeration, but in this case, it's the truth. My dog Luke had fallen through the melting ice on a pond where we used to live near Syracuse, New York, and I jumped in the water to try to save him.

I do remember clearly, when I had no more strength to swim and I couldn't breathe, and my whole body sank beneath the dark, icy waters, that I thought I was going to die. And I remember feeling very calm, almost resigned to my fate. I might even describe it as a peaceful feeling. The idea of death hasn't been so scary since then.

I was 18 years old and a budding writer and journalist at the time. I decided to write about my near-death experience and try to sell it to a magazine. "Dog Fancy" bought it for $50. It marked the first time I'd ever been paid for my writing. I cherished that check (which didn't stop me from quickly cashing it, however).

Unfortunately, the editors got my byline wrong, spelling my surname as Pedelco, which means my first published sale started with a typo!

I've kept that January 1981 copy of "Dog Fancy" ever since, and I hope they won't mind if I reprint the story here, these many years later. (I believe the title of the story was mine, but the picture they used to illustrate it was a stock photo. That's not really me running in silhouette with Luke.)

Reading it now, it's obviously the work of an amateur, and it's unintentionally funny in places. But it does a decent job of capturing the high drama of that Christmas night in 1979.

A few things you'll need to know before reading this story (which I should have made clear in the original story):

-- Carol is my younger sister.
-- In addition to Luke, we had two other dogs at the time, Joe (a female mix), and Ike (a German shepherd stray).

As the story hints at, my parents seem more concerned with Luke's fate than my own, once the rescue was over. They obviously hadn't realized just how bad off I was. I was shivering uncontrollably, and I lay on my bed in my basement room, alone, numb, naked, wrapped in a blanket, listening as they ministered to Luke upstairs.

Anyway, here I am, and here's my story. I hope you enjoy it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

FOR LOVE OF LUKE

It was six o’clock on Christmas day. The many gifts lay scattered beneath the tree, temporarily abandoned, and everyone was reflecting sadly that Christmas was drawing to a close for yet another year.

Suddenly, Joe began to bark.

This was nothing unusual in itself, except that this bark possessed a sound of urgency, of danger or warning, a summons to anyone near that something was awry. My father, sensing her distress, stepped outside to investigate.

He located her standing anxiously on the bank of one of our large ponds, which are situated conveniently just a few yards from the house. The unseasonable temperatures had succeeded in softening the layer of ice that had covered the pond during colder weather, and all of us had vented our concern that one of the dogs, while venturing onto the ice, would accidentally fall through.

It was by this time completely dark, with not even a glimmer of moonlight visible through the clouds. The flashlight my father carried could penetrate no more than a short distance into the night. He listened carefully, hoping to catch the sound of whatever was causing her concern. From somewhere in the pond came a muffled whimper and the soft splashing of a drowning dog.

“Luke’s in the pond! He’s fallen through!” he exclaimed.

My mother had joined him along the water’s edge.

“Go get Grant and some rope!”

I was in Carol’s room when I heard the commotion of my mother’s entrance. I hurried to the door, sensing that something was amiss.

“Put your boots on! Luke’s fallen through the ice!” she said excitedly, searching frantically for some rope.

Without a moment’s hesitation I began ripping off my sneakers when I realized that heavy boots would only hinder a rescue in 12 feet of water. I replaced my shoes and raced out the door. Momentarily consumed by my love for the mutt Luke and my gross underestimation of the task before me, I ran into the frigid waters, all sense of reason temporarily erased from my mind.

I was already waist deep when I heard my father’s call, “Go get the raft!”

Of course! The small inflatable raft which we kept in the garage. It was our only hope. But was there still air in it?

The water was too cold to waste precious time blowing it up, and who could say how long Luke had been floating amid the broken ice before our arrival? I dashed into the garage. It was still inflated! But where was Luke? The noises had ceased and he remained swallowed by the night.

When I reached the water I climbed atop the raft, stomach down, my head and arms extending from the front. With Luke’s location still a mystery, I began paddling, plunging my hands into the icy water, trying to maneuver to a universal vantage at the center of the pond. The melting ice was half-an-inch thick and I pounded by fists and arms against it, breaking a path for the raft to follow. My hands swiftly became numb.

Meanwhile, my father was shining the dim flashlight across the water, hoping to spot the reflection of light in Luke’s eyes.

There he was! Twenty long yards away, only his head protruding above the surface. There wasn’t much time!

“I’m coming Luke!” I cried out over and over again. “Hang on Luke! I’m coming!”

I wanted him to know that I was there in his time of need.

“I love you so much,” I thought. “Please don’t die!”

My hands hurt terribly now, but I continued to beat them against the ice, hacking a crude channel toward my beloved mongrel. I was oblivious to everything but rescuing Luke. The encouraging shouts from the shore were lost amid my shouting and splashing. I wouldn’t have heard them anyway so intense was my concentration on reaching Luke before he disappeared forever.

When he was in an arm’s length of me, I reached out with numbed hands and grabbed his coat. So lifeless and frozen was he that he made no attempt to climb into the boat or resist my efforts. With all of my remaining strength I lifted him from the water, intending to pull him into the raft with me, but my fingers lost their grip and he slipped beneath the surface.

Then the horrible happened.

The raft, responding to my awkward movements, drifted directly on top of Luke, smothering him under my weight. Realizing that he would die if I remained, I jumped into the slush, refusing to quit so soon.

My lungs heaved for air as the icy water surrounded my chest. I was overcome by the shock and managed to breathe only in short gasps. I shoved the raft away, grabbed Luke, and began swimming back through the ice, trying valiantly to keep Luke’s head above water while I myself was slowly sinking. My breathing was forced and my legs were leaden with my waterlogged jeans and shoes.

I would never make it.

My sole option, besides a watery grave, was to return to the raft.

With Luke limp and heavy in my arms, I reversed my course and headed back, wondering how I would manage to get us both within the safe confines of the boat. I had to consider the factor of darkness and how it would affect the ultimate outcome of each plan once it was set into action.

I decided to lift Luke above my head and throw him in, somehow keeping myself above water as I did so. Twice I raised him from the water and twice the raft floated farther away the instant it was touched. My body aching from the cold, my fingers unable to tell how tightly I held him, I grabbed Luke and with a final display of strength successfully threw him into the raft. He made no effort to move, his body shaking uncontrollably.

Luke in the snow outside the house in Cuyler, New York, where we were living when this story took place.

Clinging to the rear of the boat, I gradually propelled us forward using my feet and my one free hand. I struggled toward the distant glow of the flashlight, a faint beacon of safety forming eerie silhouettes of my parents along the shore. It was difficult maneuvering through the route that I had previously broken, the darkness deceiving me time and time again and loose slabs of ice continually scraping across my upturned neck.

I was growing increasingly weaker with the passing of each second and more hopeless with the realization that Luke was slowly slipping out of the boat. There was nothing I could do but pray that he would hang on until we reached the others.

A person can remain alive only three or four minutes while totally immersed in icy water. I had exceeded that crucial limit. Drained of energy, gasping for air, and with Luke almost in the water, I could no longer force myself to paddle. With but five yards separating me from safety, I felt myself sinking.

“Help me!” I choked barely able to talk and breathe simultaneously. “I can’t make it.”

My father, who had been coaxing me on from the end of the dock, jumped to my rescue.

Instantaneously, Luke fell completely in and I slipped under, remembering before I submerged only the exaggerated intake of air when my father entered the water. I gave up, unable to fight back the freezing water that was pressing against my head.

I believed that I was going to die.

Then, miraculously, I felt a hand pulling me to the surface and ashore.

Totally exhausted, I collapsed on the grass, my hands and upper arms numb and bloody. I was useless to assist any further. But before I lost consciousness, I was witness to the emergence of a latent section of my mother’s character that I never knew existed.

The water’s extreme temperature had proved too much for my father and he was forced to abort Luke’s rescue. But my mother, seeing Luke floating helplessly in the water, his muzzle beneath the surface and dead for all apparent reason, jumped in the empty raft, regardless of her own safety, and paddled the short distance to his motionless form.

I could only pray, as I struggled to the house, that she had succeeded where I had failed.

And indeed she had.

The carried him unconscious into the warmth of the house, his breathing shallow and labored. For almost an hour they rubbed his wet fur with towels, attempting to massage some life back into his frozen flesh. The other dogs paced the floor, wondering as we did whether it was too late.

Slowly Luke regained consciousness, his blood once again circulating, his contracted muscles loosening their icy grip on his bones. We watched, joyously, as he strove painfully to walk, wondering if he had sustained any brain damage from his terrifying ordeal.

There was one sure way to find out. We spoke his name.

And Luke wagged his tail in recognition.

RIP Steve Landesberg

2010-12-21T10:11:00.007+01:00

I had the pleasure to interview Steve Landesberg for "The Press," the college paper at the State University of New York at Cortland, when I was a student there, sometime around 1983, during a college comedy tour.

He was hilarious, and a nice man, too.

I was very sad to hear of his death this morning at the early age of 65.

Rest in peace, Mr. Landesberg.

Thanks to Andy Markowitz for pointing out this classic clip.

Looking For A Home For Pee-Wee

2010-12-18T20:07:00.012+01:00

Pee-Wee showed up on our back porch in late August, out of nowhere, as friendly as if she'd been our cat all her life.

We're pretty sure she's a hypo-allergenic Siberian Black Smoke. She has long, flowing black hair, a gray collar, and gorgeous green eyes. Her body just seemed a little small for her outsized personality, so we called her Pee-Wee. The name stuck.

She lived outside, and we fed her every day. She slept in a cozy covered cat box that we put outside for her. But she didn't seem like a real outdoor cat -- she wanted desperately to be inside the house. So we'd let her in for a few minutes and take great delight in watching her explore. Pee-Wee's Playhouse, as it were.

Chicho, our male indoor cat, even tolerated Pee-Wee's shenanigans. She's very playful. We assume she was a house kitten but got lost or tossed outside at some point.

We took her to the vet and had her checked out. He thought she was probably around 7 months old or so. She was given the proper vaccinations. We scheduled her for neutering, which happened to coincide with the cold snap that we've been experiencing for the past month or so. We kept her inside after that, during her recuperation. A big patch of her fur was shaved for the operation, and we didn't want to expose her to the frigid temperatures. She's been inside ever since.

We're probably going to be moving back into the city soon, and we can't take her with us. We need to find a new home for Pee-Wee. She is an extremely loving, funny, and great-looking cat who definitely loves people.

If you're interested in adopting, or know of someone who is, we'd love to hear from you. Send me an e-mail to grantpodelco@yahoo.com or call 728-070-139.

UPDATE: We found a wonderful home for Pee-Wee on December 29. Thanks to everyone for their interest.

Going To Grape Pains -- Hungarian Wine In Prague

2010-12-17T11:09:00.002+01:00

The two wines I tasted: The 2007 Jackfall Totagas and the 2009 Szucs Portugieser.

If I told you there were a couple of American guys in Prague who will deliver interesting and reasonably priced Hungarian wines to your doorstep -- by hand and for free, in rain, snow, or sleet -- would you believe me?

When the guys at Boden Fine Wines first e-mailed me, I didn't believe them either. But you know what? It's true.

Brett Aarons, 36, and Luke Bodenschatz, 28, are two guys with regular non-wine day jobs who've lived in Prague since 1997 and 2006, respectively, and who just happen to be obsessed with Hungary and Hungarian wines.

"We both love Budapest and have been there many times," Brett told me. "Early on, we realized how good the wine is there, a highlight of every trip to Hungary. Finally, a visit to Pecs and Villany -- the southernmost wine region in Hungary -- convinced us to start bringing this fantastic wine to Prague, where the red wines available leave much to be desired, especially for those on a budget."

Brett says they're trying to introduce the wines they love to a skeptical Prague market.

"No supermarket Bull's Blood, and we only try to compete with reasonable Czech white wines when we find a good one for a good price," he says. "Our strongest suit is red wine. Our margins are embarrasingly low."

They don't have a store. All their wines (20 or so different varieties, ranging in price from 150-500 CZK per bottle) are imported and stored in a cellar in Old Town somewhere. They're big fans of the Jackfall vineyard and are Jackfall's exclusive sellers in the Czech Republic.

Brett (left), vintner Jeno Szucs, and Luke during a visit to the Szucs winery in Villány, Hungary.

I ordered six bottles a few weeks back -- including three of the 2007 Jackfall Totagas (150 CZK). Totagas is a cuvee of cabernet sauvignon and franc, with a little merlot.

"Totagas exemplifies the kind of wine Boden Fine Wines looks for – a refined taste, not overly fruity, suitable for ‘fancy’ meals but affordable for everyday drinking," Brett told me.

I also ordered three bottles of the peppery Szucs Portugieser (150 CZK). Szucs is their other favorite Hungarian vineyard.

While they weren't quite as big and beefy as some of the South American and South African reds that I like to drink, both wines were smooth and drinkable and excellent values. Since I live outside of Prague, Luke met me outside the Dejvicka metro station with two fancy bags full of wine. Now that's what I call service!

The guys even host wine-tastings on occasion. The last one was at the Maximilian Hotel on November 24. They've also got a Facebook page under Boden Fine Wines.

If you're interested in supporting a worthy cause, send the guys an e-mail at bodenfinewines@gmail.com.

I know I'll be placing another order quite soon.

The Great Spotted Woodpecker

2010-12-17T10:10:00.003+01:00

A Great Spotted Woodpecker having a snack on our backyard feeder.

Drifting Away

2010-12-15T11:02:00.002+01:00

The view from the cockpit as we drove Emma to the McMurdo Arctic Research Station this morning. Oh, wait, we drove her to the International School of Prague. Same thing, lately. More snow -- and earlier in the year -- than I've ever seen in Prague in the past 15 years. It hasn't stopped since just after Thanksgiving.

Cold Snaps

2010-12-05T10:26:00.003+01:00

It's been painfully cold and incredibly snowy here in Prague for the past week or so. Yesterday morning, it was minus 17 Celsius (or about 1 degree Fahrenheit) at our house in the village of Cerny Vul, west of Prague.

We've also received around 25 centimeters (about 10 inches) of snow, which basically paralyzed the city on Wednesday night and Thursday. I can't remember when we've had this much snow or it's been this cold so early in the year.

Here are a few photograpsh I've taken over the past few days.

The driving was atrocious on Wednesday night. Buses couldn't make it up the Suchdol hill, so passengers were forced to trudge up the long, steep hill in the road in the driving snow.

Sign Of The Times

2010-11-30T10:27:00.003+01:00

Old-school Czechoslovak refreshment sign, taken in Brno, I believe, a few years back. Probably dates to the 1960s, I'd guess. I love it, although I'm not sure what each of the icons means. What the heck is going on in the middle right square??

D'ouch!!

2010-11-21T15:06:00.002+01:00

I found this tableau in the Tesco store at Zličín to be profoundly disturbing.

Takes A Licking ...

2010-11-17T09:45:00.003+01:00

We found this watch among my late father's possessions.

Note the "brand" -- Podelco, the family name. We are not watchmakers by trade.

It's 17 jewels, 14K gold. I've had it cleaned and the mechanism repaired. It works great now.

From what I understand, Sears -- yes, that Sears -- at one time contracted with a Swiss watchmaker to make these, probably in the 1950s but perhaps the '60s.

Does anyone know anything about where this watch came from and what it might be worth, if anything?

An auctioneer, going through my mom's old house, offered my sister $25 on the spot for this watch. She declined.

Curds Away

2010-11-12T12:20:00.004+01:00

Daisy just came back from a reporting trip to Kyrgyzstan and brought back some very interesting items from the markets in the capital, Bishkek.

At the top, three kinds of curds -- balls of salty, sour milk that are extremely popular there as a snack. Kids, especially, like them and collect small change to buy a bag of them as a treat.

They're pretty hard for a Western palate to appreciate, however. (They taste like rancid milk balls, basically. A friend compared the taste to what a horse barn smells like.) Although the kind in the upper left had more fat (and were more expensive) and tasted a bit like some prehistoric cheese found in a bog somewhere (I mean that as a compliment). I could see eating a few with a glass of beer, perhaps.

Fascinating how different cultures appreciate different tastes. For example, the Chinese hate cheese, from what I understand. And I can't explain why I love bleu cheese, which is basically streaked with huge veins of mold, and I don't like the curd balls.

In the lower left, dried apricots -- hard as rocks, but they softened in the mouth after a minute or so into something like candy, with the pit still inside. Delicious.

Then dried baby figs and some incredibly good roasted almonds.

Whatever Comes Our Way

2010-11-10T20:46:00.015+01:00

Allen took a video of our ride using his Contour HD helmet cam.

Homer Simpson: The first meeting of Hell's Satans is called to order.
Ned Flanders: I move to reconsider our club name. Make it something a little less blasphemous. After all, we don't wanna *go* to hell.
Lenny: How 'bout The Devil's Pals.
Ned Flanders: Nuh-no... see...
Moe Szyslak: How about the Christ Punchers?
Ned Flanders: The Chri...! I-I don't think you understand my objections.
Homer Simpson: I'm the president and the decision is mine. We're Hell's Satans. Besides, I already made our club jackets.
Lenny: Ooo, machine wash warm.
Carl: Tumble dry... Oooh lah lah.

As some wise person once said, "It's not the destination, but the journey." And that old adage certainly held true last weekend, when I went on my first group motorcycle ride with some cool dudes from the Czech Expat Bikers Club.

I'd received an e-mail from the club's guru, Allen Harris, back in August. He'd seen a previous blog post I'd done on the ride that Daisy and I took to Český Ráj and wanted to know if I'd be interested in riding together.

He wrote:

"I have 2 cruisers, a Yamaha VX1100 Virago and a VX535 Virago. I have had them for 10 years now and after a period off them due to work I am getting them back on the road. The first job is to get new STK approval which will start next week for the 535 then I will get the 1100 back on the road as well.

"I have been looking out to find someone who might enjoy pottering about the countryside at the weekends, take in the smells, sights and life of the area. It is good that you like to drive at a moderate pace as riding cruisers at speed results in getting very long arms and continual tears rolling down your face.

"I am planning some short trips around the area as soon as the bikes are legal, so if you are interested maybe we could get together one day soon and put a mark on the map."

That sounded right up my alley. My idea of motorcycling paradise is cruising along at 70 kph on a deserted country road.

But what with my mom's injury and recovery, and my trip to the U.S. to take her home, and then the month of September was pretty much consumed by wedding plans, Allen and I never did get to ride together.

But at the end of October, Allen organized a meeting at a Smichov pub for interested riders. I stopped by for a few cold ones (OK, they were Radegast Birells) and met Allen and four or five other expat bikers, all cool guys and all interested in riding together.

The next week, Allen scheduled a ride, which I didn't think I'd be able to make, as we had friends coming over with their new baby for dinner. But then Daisy got sick, and we didn't want to risk making the baby sick, too, so suddenly I was free to ride. I didn't realize this, however, until about 45 minutes before they were all scheduled to meet at the McDonald's on Evropská.

I threw on my riding leathers and raced over. The skies were dark, but it hadn't rained, and it was quite warm (around 14 C or 57 F).

Turns out there were, in addition to myself and Allen, four other bikers, all of whom had not been at the pub meeting the week before. Here are the guys I rode with, and what they ride (photos of the bikes can be founda at the end of this post):

Allen Harris rides a Yamaha XV1100 Virago.

Marcus Pauels rides a European 2008 Harley-Davidson Softail "Rocker C" (1584 cc)

Andy Schofield rides a 1999 Honda CBR900RR Fireblade (918cc)

Karthik Shetty rides a 1999 Honda X11 (1,137 cc)

Stu Schaag rides a 2008 Harley-Davidson Nite Rod Special (1250cc)

And me? I ride a 2002 Honda Shadow 600.

By the way, Stu got his Harley outfitted with a monster after-market exhaust system that really shakes to your core. I recorded a bit on my iPhone. Take a listen:

Listen!

I sort of assumed that everybody knew everybody else, and that I was the odd man out, but that wasn't the case. We were all just bikers eager to ride with other bikers but who didn't really know anyone to ride with.

Allen (left), me, and Stu at a pit stop at the lovely Ve Stoleti.

Andy (left), Karthik and Marcus across the table at Ve Stoleti.

Someone decided we should ride to Lany, which is the town where what you might call the Czech Camp David is located. There's a chateau there that's long served as the summer residence of Czech presidents. The first president of Czechoslovakia, Thomas Masaryk, is buried in the local cemetery. President Vaclav Havel used his regular "Talks From Lany" radio programs to comment on current events.

Anyway, that sounded like a fine destination, probably a 30-minute trip from Prague through the rolling Czech countryside. In the end, though, the trip took us something like 90 minutes, after the leaders got lost numerous times.

For my taste, we spent way too much time on major highways on that route and not enough time peeling fall leaves off our visors, but it was still a hell of a lot of fun.

Here's a funny bit of audio I recorded of Marcus and Stu discussing where we'd all gone wrong on the roads:

Listen!

In Lany (where just about everything was closed for the season), we stopped for coffee (I had another nonalcoholic Birell) and then headed down to Beroun, twisting through some genuinely gorgeous autumn-hued countryside.

From Beroun, we headed back toward Prague and stopped again in a really cool restaurant and hotel that Marcus knew called Ve Stoleti in Loděnice. He spoke highly of the food and service, and while I didn't eat, the place had a great vibe and looks like it is spectacular in sunny, warm weather.

Stu and I needed to get home to our wives, so we cut out a few minutes early and headed up the highway. Turns out that that was a smart move. About 10 minutes from home, it started to rain, and rain pretty hard. I managed to make it home before getting too soaked, but the guys who stayed behind had a very wet ride ahead of them once they finished their meals.

Members of the Expat Bikers Club? Or an outtake from "Wild Hogs"? The gang stops in Lany for a break -- (left to right) Andy, Karthik, Stu, me, Allen and Marcus.

Let me just say a few words about riding motorcycles in a group. This is the first time I've ever ridden with even one other rider, and it does have its advantages:

1. You have support if something goes wrong.

2. You have someone to talk to when you stop for a coffee.

3. You can just follow the pack and not worry about where you're going.

4. And I must admit: You really feel like a badass when you're one of a gang of six motorcyclists passing through a town or village. People stop and stare and generally get the hell out of your way. You feel, well, cool. There's no other way to say it.

I had a fantastic time on this ride, which ended up being around 140 kilometers or so. I do have to admit that I'm an enthusiastic motorcycle rider, but I know next to nothing about the geeky aspects of riding -- that is, I don't know that much about bikes, or engine sizes, or horsepower, or the advantages of a twin-cam air-cooled engine.

All the other guys really seem to know their torque from their compression. And truth be told, I really don't care that much. I just want to ride. And that seemed cool with them.

Despite feeling slightly out of place, I had a fantastic time. I made some new friends, saw some beautiful countryside, and experienced that surge of adrenalin that only comes with riding a motorcycle.

When's the next ride, gents?

Karthik's 1999 Honda X11 (1,137 cc)

Stu's 2008 Harley-Davidson Nite Rod Special (1250cc)

Allen's Yamaha XV1100 Virago.

Marcus's 2008 Harley-Davidson Softail "Rocker C" (1584 cc)

Andy's 1999 Honda CBR900RR Fireblade (918cc)

My bike, a 2002 Honda Shadow 600

Prague's Own Mysterious 'Missile' Launch

2010-11-10T09:45:00.007+01:00

All the hubbub over the mysterious contrail off the coast of California, which many people believe was some sort of missile, had me thinking back to just a few weeks ago, when my friend Rob Coalson posted these pictures on his Facebook page.

He took them from his apartment in Prague 6 at sunrise on October 29.

These pictures certainly had us intrigued. The angle just seems too steep for it to be the vapor trail of a jet. But I could find no reports in the Czech press of anyone else reporting a missile launch or anything else strange in the sky on that day.

Since the Pentagon has denied any sort of missile launch in the Pacific, the current explanation for the California "missile" seems to be an optical illusion produced by a simple jet contrail.

"It's an airplane that is heading toward the camera and the contrail is illuminated by the setting sun," John Pike, director of the U.S.-based security analyst group globalsecurity.org, is quoted as saying by AP.

But Pike is baffled about why the U.S. military has not recognized it as a contrail.

"The Air Force must...understand how contrails are formed," he said. "Why they can't get some major out to belabor the obvious, I don't know."

Seems like there may be the remains of a second earlier "missile" on the left of this photo.

And Fox News cites ContrailScience.com as saying the trail of condensed water vapor that is spewed out of a jet engine resembles a missile trail when seen from some angles.

The confusion between a missile launch and a jet plane contrail is caused by several common misconceptions, the site notes, explaining that the angle of launch, the direction of flight, and even the shape of the Earth can lead to the illusion.

This might explain the Prague missile launch, too.

As for me, I'm not totally convinced. Anyone else out there see anything in Prague on October 29?

The 2011 Prague Bike Blog Calendars Are Here!

2010-11-04T15:23:00.001+01:00

A blog post from my sister site, Grant's Prague Bike Blog, that may interest Gusto readers, too.

Yet another blog post in which I make excuses for not riding...

I got married earlier this month -- as you may have read ;-) -- and was out of the country. Then I got sick for two weeks with bronchitis, which I'm just now pulling out of.

I hope to be back in the saddle again soon.

In the meantime, I am thinking of putting together a 2011 Grant's Prague Bike Blog Calendar, featuring some of the best, funniest, and most entertaining photographs from the blog over the past four years.

It hasn't been created yet (I'll post a link when I get a final version together), but in the meantime, let me know if you'd be tentatively interested in ordering one of these babies, at cost.

It'll probably run you around $20 each, plus a few bucks for shipping.

They make excellent Christmas gifts or stocking stuffers!

Now That's Hospitality!

2010-10-28T12:36:00.004+02:00

Daisy is in Kyrgyzstan for a reporting assignment. Very exciting.

Imagine her surprise, upon checking into her hotel in the capital, Bishkek, this morning, to find this tube of toothpaste awaiting.

All first impressions should be like this.

UPDATE: Turns out Daisy isn't the only person with a toothpaste named in her honor!

Ol' Black Water Keep On Movin'

2010-10-27T15:31:00.004+02:00

This is a video of Blackwater Falls in Davis, West Virginia, on October 1, 2010. Daisy and I were married at Blackwater Lodge the next day.

I've been to Blackwater Falls many times, but I never recall seeing this much water passing over the brink. There'd been torrential rain for the previous day or two, swelling the river.

In fact, an experienced kayaker was tragically killed in the Class V rapids on the river below these falls just a few hours after I shot this video.

Compare it to a video I shot of the same falls in April 2010:

Autumn Hike To Přední Kopanina

2010-10-23T19:10:00.000+02:00

Cool Fonts, Continued

2010-10-23T10:26:00.002+02:00

Above a disused door in the Želivského metro station in Prague.

Part of my continuing series on preserving some cool old fonts I come across in Prague, and elsewhere...

A change machine at Blackwater Falls Lodge in Davis, West Virginia. Echoes of the old Tab soda cans, no?

Oh, Happy Day!

2010-10-20T16:40:00.006+02:00

Daisy, Emma and I make our grand entrance.

Daisy and I got married on October 2 at Blackwater Falls State Park in Davis, West Virgina, amid the rugged splendor of the Allegheny Mountains. After a year of planning and worry, the wedding weekend went off without a hitch.

My parents used to take my sister Carol and me to the park almost every autumn to see the leaves. Their families lived not too far away, so Blackwater Falls became an almost-annual pilgrimage for us from wherever we were living at the time (Ohio, Illinois, Pennsylvania -- we moved a lot).

I have fond memories of walking the wooden stairs down to the falls, holding my hands over my ears because of the deafening roar of the cascade (or so it seemed to me at the time).

When Daisy and I were talking about places to hold the ceremony, I thought of Blackwater Falls -- especially since we were planning a fall wedding. My father was not in the best of health at the time and likely couldn't have made the trip to Prague, or anywhere else too far away. He was thrilled when I told him where we'd decided to get married.

Sadly, he passed away in February. His spirit was with us on our wedding day, though.

Despite torrential rains just a few days before, our wedding day was bright and sunny. Around 75 family and friends from Prague, Syracuse, Denver, Seattle, Gainesville, Minneapolis, Chicago, Washington, D.C., New York, and various other points across New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Maryland all converged for the big day.

We were so grateful for their presence.

On an obviously slow news day, "The New York Times" even saw fit to write a fun little story about us, which you can read here.

Before I get to the photos of the ceremony, I wanted to publish a wonderful poem that was written for us as a wedding gift by Carolyn Reamer, the mother of Keith Reamer, who is Daisy's uncle and the husband of our celebrant, Murphy Birdsall. Carolyn and her husband, Leon, are lovely folks.

Daisy and I were so tickled to receive this hand-written poem, which is so charming for so many reasons:

A WEDDING TALE

Do you know the why and wherefore --
You're the one I seem to care for --
A lovely phrase from a song of my youth.

Whither you goest, I will go:
A simple statement, don't you know,
From a biblical lass named Ruth.

Oh, I've taken the plunge:
Well: More like a lunge
To partake of the nuptial confection.
After substantial reflection
And wee bits of correction.
Aren't we pleased with our selection?

Some ladies will cry;
As they swabbed each eye,
I asked them why.
Romantic bliss
Can collect in a ditch, they said.

I fled.

To be always ecstatic
Won't be automatic
Dear ones, there is nothing to fear.
I'll bet in the attic
There's a dusty schematic
On how to put love back in gear.

When the multitudes
with platitudes
And amplitudes
Defuse --
That labyrinth of soulful views:
Which to keep, which not to use.
Give everyone credit
Then edit.

You both sparkle and glisten.
We are on exhibition
We lean in to listen.
Are they married yet?
Trilled in soprano pitch.
"Five seconds ago, ma'am. a bonafide hitch!"
That should suffice --
Throw the rice.

Thanks again to everyone who made our day so special.

Daisy and I applying for our marriage license on a rainy day at the Tucker County Courthouse in Parsons, West Virginia. Everyone was so nice.

The lodge at Blackwater Falls, built in the late 1950s.

The canyon at Blackwater Falls State Park. The fall colors were not as brilliant this year, they said, because of a severe drought during the summer. Still plenty beautiful, though.

The spectacular 62-foot-high (19 meters) Blackwater Falls. Due to all the rain, there was more water spilling over than I had ever seen before.

The water in the Blackwater River is the color of dark tea, due to the tannins in the water from the hemlock and red spruce.

On the morning of the wedding, we organized a nature hike led by the park naturalist, Paulita Cousin.

The nature hike took in the smaller -- but no less beautiful -- Elakala Falls, not far from the lodge itself.

A gifted local musician, Roy Levine, who also happens to be my brother-in-law, played piano during the ceremony.

The wedding party, with the Blackwater gorge behind us.

Daisy's aunt, Murphy Birdsall, a celebrant with the Universal Brotherhood Movement, wrote and performed the ceremony. So many guests came up to us afterward to say how beautifully written and personal they thought the ceremony was. Thanks, Murphy!

Daisy's father, Paul Sindelar, and his wife, Alyson Adams.

Daisy, looking ravishing.

Modeling The Most Expensive Tie In The World.

Daisy's mother, Robin (left), and my mom, Mitz, helped out with a traditional Slavic bread-and-salt ceremony. The bread was baked by Daisy's aunt, Jennifer Elgrim. The salt came from Hallstatt, Austria, where I proposed to Daisy.

Even Emma got to taste a bit of the wine.

My best man, Stewart Moore, a great friend who lives nearby here in Prague.

Emma (right) and Hannah Sholar, Daisy's father's stepdaughter, recited "The Owl and the Pussycat" by Edward Lear.

Daisy's college friends from her days in Moscow, Kristin Witting (left) and Anna Connolly, performed a song by the Russian band Akvarium. The song title is translated as "Sitting On A Beautiful Hill." They were wonderful. See a video of their performance below:

The traditional kowtowing before the bride. Actually, the ground was really uneven, which made for a lighter moment at one point in the ceremony.

A shivaree was sounded after the vows were said, to scare away any bad spirits. We handed out all sorts of noisemakers before the ceremony began.

I think Emma was a bit overwhelmed by all the noise!

Our friend Momchil Blagoev got the noisemaker-of-honor.

Clothespin Daisy, Grant and Emma at the reception. Our cupcakes were baked by a local Mennonite bakery. So good.

Our good friend Tanya Kancheva (Momchil's wife) took this portrait of us for "The New York Times." She also took most of the photos you see on this post.

My mother, Mitz, has a laugh. She's doing so well in her recovery from hip surgery.

Some of the guests played croquet out on the lawn of the Blackwater Lodge after the ceremony.

We got married in West Virginia. Where did you think we'd go on our honeymoon?

We Do!

2010-10-11T09:58:00.005+02:00

Sorry I haven't posted recently, but I have a good excuse.

Daisy and I got married on October 2 at Blackwater Falls State Park in Davis, West Virginia.

I'll be posting more about it shortly, but in the meantime, here are a few photos from the big day.

Country Of Cool Fonts

2010-09-18T16:15:00.003+02:00

I've always loved typography and design.

Prague is full of old signs in wonderfully weird fonts. Many of them date back to the communist days. Like this sign for a potraviny, or grocery store, in the Prague 6 neighborhood.

You'd think it would have been removed ages ago and replaced with some modern-day signage. Which would have been a shame, really.

I'll try to keep my camera handy and record some other cool fonts I come across in my wanderings. They must be preserved.

Snapshots From An American Journey

2010-09-17T12:49:00.008+02:00

A street scene in Davis, West Virginia.

I recently returned from a week in the United States. I accompanied my mother back home after she fell in Prague and broke her hip.

I'd thought I'd share a few random photos from my trip, just little scenes of Americana that captured my fancy.

A cool Chevrolet Biscayne -- from 1962, I think -- parked on my mom's street in Cumberland, Maryland.

A classic American liquor store at dusk -- Cumberland, Maryland.

Drive-thru cigarettes and beer in Ridgeley, West Virginia. The line was five or six cars long when I drove past.

Riding A Paternoster, And Living To Tell The Tale

2010-09-11T19:40:00.010+02:00

I am fascinated by a device called a paternoster.

If you're reading this in the United States, you probably don't have the foggiest idea what I'm talking about. That's because paternosters don't exist in the U.S., as far as I know, because they are a lawsuit waiting to happen.

A paternoster is an elevator made up of a series of constantly moving shelves. Passengers don't push a button to call the elevator. They simply wait for the shelf to move even with the floor they're standing on and then step into the paternoster. They then ride the paternoster to the floor they desire, and then simply step off. Being careful to time it right so the entrance to, or exit from, the paternoster is smooth and graceful.

The shelves then continue up -- usually passengerless -- and then change direction in some dark, cobwebby corner of the building, and then continue their journey down. It's an endless loop. (Ostensibly, you can stay on the paternoster while it makes its transition from up to down, but warning signs in bright red urge passengers to disembark.)

It's easy to misjudge the speed of the paternoster and either step on or off too early or too late. If you're elderly or a kid or pushing a baby carriage or just not paying attention, you're toast. Take the stairs.

There are more than 100 paternosters scattered around Eastern and Western Europe and Russia. But their numbers are dwindling due to numerous injuries and, yes, even deaths blamed on paternosters. According to Wikipedia, five people were killed while riding paternosters between 1970 and 1993.

A few days ago, I rode a paternoster in the Pasáž Lucerna -- an old indoor mall, of sorts -- in central Prague. I filmed my ride and put together a little narrated film of my experience.

I hope you enjoy it.

Pie In The Sky (Almost) -- Dining In Delta's 'Business Elite'

2010-09-02T10:47:00.007+02:00

The filet of beef and horseradish sauce, lyonnaise potatoes, and haricots verts.

You can't go home again, Thomas Wolfe famously said. If he'd been a frequent flyer in today's world, he might have said you can't go back to coach.

As everyone who's ever done it has remarked afterward, once you've had the pleasure of flying in first class or business class, especially on a trans-Atlantic flight or trans-Pacific flight, it's damn near impossible -- indeed, physically painful -- to walk through first-class with the other cattle to the back of the plane on your next flight, knowing, finally, what you're missing.

I'm a Delta frequent flyer and have been fortunate enough to have flown in their equivalent of first class, called Business Elite, a half-dozen times or so. (Delta combined their first- and business-class seats into one class.) It's always been because I've purchased a more-expensive "upgradeable" ticket and then used 50,000 or so of my frequent flyer miles to upgrade to Business Elite.

It's expensive but worth the splurge every once in a while.

Mitz chilling in the business-class lounge at the Prague airport.

Delta's Business Elite is really quite comfortable, although not nearly as luxurious as some other airlines, or so I've heard. I'm 6 foot 3 inches (about 190 centimeters) and am unable to touch the seat in front of me with my toes, even if I stretch. The seats could be wider, but they do recline almost to horizontal, and there's a thick blanket and a big pillow to help you sleep. There's also a personal video screen at each seat with on-demand movies, games and TV shows.

But for me, the food and drink is the real entertainment.

I recently accompanied my mother back to the United States from Prague. She'd come to visit but fell and broke her hip a few days after she arrived. (You can read more about that here.) She needed a helping hand on her return journey.

My mom, Mitz, trying to decide whether to have the filet of beef or the roasted chicken breast.

When we arrived at the airport in Prague for our flight to New York, we discovered that they'd overbooked the flight and were making seats available in coach by upgrading frequent flyers to Business Elite, including my mother and me. I couldn't have been more tickled, since, in addition to the food and drink and leg room, the seats meant my mom could raise and support her legs for the entire flight.

So, what'd we eat and drink, and how good was it, really?

I started out with a glass (a real glass) of crisp Piper-Heidsieck Brut Champagne as we got ourselves situated.

Once in the air, I switched to a glass (again, a real glass) of small-batch Woodford Reserve bourbon on the rocks, which blew my socks off, it was so good. (Hard to believe, but that's Delta's "house" bourbon.) I soon had another. Smooth, spicy, with notes of luscious caramel.

Then it was time for the main meal, served on a linen tablecloth and on real china with real cutlery, all of which sounds trivial and pretentious but somehow makes the whole dining experience feel slightly decadent.

We started with a subtle cream of cauliflower soup, grilled rosemary shrimp (small and forgettable), a few cold asparagus spears with herb butter (ditto), and a hearty pumpernickel roll. That was followed by a remarkably fresh mixed green salad with cucumber, tomato and almonds.

The appetizers: cream of cauliflower soup, grilled rosemary shrimp and asparagus.

For the main course, both my mother and I chose the "Tender Fillet of Beef," advertised as "enhanced by horseradish sauce, served with lyonnaise potatoes and sauteed haricots verts." The generous slab of beef -- though overcooked to an everyman's medium-well -- was awakened by the surprisingly tasty horseradish sauce. The potatoes were also quite flavorful for 35,000 feet. The beans were forgettable and suffered from being splayed across the plate. (My mom's plate was a bit more appealing to the eye.)

Other choices on that flight for the main course included Roasted Chicken Breast, Spiral Pasta, and Roast Beef and Smoked Salmon.

As for the wine, I chose the full-bodied, peppery goodness of Renwood Winery Sierra Foothills Zinfandel 2007 from California. I could also have had a 2005 Burgess Merlot from Napa Valley.

As for whites, my mom had the the Patz & Hall Dutton Ranch Chardonnay, Russian River Valley, California, 2006, which she quite enjoyed. She could also have chosen the Michel Leon Vin d'Alsace Riesling, Alsace, France, 2008.

A fresh mixed green salad with cucumber, tomato and almonds.

For dessert, I chose a selection of "fine cheeses" and a glass of the Chambers Rosewood Muscat, Rutherglen, Australia, while my mom opted for the warm chocolate cake and coffee. We could also have chosen a made-to-order ice cream sundae, made with all-natural vanilla ice cream and a choice of sauces, whipped cream and chopped nuts.

My mom's warm chocolate cake with chocolate syrup and whipped cream, and a decent cup of coffee.

A selection of "fine cheeses" for me, and a glass of muscat.

The meal wasn't quite as high-class as all the fancy words make it sound, but there's no denying that the meal, served by ever-smiling flight attendants, was thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. And if you're of a mind to indulge, the wine and liquor never stop flowing.

For what they call the "Pre-Arrival Meal," we were served an absolutely delicious roasted chicken breast sandwich, topped with pesto and provolone and a cold salad plate with smoked salmon. For some reason, that chicken sandwich really hit the spot. Perhaps because I hadn't expected anything with so much flavor for a meal that could easily be treated as an afterthought.

The "pre-arrival meal" of a roasted chicken breast sandwich, smoked salmon salad, and warm cookie.

My mom, who had never flown first class or business class in her life, could not have been more thrilled by the flight, which made me enjoy it all the more. The food wouldn't win any awards on the ground (except, perhaps, for that chicken sandwich), but the meals and the extra room and comfy seats and in-flight entertainment and the smiling flight attendants and, yes, the ever-flowing alcohol combine for a truly memorable experience.

Daisy and I are treating ourselves to Business Elite when we fly to the United States later this month to get married. Emma will be traveling with us, of course, and I'm betting that that ice-cream cart could be in some serious trouble.

The dessert cart making its way down the aisle.

A naked ice cream sundae, awaiting its nuts, whipped cream, and sauces.

As a design buff, I was quite taken with these miniature salt-and-pepper shakers, a different set served with the two meals.

A 'Truly Magical' Cat

2010-09-02T09:43:00.004+02:00

Chaz in his new home.

Just a quick update on Sassy/Chaz, the stray/lost Persian cat that we rescued and found a home for a few weeks ago. (You can read more about that adventure here and here.)

I recently received a lovely note and a photograph from Chaz's new owner that I wanted to share:

Hello Grant,

I want to let you know that Chaz is very happy. And is now with R---- whom he was quite surprised to see. I think Chaz thought it was going to just be him and I and was loving all the snuggling.

He loves to look at the top windows that are open and listen and watch the rain. He did this all night on Sunday evening.

I kept the same menu for him and bought him his same cat food and put together a clean litter box.

I am forwarding a photo of R---- the moment he met Chaz. Although the first word R----- said when he saw him was "Snow." R---- now calls him "White King," but I call him Chaz Panda! He really is something, isn't he?

R---- likes to take an antique mirror and show him his reflection....giggle.

Very happy cat, indeed. My daughter Isabel really likes him. She says that he is very pretty and asked, "Where did you get him?" I told her the entire story. She was amazed!

He was well worth waiting for. He is truly magical.

Thank you once again for letting me adopt him.

Lots of good stuff,

V

We Came, We Saw Kasabian

2010-08-18T21:10:00.005+02:00

Tent pitched and ready to rock.

Daisy and I pretended we were young people last weekend.

We attended the Open Air Music Festival in the village of Panenský Týnec, a village 50 kilometers northwest of Prague. The festival was held on the runway of the airport in the village. I thought it was some sort of abandoned Soviet military airport, but now I understand it may still be in use.

Anyway, we were there to see one band and one band only -- Kasabian, the headliner for Saturday night.

A lot of people in Europe still haven't heard of Kasabian, and no one in America seems to have, but they're huge in the U.K. Their latest album, "West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum," was shortlisted for the 2009 Mercury Prize, spent two weeks at No. 1, and was voted best album of 2009 by Q magazine. Kasabian also won best group at the 2010 Brit Awards.

Neither Daisy nor I had ever attended an outdoor music festival. Even though plenty of bands that we liked have played these festivals in past years, we just didn't want to deal with the mud and the weather and the drunk people and standing in the middle of a pack of 10,000 people all squeezed against the stage.

But for Kasabian, we'd endure.

Our humble campsite.

We even decided to camp at the site and really dive into the whole festival culture. OK, we did pay a bit extra for "VIP" tickets that allowed us to park and camp in a more secure area (and gave us access to a plush VIP tent with a cocktail bar, comfy couches and private toilets) , but still.

Enjoying an adult beverage in the VIP tent.

The VIP tent came in handy, because Kasabian didn't come on until close to midnight. But they were worth the wait. Fantastic show. It's great when you know every single song, and you love every single song.

We (ok, Daisy) had only one complaint: too much swearing, sonny.

My arty shot before the show began.

We were actually much closer than this picture would suggest.

Kasabian is a sophisticated and lyrically complicated band. But when it came to communicating with the crowd, the lead singer, Tom Meighan, fell back on motherf***er about 600 times too often. Does he think that's the only English that Czech festival-goers understand? Or did he really, truly think we were motherf***kers? Surely there are better exhortations.

Also, they shouldn't have made us do the wave.

But it was a small chink in what was otherwise a motherf***ing good show.

"You motherf***ers out there might know this next one!"

We got back to our tent around 2 a.m. and zonked out, but I noticed that the music didn't actually stop until around 6 a.m.

We had a great time. The food was tasty (we enjoyed some delectable Prague ham roasted over an open fire), the weather held, and the music fans behaved themselves (neither of us noticed a single police officer the entire time we were there).

Now, if we can only remember how to set up the tent the next time.

Lead singer Tom Meighan disappears into the limelight.

One of the sideshow attractions was this climbing demonstration. This woman was climbing a stack of empty beer crates. One of her partners would winch another crate up to her as soon as she'd scaled the last one. Pretty impressive.

Eventually, the crates toppled.

This is the camping area for the riff-raff. Reminded us of a refugee camp.

Clouds Before The Storm

2010-08-16T10:17:00.003+02:00

I took this series of photographs last evening outside my home in Černý Vůl, west of Prague, just a few hours before a massive lightning and rainstorm hit the area.

Funny Signs I Have Known

2010-08-13T15:39:00.001+02:00

I took this one in a park known as Přírodní park Prokopské a Dalejské údolí in Prague a few years ago while cycling.

A Home Sweet Home For Chaz

2010-08-13T09:51:00.012+02:00

Chaz hanging out at our place shortly before we took him to his new home.

I'm happy to report that Daisy and I found a good home for Chaz, the sort-of-stray cat we rescued last month.

A kind American woman had been looking for an adult cat, saw my ad on Prague.tv, and is surprising her son when he returns from the mountains on Friday.

As you may remember, we actually found Chaz's previous owners living in the nearby village of Statenice (his name was Sassy then -- not a good name for a male cat). They were just about to return home to Britain and seemed kinda happy to have their cat back, but inexplicably had done nothing in the way of ensuring that Chaz/Sassy would return home with them.

It's not that complicated, people.

Anyway, they promised to get in touch once they returned to the U.K., but predictably, I never heard a single word from either of them for more than two weeks. I had written them e-mails, messages on Facebook, and sent text messages. No reply.

Pretty irresponsible, in my opinion.

I figured I'd never hear anything from them, but the day after we found Chaz a new home, I finally got a message on Facebook from one of the owners, apologizing for not getting in touch, blah blah blah.

Too late.

I will give them credit for reimbursing us for the costs of the surgery on Chaz's ear, from an infection he acquired while he was out on his own, but that's the only credit I will give them.

If you count Oscar, Chaz is the fifth stray cat we've rescued in the past two years or so. I think we need to put up one of these signs outside our front gate:

Repeat After Me

2010-08-03T17:23:00.003+02:00

Happiness is the longing for repetition.
-- Milan Kundera

A few photographs, taken over the past few weeks, in which I take delight in the repetition of pleasing patterns...

Mrs. Angotti's Famous Spaghetti & Meatballs

2010-08-03T15:52:00.005+02:00

With a bottle of my new favorite wine: Bremerton Selkirk Shiraz.

I made spaghetti and meatballs from scratch the other night as a treat for my mom, who's recuperating from a hip fracture.

I used an old family recipe, which was passed down to us from an Italian nun my mom used to know in nursing school back in the 1950s.

Actually, I shouldn't say passed down to "us." The recipe was given to my mom and dad and only recently passed along to me by my mom.

My father, who died in February, had proudly perfected the recipe over the years (adding a little of this, subtracting a little of that) and would make it for me whenever I visited. It was always delicious.

The only thing is, he guarded the recipe fiercely. I think he thought I would try to market it professionally and steal his riches. (In fact, he made a few inquiries himself on bottling it for mass consumption, but the idea never got off the ground.)

Anyway, the recipe is ridiculously simple, really. The most time-consuming part is simply letting the sauce reduce on the stove over the course of six or seven hours. But in good conscience, I can't divulge the recipe.

Rest in peace, Dad.

A Visiting Mom, A Broken Hip And A Persian Cat

2010-08-03T12:21:00.009+02:00

My mom, just a few hours after she arrived, chilling out on our back terrace.

Let me tell you a story about my mother, a Persian cat, and a broken bone.

My father died in February.

While I was in Cumberland, in western Maryland, for the funeral, I invited my mother to come to Prague for a month this summer. Take her mind off things. Escape from reality for a bit. We'd even take her with us on our annual two-week holiday in Brela, Croatia.

My mom's 76. I was pretty worried about her getting here safely. She's been to Prague before but had never flown solo. I got her a wheelchair in Baltimore and Atlanta, and she was whisked through security right to her gate.

I thought to myself that I will only be able to relax when I finally see her walk out of baggage claim at the airport, her suitcase rolling behind her.

She did just that on the morning of July 5.

On the afternoon of July 7, she fell outside my house and fractured her hip.

She was on the back porch when she missed a small step and went down, hard. I was in the house and heard her calling my name. I found her splayed out on the deck. My mom used to be a registered nurse, and she was hoping that her hip was only bruised, but suspected otherwise.

Hanging out with Emma, before the fall.

She was in a lot of pain. I got her into a chair and called an ambulance, which took her on a wild, jarring ride to Prague's Military Hospital. (I was shocked by the fact that most cars in Prague don't pay any attention to ambulances or sirens. We narrowly avoided at least two accidents on the way to the hospital because of idiotic drivers not slowing down for us.)

X-rays revealed a clean break in her hip bone. She was scheduled for emergency surgery at 9 p.m. that night.

The surgery went well. The surgeon put a metal plate and about four or five screws into her hip.

I made twice daily visits to the hospital, bringing her decent food and drink and newspapers and magazines and filling an iPod with audiobooks (Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes") and podcasts (she was especially partial to the ongoing series by Ricky Gervais, Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington).

She was very, very brave through it all, especially considering she doesn't speak a word of Czech.

She was discharged on Friday, July 16. She's home now, walking around on crutches, learning how to walk up and down stairs, and giving herself a daily injection to prevent blood clots. She's working very hard, and I hope everything will be OK.

I am returning with her to the United States on August 19. She'll need someone to accompany her through the maze of travel.

Medicare doesn't cover the cost of any injuries suffered outside the United States. And she had no other insurance.

And, of course, the dream of taking my mother to Croatia for two weeks was shattered. In the end, Daisy went with Emma to Croatia for the first week, and I went to Brela for the second week (while Daisy returned to kindly take care of my mom).

Cooling off with Emma and me, the day before.

(In another scare, I phoned my mom once I arrived in Croatia to make sure she was OK. She would be alone in the house for five or six hours until Daisy arrived, which made me very nervous. I called, but she never answered. The phone just rang and rang and rang. I kept calling back, but still no answer. In the end, panicked out of my skull, I called a friend, Dan, who was kind enough to drop everything he was doing and drive to my house to check on my mom. I feared the worst. Fortunately, she was just fine. The portable phone I had left for her had, incredibly, just gone dead.)

Of course, there were many hours spent on the phone, rescheduling and canceling tickets, and getting the process started to sell my mom's house back in Cumberland, Maryland. Sadly, she won't be able to live there anymore, because of the steep steps in the house. We've got to auction off many of her possessions and find her a new apartment.

If all that hadn't been enough...

Just before my mom arrived, we found ourselves taking care of yet another cat. (You can read about our previous cat rescues here.)

A few weeks ago, I was giving some friends a lift to the bus stop. It was around 11 p.m., and at the end of our road, sitting in the middle of our road, just a few meters from busy Route 240, was a white cat.

"That cat's gonna get hit by a car," I said. He slowly moved into the bushes and let my car go past.

On the way back, the cat had moved back into the middle of the road. It was a beautiful cat, and obviously belonged to someone. What can you do in a situation like that? You can't just open the car door and take it with you.

Except a few days later, I saw it outside our house, sitting in the dirt between our two parked cars, as if he owned the place. From afar, I thought it might be Oscar, but a check with the binoculars showed that it was the Cat From The Middle of the Road. I went out to check on it, but it scampered away.

The next day, Daisy called me at work. I was working late. The next-door neighbor lady was feeding The Cat, she said. It was covered in ticks (Daisy removed 27 ticks, I believe she said) and one of its ears was swollen with blood. Both of its ears were filled the mites. Its fur was tangled with leaves and burrs.

Daisy took it to our local vet, who drained the ear and checked it over. It was thin and its ear would need surgery. Daisy named the cat Chaz. (It has one green eye and one blue eye, and from what we understand originally came to Prague from Iran.)

We put posters up all around the area. It was a long-haired Persian (not exactly your typical feral cat), and it had been neutered, so we figured it must belong to someone.

Sure enough, while I was in the hospital visiting my mom, the owners called. They lived in the neighboring village of Statenice and the cat had run away a few weeks before.

The problem is, the owners were moving back to Britain in a few weeks and couldn't (or so they thought) take the cat -- whose real name was Sassy -- with them. Would we like to keep the cat? Frankly, I had enough on my plate. I was stressing out big time.

So, the day after I took Chaz/Sassy to the vet for his ear surgery, I returned him to his owners, who thought they'd located a potential home for him. I told them that if they couldn't find a home for him, to give me a call and I'd see what I could do.

It was a very sweet and cuddly cat, and we wanted the best for him.

Well, guess what?

Chaz/Sassy is living with us now, at least temporarily. In the end, his owners, Dean and his partner, Roxanne, couldn't find a home for him, nor could they take him back to Britain on such short notice.

(The U.K.'s formerly draconian quarantine laws have changed, and it now takes about seven months to complete the process of shots and observation needed before a cat or dog can be allowed onto the island. As I pointed out to them, if they'd had some foresight, they could have gotten this process started quite some time ago. I must admit to being pretty frustrated at the whole deal.)

Sassy's owner, Dean, after he took her back while he was recovering from ear surgery (hence the plastic collar), but before Dean had to return to Britain.

Unfortunately, Chaz/Sassy isn't getting along too well with our house cat Chicho (they got into a brief but intense fight the other day), so he's quarantined to our basement.

I'm still waiting to hear from his owners about what they want to do.

In the meantime, if you're interested in adopting a lovely Persian permanently -- or would be willing to take care of him for seven months or so until he's claimed by his old owners -- please let me know at grantpodelco@yahoo.com.

Whew! To say it's been a stressful few weeks is to belabor understatement.

And I haven't even mentioned that my iPhone shut down after I tried to update to the latest software. After numerous phone calls to Apple (not exactly what I wanted to be doing amidst all this), it's now being replaced.

Or the speeding ticket I received in the mail the other day...

You have to admit, Chaz/Sassy is pretty adorable.

Oddly enough, in some sort of cosmic coincidence, when Daisy first took Chaz/Sassy to the vet, they wanted to know what his name was. In a panic, she said Bela. Which turns out is the name of Dean and Roxanne's other Persian cat, which was also lost and has yet to be found (although it's been spotted around their old flat, apparently).

Checking Out Český Ráj

2010-07-08T09:31:00.007+02:00

Daisy, me, and the Honda Shadow 600 outside the Hrubá Skála Chateau. Taken by a passer-by and, sadly, slightly out of focus.

It takes more love to share the saddle than it does to share the bed. -- Unknown

Ever since I got my Czech motorcycle license two years ago, and bought my 2002 Honda Shadow 600, I've had this dream of going on an overnight motorcycle trip with Daisy.

While that may strike you as a perfectly reasonable goal given that 1) I have a motorcycle, and 2) Daisy was entirely agreeable to the idea, somehow I just hadn't been able to get it together.

The Hrubá Skála chateau.

Part of it, I’m sure, was a certain apprehension to committing to such an adventure. I'm a relatively new motorcycle rider, I don't have tons of experience riding with a passenger, Czech drivers are insane and aren't used to motorcycles sharing their highways, and I don't speak the language all that well, should a problem arise.

Uneasy rider, if you will.

But when you've got a blog called Gusto, there's not much chance of backing out of something like this.

I had to go for it.

Which I did. Or I should say we did.

And where did we go?

Daisy looks across to the chateau from one of the many overlooks.

We decided to check out Český Ráj, or Czech Paradise, a justly celebrated region of the Czech Republic that we had somehow, in all our years of living here, never visited. It's famous for its spectacular sandstone rock towers and its Middle Earth-like landscape in the valleys below. The hiking is superb, and I was looking forward to working up a mean thirst.

Plus, Český Ráj is only some 120 kilometers or so from our house in Černý Vůl, at least via the country-road route I chose for this trek -- a quite manageable two-hour ride or so on the motorcycle. (It's more like 90 kilometers on the highways direct from Prague.)

Climbers scaling one of the many spectacular rock towers.

More climbers.

I reserved a "luxe" room at the 14th-century Hrubá Skála Chateau or castle, in Hrubá Skála, a village around 6 kilometers southeast of Turnov, which had been recommended to me by a couple of friends, one of whom got married there. It commands sweeping views of that part of Český Ráj and is surrounded by the aforementioned sandstone monoliths.

So after work on a recent Friday, we went home, threw off our work clothes, dressed in our biking finest, stuffed my Honda saddlebags with the bare essentials (underwear, toiletries, backgammon, a bottle of Bohemia Sekt Brut), slipped on our helmets, and hit the road.

Daisy goes rogue among the sandstone formations.

And you know what? As soon as rubber met road, all my apprehension disappeared, like those big trucks in my rear-view mirror. The sun was shining, the tank was full, the weekend lay ahead, and my baby was behind me.

As someone once said, only a biker knows why a dog sticks his head out of a car window. What a thrill it is to be zipping along winding country roads, leaning this way and that, the wind in your face, the smells of manure and flowers and wheat fields baking in the sun wafting around inside your helmet.

And I still get a kick out of observing that unwritten code of motorcycling (I had to learn it by experience; no one ever tells you these things) -- that is, always waving, nonchalantly, at other motorcyclists passing in the opposite direction. Just an effortless extension and slight turn of the left wrist, or a slowly extended left foot if your hands are otherwise occupied. (And distinctions are definitely made for those riding on whiny Vespas or other type of scooters. They don't deserve waves.)

We meandered from Černý Vůl to Kralupy, up to Velvary, over to Melnik, then connected to Mladá Boleslav, up to Turnov, and then a few more kilometers to our destination -- up the winding, leafy, sun-dappled country road to the spectacularly situated Hrubá Skála.

At Hrubá Skála, I parked the bike, killed the engine, and thought, "We made it!"

How was the hotel? Well, you couldn't ask for a better location, but it's sorely in need of someone to read the staff the proverbial Riot Act. Food at the restaurant was OK but seriously hampered by lackadaisical, albeit friendly, service. We ate outside on the terrace overlooking the valley and saw many couples waiting endlessly to get noticed by the waiters.

Even though we were generally fairly served in comparison, watching other couples be ignored kinda ruins your own meal, you know?

The breakfast "buffet" the next morning was also one of the saddest such displays we've encountered. Bland, unimaginative food, and atrocious attention to items that had run out, like coffee and milk, let alone eggs and bread. Even though we arrived a full hour before breakfast ended, there was little left to choose from except a few slices of cheese and meat and one boiled hot dog.)

Our room.

Another view of our room.

The view from our hotel window.

Our "luxe" room -- No. 122, which set us back around $115 per night) was quite lovely and had its own spacious toilet facilities (a rarity at this hotel, where most of the rooms share baths down the hall). Horrifyingly, however, the jacuzzi bathtub was suffering from a rather large infestation of ants, most of them, interestingly, winged.

After I brought the problem to her attention, the woman at the front desk quickly offered us another room, but it was a standard double and paled in comparison. Housekeeping was gone for the day, so Daisy bravely tackled the vermin with a can of Raid while I sipped a beer on the terrace. (Hey, she volunteered!)

We never saw another ant for the rest of the weekend, and spent the rest of our time hiking, sleeping, eating, and drinking.

We explored all the trails winding around above, below and around the chateau. We gawked at the rock climbers scaling the sandstone towers, and discovered a hushed memorial to fallen Czech climbers hidden deep in the forest. We picked wild blueberries (at least that's what I think they were) in the forest, and drank a few beers and had a snack at a whimsical teahouse nestled within a tiny arboretum not far from the chateau.

We looked (unsuccessfully) for our first geocache near the Adam's Bed rock formation (across from which is an "erotic" sandstone relief of two lovers, which was apparently defaced in more modest times) and drank wine and played backgammon on the chateau's outdoor terrace.

We had a great time.

Despite all that, though, I couldn't wait to get back on the Shadow on Sunday for the ride home. My confidence had been firmly rooted. We took a different route back, this time mostly on highway all the way back to Prague.

We reached a top speed of around 112 kph, which for me, especially with a passenger, is quite fast. There's no windshield on my bike, and you'd be surprised at how hard the wind pounds you in the chest when you're going 90 or 100 kph. Choppers are meant for slow, easy riding, which is why the country roads around here are so perfect. That's my kind of riding.

As we ate dinner on Saturday night, a hot-air balloon drifted over the castle.

Now, we're planning to go back, perhaps to explore the trails around the more touristy Prachovské skály area of Český Ráj. And that's just the thing. Even though the chateau left a lot to be desired in many significant areas, we'd probably stay there again when we revisit this area. It felt rather private and a lot less trampled than what we saw of Prachovské skály as we drove past on the way home.

We'll take Emma back with us next time. Then again, there was a decent looking campground near Prachovské Skály, so we might just go that route, too.

The Middle Earth-like rock formations and valleys surrounding the chateau (above and below).

A charming little teahouse in an arboretum near the chateau. In addition to tea, they served beer and light snacks, as well as homemade tie-died clothing. Very cool.

Enjoying a few beers and some surprisingly tasty couscous at the teahouse.

A memorial to fallen Czech climbers deep in the forest near the chateau.

Someone in this photo needs a haircut.

The twin towers of the 14th-century Trosky Castle overlook the Český Ráj region.

Wine and backgammon on the terrace.

Trying, unsuccessfully (and rather ridiculously), to locate my first geocache near the Adam's Bed rock formation.

The Best Steak In Prague

2010-06-29T22:25:00.006+02:00

This is it (pommes frites not shown).

If you're a steak lover -- an aficionado of thick, tender, juicy cuts of beef -- the best steak in Prague isn't to be found in Prague.

You must drive a measly 18 kilometers from Prague 6 to the village of Okoř -- 22 minutes away, according to Google Maps -- and sit yourself down at a table at the Family Hotel Okoř & Restaurant, a clunky name for a truly charming establishment that'll make you believe you're sitting at an inn in the French countryside. (If that wasn't enough, it's even a stone's throw from the picturesque ruins of a 14th-century castle.)

Order the beefsteak filet with green pepper sauce and French fries. Medium rare. It'll set you back a reasonable $14, and comes with some of the best French fries around, to boot.

I started with this lovely salad of goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes.

Then ask for a bottle of 2007 Bremerton Selkirk Shiraz from South Australia (around $25), a luscious, peppery red full of dark fruits that'll knock your socks off (at least it did mine) and which goes wonderfully with the steak.

For dessert, try the baked pear with a peppercorn crust and caramel ice cream. Also goes good with another bottle of that Shiraz.

Baked pear with a peppercorn crust and caramel ice cream.

The hotel, I am told, uses a local butcher for all their cuts of meat. It's Czech beef, not Argentinian or American, but don't let that deter you. It's quality stuff.

I've never had a bad steak there. Ever.

In fact, I'm hesitant to even talk about the Family Hotel Okoř & Restaurant -- the friendly service, the reasonable prices -- for the usual reason in these situations: I don't want my favorite eatery, unknown to most people, to become a hot spot. But considering its location, I'm betting that is an unlikely scenario.

You can drive, if you don't want to drink, or hop in a taxi, or take the 350 regional bus from Dejvická for a 44-minute ride.

If you're lucky, you'll run into Czech composer and singer Petr Hapka having a meal. He lives in the village. It's rare when we don't see him.

Sure, there's more on the menu in Okoř than steak. (The menu on the website needs to be updated and doesn't reflect the current offerings, however.) But I always seem to order one thing when I go there.

Why mess with success?

The castle ruins in Okoř.

Gonna See Kasabian

2010-06-21T10:32:00.006+02:00

We're very excited. We're going to get to see one of our favorite bands, Kasabian.

They're one of the headliners at the Open Air Festival on August 14 at Letiště Panenský Týnec, about 50 km north of Prague. From what I gather, it's some old military airport that's been converted into an outdoor concert venue.

I went crazy and bought a VIP ticket but can't seem to find out what that means exactly! Anyone out there know what that entitles us to?!

We're also thinking of camping but also can't find much information about this, either.

Any advice or tips on attending this festival would be appreciated!

Pussy Galore

2010-06-16T21:30:00.003+02:00

Oscar basking in the warm grass.

Every time I bend down to give old Oscar a scratch behind the ears, I think I ought to give regular Gusto readers an update on all the cats that I've written about over the past couple of years.

You may remember that Oscar is the stray cat that adopted us shortly after we moved into our house out here in Černý Vůl, northwest of Prague. He's been through a lot, that Oscar -- most notably an almost fatal brush with pneumonia last winter. He was so sick that he allowed us to take him to the vet. He lived in our bathroom/toilet for a month while he took his medicine.

He recovered, and while we would have liked for him to have stayed inside permanently, he is a wild one, and he wanted back out, where he's lived ever since.

He survived the harsh winter of 2009-10 and, except for the occasional cough and myriad ticks (which he patiently lets Daisy remove), seems to be in excellent health and spirits.

Oscar likes to lounge in the sun on the covering to our woodpile.

Oscar can be found reliably on our doorstep every morning and every evening, waiting for his wet and dry food, and found sunning himself in various favorite locations around our garden during the day.

He's a tough old cat, but affectionate and loyal.

Most of the time, when we arrive home from work, he scampers in front of us on the sidewalk to our front door and plops himself down and rolls over on his back, hoping for a belly scratch. Of course, most of the time we're happy to. When we're through, we'll walk forward, and he'll jump up and scamper ahead and do the same thing all over again.

More like a dog than a cat, really.

Oscar is always waiting to greet us when we come home from work. Doesn't it look like he's wearing eyeliner?

We really love Oscar and always get a little worried if he doesn't show up right on time to get fed. As they say, we are his hoomans.

Remember Flake? She's the newborn kitten we found in our backyard just an hour or so before we were supposed to catch a plane for Croatia in 2008.

Our landlord was kind enough to take care of Flake, as he named her, for the two weeks we were gone. He and his wife nursed Flake back to health by feeding her milk through an eye-dropper, before passing her along to us once we returned from holiday.

The very lucky, and lovely, Flakey, a few weeks ago at Stewart's house.

As you may remember, my good friend Stewart and his family adopted Flake a month or so later, once she was eating solid food and on the road to recovery.

I’m happy to report that Flake (or Flakey, as she's now known) is doing great in Roztoky, except for a recurring eye infection of some sort. When we found Flake, her eyes were still closed, and I’m afraid we may have actually caused the infection in our efforts to care for her and clean her off.

Flakey was shortly joined in Stewart's household by Flukey, yet another (albeit older) kitten that showed up on our doorstep around the same time. Stewart's kids wanted a second cat, and Flukey fit the bill nicely.

Both are doing well.

A recent picture of Flukey. Says Stewart: "She's a lovely cat, my wee pal. She's also a bit nuts....had a bit of a tough start in life so I think she appreciates a happy homestead. She gets so relaxed she forgets herself and repeatedly falls off couches, beds etc. Very funny."

And then there's Luna.

Luna, as Emma named her, was a gorgeous 8-week-old kitten who showed up on our doorstep last fall. After a few weeks of living inside with us, Luna was adopted by another friend of ours, Venera, where she's been thriving ever since.

Luna in her new home recently.

There are few other cats we've seen eating recently from Oscar's food bowl -- Ghost Cat, Black Kitty, and Orange Cat -- but all seem either to be too skittish or too thuggish to be candidates for adoption.

I'm so glad we found good homes for all these stray kitties, but I'm also glad we haven't had to perform that task again for quite some time.

Perhaps getting Oscar fixed while he was at the vet did the trick!

Our housecat Chicho, gazingly longingly out our front door, no doubt at Oscar frolicking about. We lost our other housecat, the beloved Zhenya, at the end of December.

Chicho curled up inside Daisy's yoga bag.

Oscar likes nothing better than to roll over as we're trying to pass by on the sidewalk and beg for a scratch.

Cool Old Tatra Firetruck

2010-06-10T22:16:00.005+02:00

I took these photos a few days ago in the nearby village of Nebušice. The local fire station had pulled their vintage Czech-made Tatra firetruck out into the street.

I'm not sure when this truck dates from. Someone out there probably knows better than I do. I'd guess the early '70s.

You can't see it very well, but there's a smallish water nozzle stuck on a swivel in the back that a firefighter would man, sort of like a machine gun.

This is a very cool vehicle, certainly. And they obviously take good care of it.

But I must admit, it doesn't inspire a lot of confidence if this is the only equipment the village has at its disposal with which to fight fires.

Not So Humble Pie

2010-06-04T12:48:00.006+02:00

Looks like Daisy's got some competition!

I've posted photos here before of Daisy's intricate lattice-crust pies, such as this amazing creation or the strawberry-rhubarb extravaganza pictured below, which she baked a few weeks ago.

Paul Sindelar, Daisy's father; Alyson Adams, his wife; and Paul's stepdaughter Hannah sent us the above photograph of their incredible Memorial Day-inspired pie.

Fantastic.

Alyson said they all contributed to the making, and to the eating. It's another strawberry-rhubarb, with the crust recipe coming from Paul's mother. Alyson says it never fails.

If this pie tasted half as good as it looks ...

Breakfast In America (And Other Delights)

2010-06-04T12:27:00.008+02:00

Daisy, Emma and I took a trip home to the United States recently. Of course, food and drink is always a big part of the adventure.

I miss American food, and visiting local diners and neighborhood restaurants is always high on my agenda. There's nothing I enjoy more than sitting down in a booth at an old-fashioned diner, ordering scrambled eggs, sausage, rye toast, and coffee, and reading the local newspaper.

Whenever I'm on vacation, I also end up taking pictures of a lot of the food I eat. (Funny, there was a story in "The New York Times" while we were there about this very practice. Most people think I'm a little strange, but I don't take photos of every meal!)

One of the highlights of our trip to the U.S. was a visit to Holsten's Ice Cream Parlor in Bloomfield, N.J., where they filmed the controversial last scene of "The Sopranos" (below).

Their vanilla malt is to die for (no pun intended).

Calling Off The Dogs

2010-05-26T11:20:00.005+02:00

It's hard to grill hot dogs in the Czech Republic. They all seem to explode after a minute or two on the barbecue. (See above.)

Hot dogs in the United States don't do that. We wouldn't stand for it! ;-)

Anyone know why they do that here, and if there is a brand that doesn't?

It's also interesting that there is no such thing as a hot dog bun in Prague, either. We're forced to use these long rolls they call rohliky, which are usually kinda tough and stale unless you get them right out of the oven.

Life is hard.

Eggs Post Facto

2010-05-22T10:49:00.003+02:00

Does that mean it's farm-fresh, or the factory just doesn't give a s**t to actually wash their eggs before they sell them?

I must admit to being slightly disgusted early on a Saturday morning.

Knock Knock!

2010-05-21T22:06:00.002+02:00

I think we've all been through this door.

Spotted on a recent outing in a Prague suburb.

Made me smile.

The Good And The Bad About Box Wine

2010-05-20T10:19:00.000+02:00

"You look like my mommy after her box of wine." -- Ralph Wiggum on "The Simpsons"

I was in my local wine shop last week, The Wine Depot in Horoměřice, and noticed part of a wall devoted to boxes of wine.

I was intrigued.

I'd been hearing that boxed wine is actually pretty good nowadays -- (I'm not talking about those small boxes of cheap-o wine you see in the local grocery shops) -- that respected vintners are getting in on the act and that's it's not all Franzia and Boone's Farm swill.

I asked the wine clerk on duty, and she confirmed the rumors. The stuff they were selling is very good, she said. I decided to give it a try.

The wine is inside a five-liter plastic bladder inside the box itself. Pull out the spigot and start drinking!

The wine stays fresher longer -- for weeks (if it could possibly remain undrunk for that long) -- because no oxygen ever gets to it.

I've now tried two Italian varities, both from Farnese -- a lovely, smooth Sangiovese Daunia and a brutish Primitivo that really seemed to knock me on my butt(but in a good way).

The two wines averaged out to about $6 per liter -- a fantastic deal.

There's only one problem. Or maybe it's not a problem.

I've found that I'm drinking a lot more wine -- a lot more -- than I did before. And I drank my fair share before.

When you have a seemingly endless stream of good wine flowing out of a convenient spigot in your kitchen, it's hard to resist going back for another glass. And another.

Imagine if wine instead of water came out of your kitchen faucet when you turned it on and you'll get the idea.

A bottle of wine naturally imposes some limits to your drinking.

I'll keep working at this problem and get back to you.

A Crappy Sign

2010-05-20T09:24:00.003+02:00

I am all for dog owners in Prague cleaning up after their pets. It's a big problem.

But this sign seems to be suggesting that dog owners get a little closer to the issue than I'd personally be willing to go.

The guy seems to be worshipping at some poo altar.

Plus, that's already a sizable pile, and more is on the way!

Hilarious.

R.I.P. Nibble Richards

2010-05-18T07:17:00.002+02:00

We've buried two cats in our backyard over the past couple of years -- Oscar Junior, a stray cat we'd grown mightily fond of, and our beloved Zhenya. (Read more about them here and here.)

Over the weekend, I discovered that there's at least one more family pet at eternal rest in our garden.

While doing some yard work, I noticed a small wooden sign stuck in the middle of a cinder block. I'd seen the sign before but had never noticed its faded writing. I think I must have assumed it was some sort of garden marker and hadn't paid it much attention.

On closer inspection, I discovered that the sign reads:

R.I.P.
Nibble Richards
2000-2003

It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the dearly departed was likely a hamster or a gerbil and that Richards was the family name of our house's previous occupant.

What a fantastic name for a hamster.

Rest in peace, little guy.

Venus de Why-lo?

2010-05-17T09:39:00.005+02:00

We came across this provocative -- and crudely rendered -- lawn sculpture in our local home-and-garden shop the other day.

The view from the rear was just as revealing, if you know what I mean.

No price that I could see, but I'm sure it was in the hundreds of dollars.

Who would buy such a monstrosity? And perhaps more importantly, where would they put it?

Classy stuff.

Rest In Peace

2010-05-17T08:37:00.003+02:00

Over the weekend, we planted a beautiful little azalea bush on Zhenya's grave in our backyard.

We really do miss her.

A Little Piece Of 'Mad Men'

2010-05-03T11:09:00.007+02:00

I've always loved these drinking glasses.

If I remember correctly, I bought them in an antique store in Cumberland, Maryland, sometime in the 1990s.

There used to be another city glass in the original collection -- Paris. It shattered one day in the sink a few years back. It was a sad day.

I've always wondered about the choices of cities depicted on these glasses, which by my reckoning must date to sometime in the 1950s, considering that Havana is one of the designs.

They look like something out of "Mad Men" to me.

I can understand Rome and Madrid and Paris, and maybe even Bombay, but The Hague??!! I've always been curious as to the thinking behind that choice. It's an obscure city even today.

Who knows? There may have been a bunch more in the collection. New York and London spring to mind as obvious candidates. I probably didn't buy a complete set.

These glasses are great for gin and tonics, which is why they're on my mind. We pulled them out last night for the first G&Ts of the season.

These glasses make any drink taste better somehow.

If anyone knows anything about these designs, I'd certainly appreciate it if you'd leave a comment.

Bones About It

2010-04-26T10:51:00.004+02:00

A co-worker of mine recently came back to his desk from the company snack bar with this colorful lunch.

Something about the simplicity of the foods here that really caught my fancy. Fish and carrots. Just fish and carrots.

I believe it was a dorado.

This is part of my unplanned fish series on Gusto (see here and here).

Tee Many Martoonis

2010-04-26T09:29:00.005+02:00

Hey, folks. Sorry for not writing much lately. Just returned from a three-week trip to visit family and friends in the United States.

It was only supposed to have been a two-week trip, but the volcano forced the cancellation of our flight and we had to remain an extra week or so.

We ended up working from our D.C. office for those extra days. (Although I did manage to enjoy myself, including a couple of top-notch gin martinis at Town & Country, the famous bar/lounge at the famous -- and infamous -- Mayflower Hotel in Washington.)

I'm sure I'll post something about our trip in the coming days (at the very least a slideshow).

As always, thanks for reading!

Yummy, Chewy, Fishy: Yes, It Has To Be 'Vobla'

2010-03-18T07:01:00.006+01:00

The vobla in question.

We had some lovely houseguests over the past four days -- Daisy's old friend from her days in Moscow, Ellen Barry (who's now one of the Moscow correspondents for "The New York Times") and her husband, Kiya Wilson, and their adorable 2-year-old daughter, Alice. (That's Daisy, left, and Ellen in the photo below.)

I'd never met any of them before Saturday, but now I feel as if we're all close friends.

Among the gifts they brought us from Moscow were a bunch of ugly old dried fish with surprised looks frozen on their withered faces. They were wrapped up in aluminum foil and kitchen towels.

"Was it legal to fly these things across the border?" I asked.

Turns out they're called vobla, and they're a tradition in Russia, pulled apart for the scant salty flesh inside and washed down with copious quantities of beer.

As for my first taste of vobla, well, I'd describe it as salty fish chewing gum. Very salty. It burned all of our throats. Thus, the beer, I guess.

Turns out Daisy once wrote an homage to vobla when she was working for "The Moscow Times," that city's venerable English-language daily newspaper. (Even a little drawing that accompanied one of her columns, called "Love & Death," featured a vobla. See it below.)

It originally appeared on October 6, 1995. I thought you'd enjoy reading it.

Yummy, Chewy, Fishy: Yes, It Has to be 'Vobla'

No matter how culturally flexible we all become after a few million years here, there are still many things about Russian cuisine that aren't worth leaping up to defend. Salo is the obvious leader of the pack -- thick slabs of slippery pork fat are simply not an acquired taste. But there are other snack alternatives that unfairly bear the brand of the Russian Inedibles.

Yes, they may be strange looking, but some of them truly deserve admiration and even hearty consumption. So today we consider the humble vobla, the rather dour dried fish you see babushki waving around at metro stops all over town. It's vobla season, as a matter of fact, so what better time to trash your stuffy preconceptions and hunker down over a nice chewy strip of salted fish?

In some ways, vobla is at an immediate disadvantage where salo isn't. Salo, from a distance, could be a dab of whipped cream, or perhaps a nice slice of brie. It's only once you've tried it that you realize what a terrible thing it is. Vobla is so unmistakably an ugly dried fish that many people don't ever even get close. And that is a shame, because once you've gotten over the shock, it can become almost addictively delicious.

Delicious. Well, that's a strong word. Let's stick with addictive. It's not only that pungent, briny taste that keeps you coming back for more -- it's the whole vobla ritual, the cutting and peeling and searching for what ultimately turns out to be very few pieces of meat. It's a snack, like sunflower seeds and crayfish, that keeps hands occupied and mind pleasantly focused. Considerably more complex than ripping open a bag of potato chips, and not nearly as fattening, a single vobla can take nearly an hour to enjoy.

There are other advantages, as well. It's inexpensive, it travels lightly and requires no superfluous packaging, although sometimes a sheet of newspaper is appropriate. If you're an educated vobla consumer, you will be eating fish that is actually quite fresh. (Hold the fish up to the light to check for desirable translucence. Then squeeze gently -- if there's a little give, you've hit the jackpot.) It doesn't really smell and requires no special storage if you want to put off your vobla pleasure for another time. You can leave it on the windowsill, or throw it in the corner of your closet for all it matters, and it will still be there waiting for you, flat and stiff, at the end of the day. Or week.

Perhaps most amazing is that vobla has only one ideal accompanying beverage: Russian beer. Vobla is the one food on earth that makes watery Russian beer taste like nectar from the gods. No one is quite sure why. Eat vobla with a bubbly import and you won't be doing anyone a favor. But pour yourself a Zhigulyovskoye or a Kolos, crack open that fish and you'll swear you've never tasted anything better in your life.

Ski Trip To Filzmoos, Austria 2010

2010-03-06T11:47:00.004+01:00

That's the Bischofsmütze (Bishop's Mitre), Filzmoos' signature peak at 2,454 meters (more than 8,000 feet). It was first conquered by climbers in 1879.

We just returned from a ski trip to the lovely village of Filzmoos, Austria, south of Salzburg. (We also went there last year, during an incredible four-day-long blizzard.)

Daisy and Emma drove there on February 21 with our good friends Tanya Kancheva and Momchil Blagoev and their son, Victor. (You may recall that Tanya and Momchil showed us around their native Bulgaria on a fantastic trip last April.) I joined them late on February 25 after returning from a trip to the United States for my father's funeral.

Unfortunately, my one day of skiing last Friday was rainy, but we went ahead and skied anyway.

We had amazing food and beer and schnapps, and great conversation.

Naturally, on February 27, the day we had to drive back to Prague, the weather was glorious. But those guys had great weather before I arrived, so all was well.

We stayed at the Rettenegghof in Filzmoos, perfectly situated right on a beginner's slope that was perfect for the kids (and for me, too, a beginning skier). The hotel is also a working farm, and we had homemade butter and fresh milk delivered to our door in the mornings.

Doesn't get much better than that!

Homemade butter and fresh milk, right from the farm.