From Vigeland Park in Oslo. Happy Mother's day to all the mom's out there!! May your day not include any scenes like this!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Art Imitates Life Imitates Art
From Vigeland Park in Oslo. Happy Mother's day to all the mom's out there!! May your day not include any scenes like this!
Friday, May 12, 2006
Concerts, Riverboat Rides and now In Oslo
We've had a lot this week! Wednesday we went to a concert featuring pieces by Bach and Vivaldi in one of the ancient churches in Prague. Nothing like pipe organ and flute bouncing around stone walls hundreds of years old! I'm gaining a new appreciation for classical music. Then on Thursday night we were treated by friends of Geo & Krissy's to a riverboat ride (their friend is the captain). It was a fun little tour of the Vltava river through Prague. We arrived in Oslo today and are enjoying a wonderful time of visiting with friends we met in Pasadena. Martin & Maria are our generous hosts while we're here and it's been great to visit and share travelling stories. Tomorrow we're off to explore Oslo. ~sjt
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Monastic Rhythm
We’ve been living here at the International Baptist Theological Seminary for over four weeks now. The Seminary is unique in that it offers students postgraduate degrees in theology and mission that serve not only as “divinity” degrees but also “magister” degrees. A magister degree is approved by the Czech government and therefore will qualify its graduates for teaching work in secular institutions. Therefore, unlike other seminaries and Bible colleges in Europe, these graduates can put their degrees to work in the church or in the wider job market.
But the seminary is more than classes and degrees. It also has a monastic feel to it. Physically the seminary comprises four main buildings arranged around a central courtyard with a fountain. It takes little imagination to see a columned cloister garden in the layout. The seminary has a cafeteria that serves breakfast and lunch to the students, visitors, and those on sabbatical, so meals are eaten very much in common. The seminary holds chapel every morning at 9:00. This time includes singing, the reading of scripture, and intercessory prayer; on Wednesdays one of the community members offers a homily and we celebrate the Lord’s Supper. Sunday mornings the chapel hosts a congregation that is open to the wider community but contains mostly students and faculty to the seminary.
All of these factors conspire to produce a rhythm to life which is rare to find anywhere outside the traditions of monks and nuns. It is a daily heartbeat, a thud-thud that speaks of constancy even in a place where a wide variety of backgrounds and languages makes for lots of curves and surprises. The rhythm is something to be cherished, I think. It is something to be craved, I suspect, for I find it answers some deep indescribable hunger that I barely knew I had.
Yahweh gave the Israelites means by which to live with a rhythm: the Sabbath, the feasts and the festivals. I think the Church must keep up that rhythm. There is a new way to keep the Sabbath of course, and there are new feasts and festivals. But together we must keep them. To keep them—to attend Sunday worship, to participate in a Wednesday prayer group, to sing carols at Christ’s Mass, to wake up early for Easter, and to light the Advent candles—means keeping the systole and diastole of the Church’s heart. To skip these things, to allow them to slip away from our busy schedules, is to suffer arrhythmia. Just as a palpitating heart gives us cause for alarm, so should a life that does not beat with the regular thud-thud of communal rhythm.
Like a single cardiac muscle cell in a Petri dish, the single believer cannot make the heart of the Church beat. It is only bound together in that tight, fist-sized mass that those cells can squeeze the Blood of Life through the entire Body. So we must bind together, beat together, and let the Blood course through us together. So we must keep the monastic rhythm of life.
I hope that we can find this in the Church when we return home.
~emrys
But the seminary is more than classes and degrees. It also has a monastic feel to it. Physically the seminary comprises four main buildings arranged around a central courtyard with a fountain. It takes little imagination to see a columned cloister garden in the layout. The seminary has a cafeteria that serves breakfast and lunch to the students, visitors, and those on sabbatical, so meals are eaten very much in common. The seminary holds chapel every morning at 9:00. This time includes singing, the reading of scripture, and intercessory prayer; on Wednesdays one of the community members offers a homily and we celebrate the Lord’s Supper. Sunday mornings the chapel hosts a congregation that is open to the wider community but contains mostly students and faculty to the seminary.
All of these factors conspire to produce a rhythm to life which is rare to find anywhere outside the traditions of monks and nuns. It is a daily heartbeat, a thud-thud that speaks of constancy even in a place where a wide variety of backgrounds and languages makes for lots of curves and surprises. The rhythm is something to be cherished, I think. It is something to be craved, I suspect, for I find it answers some deep indescribable hunger that I barely knew I had.
Yahweh gave the Israelites means by which to live with a rhythm: the Sabbath, the feasts and the festivals. I think the Church must keep up that rhythm. There is a new way to keep the Sabbath of course, and there are new feasts and festivals. But together we must keep them. To keep them—to attend Sunday worship, to participate in a Wednesday prayer group, to sing carols at Christ’s Mass, to wake up early for Easter, and to light the Advent candles—means keeping the systole and diastole of the Church’s heart. To skip these things, to allow them to slip away from our busy schedules, is to suffer arrhythmia. Just as a palpitating heart gives us cause for alarm, so should a life that does not beat with the regular thud-thud of communal rhythm.
Like a single cardiac muscle cell in a Petri dish, the single believer cannot make the heart of the Church beat. It is only bound together in that tight, fist-sized mass that those cells can squeeze the Blood of Life through the entire Body. So we must bind together, beat together, and let the Blood course through us together. So we must keep the monastic rhythm of life.
I hope that we can find this in the Church when we return home.
~emrys
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Beer Tour II
Plzeň is the city where it all began. Sure, the Mesopotamians and the Egyptians knew how to brew. Sure, the Germanic tribes knew the secrets of yeast. Sure, the ancient Celts imbibed that frothy drink that eased the muscles and quieted the soul. But it wasn’t until the brewers of Plzeň in western Bohemia discovered the secret of bottom-fermentation that the world could be graced with a beverage properly called “beer.”
At least that’s what any self-respecting Plzeňer will tell you. And if you know your beers, you’ll agree (or so I'm told).
On Saturday we toured the brewery in Plzeň. Plzeň is an hour and a half by train west of Prague, an industrial city settled on the confluence of three rivers. Plzeňský Prazdroj, or “Plzeň Brewery,” sits just outside of the city centre on a large piece of land that has the air of medieval-town-done-Disney-style—but not quite. There’s a large stone entrance gate with a guard and red-and-white bars to keep unauthorized vehicles out. The little cobblestone street is clean, there’s an over-sized chessboard on the sidewalk on which the pawns are stylized beer bottles, and there’s another green iron gate through which tours enter the brewery. And there are little patches of tulips reminding you that it's spring in Central Europe.
Our guide—quite proficient in English and unafraid to yell at the construction workers whose noise impinged on her monologue—led us first to a large board explaining in flowchart form the intricacies of brewing. Barley, water, mixing, heating, mixing, hops (only the female parts, by the way), fermenting, fermenting, fermenting, and drinking! Then she took us past the fermentation tanks and into the extensive cellars (9 kilometers of zig-zagging tunnels) where the thousands of barrels used to be stored.
They still brew beer in barrels, but only a few barrels and only for two reasons. First, they want to serve it to tourists (this is where we score big time). Second, they want to make sure that no matter what technological advances are introduced, the beer stays the same quality as the original product. That’s the kind of traditionalism we can live with.
It was standing before eight huge barrels of actively fermenting brew that we found out Plzeň’s secret: by controlling the temperature of the fermenting mixture (and keeping it low), they get the yeast to sink in the barrel. This is called “bottom fermentation” and gives the beer a distinctive bitterness. But even though the name of the beer from Plzeň is trademarked, the name of the process is not. So anywhere you see a beer with the label “Pilsener” (which is German for Plzeňer), it should have also been produced by the same process.
After delivering this unique bit of information our guide led us over to where a gentleman distributed cups of beer tapped right from the barrel. That’s right—no pasteurization, no filtering, no nothing. We had old-school beer, Martin-Luther-style.
It tasted just like the Staropramen I had last week. Oh, well.
So we’ve done it. We’ve toured the place where golden lagers and bottom fermentation began, and plucked the fruit, as it were, from the vine. If you’re keeping score, mark Plzeň, Czech Republic on your card.
By the way, for some reason the brewery has chosen to market (even here in the Czech Republic) under the German permutation of their name: “Pilsner Urquell.” So if you’re interested in tasting the real thing, wherever in the world you are, look for Pilsner Urquell (not Plzeňský Prazdroj).
~emrys
At least that’s what any self-respecting Plzeňer will tell you. And if you know your beers, you’ll agree (or so I'm told).
On Saturday we toured the brewery in Plzeň. Plzeň is an hour and a half by train west of Prague, an industrial city settled on the confluence of three rivers. Plzeňský Prazdroj, or “Plzeň Brewery,” sits just outside of the city centre on a large piece of land that has the air of medieval-town-done-Disney-style—but not quite. There’s a large stone entrance gate with a guard and red-and-white bars to keep unauthorized vehicles out. The little cobblestone street is clean, there’s an over-sized chessboard on the sidewalk on which the pawns are stylized beer bottles, and there’s another green iron gate through which tours enter the brewery. And there are little patches of tulips reminding you that it's spring in Central Europe.
Our guide—quite proficient in English and unafraid to yell at the construction workers whose noise impinged on her monologue—led us first to a large board explaining in flowchart form the intricacies of brewing. Barley, water, mixing, heating, mixing, hops (only the female parts, by the way), fermenting, fermenting, fermenting, and drinking! Then she took us past the fermentation tanks and into the extensive cellars (9 kilometers of zig-zagging tunnels) where the thousands of barrels used to be stored.
They still brew beer in barrels, but only a few barrels and only for two reasons. First, they want to serve it to tourists (this is where we score big time). Second, they want to make sure that no matter what technological advances are introduced, the beer stays the same quality as the original product. That’s the kind of traditionalism we can live with.
It was standing before eight huge barrels of actively fermenting brew that we found out Plzeň’s secret: by controlling the temperature of the fermenting mixture (and keeping it low), they get the yeast to sink in the barrel. This is called “bottom fermentation” and gives the beer a distinctive bitterness. But even though the name of the beer from Plzeň is trademarked, the name of the process is not. So anywhere you see a beer with the label “Pilsener” (which is German for Plzeňer), it should have also been produced by the same process.
After delivering this unique bit of information our guide led us over to where a gentleman distributed cups of beer tapped right from the barrel. That’s right—no pasteurization, no filtering, no nothing. We had old-school beer, Martin-Luther-style.
It tasted just like the Staropramen I had last week. Oh, well.
So we’ve done it. We’ve toured the place where golden lagers and bottom fermentation began, and plucked the fruit, as it were, from the vine. If you’re keeping score, mark Plzeň, Czech Republic on your card.
By the way, for some reason the brewery has chosen to market (even here in the Czech Republic) under the German permutation of their name: “Pilsner Urquell.” So if you’re interested in tasting the real thing, wherever in the world you are, look for Pilsner Urquell (not Plzeňský Prazdroj).
~emrys
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Thank You Days
It occurred to me, as I pondered how determined Plzeň is to remember the army that liberated her (see last post), that perhaps the United States should have a similar day of remembrance. After all, without the aid of France, the United States would have been a British colony as long as Canada, New Zealand, and Australia.
Perhaps the United States should celebrate “Thank You France!” Day. Maybe on 2 July, or some other date of significance from that conflict. It would seem only right.
Just an afterthought.
~emrys
Perhaps the United States should celebrate “Thank You France!” Day. Maybe on 2 July, or some other date of significance from that conflict. It would seem only right.
Just an afterthought.
~emrys
Thank You America!
Yesterday we were in Plzeň. Plzeň is a small city west of Prague that has a unique place in Central European history. As most of us know, the Nazi army invaded most of what we now call Central Europe in 1939, beginning the epic conflict now known as World War II. (If you’re old-school, you call it the World War, because World War I was the “Great War.”) The land of Bohemia (now the Czech Republic) fell under the advance of the Nazis in that year.
Near the culmination of World War II, the Allies made an agreement about how the capture of the final Nazi holdouts should take place. Russia was to advance from the east and take Prague. The United States, led by General Patton, would advance and take Plzeň, but stop there so as not to interfere with (or complicate) the Russian advance. Thus, two days before the complete liberation of Europe, Plzeň greeted General Patton’s tanks and troops at the final stage of their advance. Now, sixty-one years later, as 8 May marks Liberation Day in the Czech Republic, 6 May marks Thank You America Day in Plzeň.
We stood amidst the crowd at the Thank You America monument in downtown Plzeň as six different speakers took the stage and spoke of the memory of the United States Army’s military efforts in Europe. All around us—in fact, all over town—American flags were as numerous as the Czech flags.
It was intriguing to hear the speakers at the Thank You America celebration (all the speeches were translated into English, except that of the US Ambassador to the Czech Republic, whose thick Texas accent was translated into Czech). All six spoke of the repeated occupation of the land—by the Nazis, then by the Soviets—and of the great blessing of their liberation. At least one speaker attributed both liberations to American effort: the end of World War II and the Velvet Revolution in 1989. It was strange to be a U.S. passport-holder and be present for this lavish praise of American military might in a foreign country.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing to me was the desire to remember. The date of Patton’s advance into Plzeň and the nationality of those soldiers (save for the Belgian volunteer contingent of whom we kept hearing) is etched in stone on a pair of pillars in the plaza. But the story of what happened—of what Plzeň needed liberation, of how this liberation would have to be repeated in 1989—exists in the minds of Plzeňers, and they know it. 6 May serves Plzeň as a day to remember, a day to tell the story again, a day to be warned by the substance of that story of how easily people find themselves in captivity.
Of course, they may still hear the stories of men who were there on 6 May 1939. Several of them—American, Belgian, and Czech—marched across the plaza in full dress uniform and placed wreaths on the steps of the monument. There are still those whose wounds, whose eyes, and whose storytelling serve to keep the tragedy of World War II in the collective memory. But soon those people will be dead. And how will a pair of stone pillars tell the same story?
It was not my U.S. passport that made the experience of Thank You America! Day powerful. It was Plzeň’s determination to remember, with gratitude, the meaning of their liberation. May we all be as determined.
~emrys
Near the culmination of World War II, the Allies made an agreement about how the capture of the final Nazi holdouts should take place. Russia was to advance from the east and take Prague. The United States, led by General Patton, would advance and take Plzeň, but stop there so as not to interfere with (or complicate) the Russian advance. Thus, two days before the complete liberation of Europe, Plzeň greeted General Patton’s tanks and troops at the final stage of their advance. Now, sixty-one years later, as 8 May marks Liberation Day in the Czech Republic, 6 May marks Thank You America Day in Plzeň.
We stood amidst the crowd at the Thank You America monument in downtown Plzeň as six different speakers took the stage and spoke of the memory of the United States Army’s military efforts in Europe. All around us—in fact, all over town—American flags were as numerous as the Czech flags.
It was intriguing to hear the speakers at the Thank You America celebration (all the speeches were translated into English, except that of the US Ambassador to the Czech Republic, whose thick Texas accent was translated into Czech). All six spoke of the repeated occupation of the land—by the Nazis, then by the Soviets—and of the great blessing of their liberation. At least one speaker attributed both liberations to American effort: the end of World War II and the Velvet Revolution in 1989. It was strange to be a U.S. passport-holder and be present for this lavish praise of American military might in a foreign country.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing to me was the desire to remember. The date of Patton’s advance into Plzeň and the nationality of those soldiers (save for the Belgian volunteer contingent of whom we kept hearing) is etched in stone on a pair of pillars in the plaza. But the story of what happened—of what Plzeň needed liberation, of how this liberation would have to be repeated in 1989—exists in the minds of Plzeňers, and they know it. 6 May serves Plzeň as a day to remember, a day to tell the story again, a day to be warned by the substance of that story of how easily people find themselves in captivity.
Of course, they may still hear the stories of men who were there on 6 May 1939. Several of them—American, Belgian, and Czech—marched across the plaza in full dress uniform and placed wreaths on the steps of the monument. There are still those whose wounds, whose eyes, and whose storytelling serve to keep the tragedy of World War II in the collective memory. But soon those people will be dead. And how will a pair of stone pillars tell the same story?
It was not my U.S. passport that made the experience of Thank You America! Day powerful. It was Plzeň’s determination to remember, with gratitude, the meaning of their liberation. May we all be as determined.
~emrys
Friday, May 05, 2006
Beginning the Beer Tour
A couple days ago we began the Beer Tour. This is both a fun activity and a burden we bear for our family back home (names shall go unmentioned here), who wants us to scope out locations for a future Beer Tour of its own. (Those who are unmentioned should start taking notes now.) Here’s stop Number One:
Staropramen Brewery, Prague, Czech Republic.
The name means “original source.” It’s the native beer of Prague and probably tries to claim the status of first beer produced in Europe. Of course, we (this is Geo, Krissy, Sara and I) don’t know that because we didn’t actually take the brewery tour. That’s happening this weekend. But we did go into their restaurant, which boasts excellent fare (of large proportions) and of course the full list of Staropramen brews.
I tried the unpasteurized version, thinking that all that native yeast still hopping around in the brew would make it muy distinctive. Alas, while it felt a little heavier on the tongue, it was still beer. Geo and Krissy got light and dark ales in tall stylish glasses with “Staropramen” etched out of the glass down the side. Sara got what looked like a vat of beer (“looked like” because of the huge glass in which it was delivered), a wheat beer that was quite tasty. I think we’re both acquiring more taste for wheat beer than traditional hops. We’ll see.
This weekend it’s off to Plzeň, the town after which Pilsner is named (Pilsner is Plzeň in German). It’s a short 2-hour train ride west of Prague. There we’ll go on an actual brewery tour as well as sampling the local fare. Stay tuned.
~emrys
Staropramen Brewery, Prague, Czech Republic.
The name means “original source.” It’s the native beer of Prague and probably tries to claim the status of first beer produced in Europe. Of course, we (this is Geo, Krissy, Sara and I) don’t know that because we didn’t actually take the brewery tour. That’s happening this weekend. But we did go into their restaurant, which boasts excellent fare (of large proportions) and of course the full list of Staropramen brews.
I tried the unpasteurized version, thinking that all that native yeast still hopping around in the brew would make it muy distinctive. Alas, while it felt a little heavier on the tongue, it was still beer. Geo and Krissy got light and dark ales in tall stylish glasses with “Staropramen” etched out of the glass down the side. Sara got what looked like a vat of beer (“looked like” because of the huge glass in which it was delivered), a wheat beer that was quite tasty. I think we’re both acquiring more taste for wheat beer than traditional hops. We’ll see.
This weekend it’s off to Plzeň, the town after which Pilsner is named (Pilsner is Plzeň in German). It’s a short 2-hour train ride west of Prague. There we’ll go on an actual brewery tour as well as sampling the local fare. Stay tuned.
~emrys
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Kudos to Moms
So in honor of Mothers Day CNN and Salary.com came up with a calculator to determine how much it would cost to contract out all the work a Mom does. I thought it was fun... Enjoy!
~sjt
Mom Salary Wizard @ Salary.com
~sjt
Mom Salary Wizard @ Salary.com
Monday, May 01, 2006
Forsaken Traditions
We were descending the walk from Karlštejn castle with two new friends from Prague. They are Czech natives and friends of folks from home, so they helped us to navigate the trip to Karlštejn, ordered lunch while we were there, and provided wonderful conversation about the Czech Republic and their extensive travels. They have excellent English, though their accent (as with any non-native English speaker) sometimes makes me request a repetition. And, of course, there are certain vocabulary words that you just don’t have if you didn’t grow up speaking English. It was the latter that made the following strange encounter that much more interesting.
As I said, we were walking down the path from Karlštejn castle. It was late afternoon, we were on our way back to Prague. I thought, given the fact that they have a young son, that they would want to say good-bye to us and head home for a restful evening. Not so.
There had been a lull in the conversation for a moment or two, then our Czech host says:
“Would you like to go to a, um—” a moment while he searches for the word, “Burning—”
Burning? What English word could he be trying to get at with “burning”?
He asks his wife for help (in Czech), but she doesn’t seem to have the vocab for this one, either.
“In English you have the veezards, yes?”
“Veezards . . .” Think! What word in English, when spoken in a Czech accent, produces “veezards”? Wizards! “Wizards?”
“Yes, wizards!” he says. “But the women wizards.”
Suddenly I am hit by a lightning bolt—probably a magical one. “Witch?” I’m not really keen on saying the rest of it, in case I’m wrong.
“Yes, witch!” he says enthusiastically. “A witch-burning!”
Did he just invite us to a witch-burning?
I repeated the phrase in disbelief, wondering how we had moved from discussing post-communist Czech democratic politics to the shameful tattered remnants of Salem, Massachusetts. Maybe “witch-burning” means something different to the Czechs than it does to us. At least I hope so. As much as I like trying new cultural experiences, I don’t think I could justify hanging out and watching while they burn young women at the stake.
It turns out that the Czechs didn’t really know the origins of this “witch-burning” tradition, either. It’s just something they do every year, usually involving a bonfire, hot dogs, and dressing up the little kids. So we went with them to a big public park in southwest Prague, ate klobasy (Czech sausage) and watched as firefighters in full gear managed a raging bonfire amidst a crowd of youth and young adults. The closest we came to a witch was a bunch of kindergarteners with face paint and a woman with a pointy black hat. (She was enjoying a klobaska, too.)
Our friends looked on the internet and found that the “witch-burning” of Prague dates back to a time when 1 May was the first official day of spring. The night before was considered especially vulnerable to evil spirits (including witches), so the village would gather around a bonfire lit to scare them away. Then folks would take torches or ash-brands into their homes and clear the evil spirits out of each room. (This sounds similar to the rituals around Beltane, the Celtic day(s) of fertility in the spring.) There must have been witches burned at some point, because apparently some 30 April celebrations have a straw witch to be burnt in effigy; the fire we attended didn’t have one of those. They just had big bright balloons with rabbit ears for the kids.
For any of you who are interested, the evening is also called “Philip-Jacob’s Night,” but our Czech hosts didn’t know why this is so.
We look forward to future parties when we can tell people (over knackwursts, maybe) that we went to a witch-burning in Prague.
~emrys
As I said, we were walking down the path from Karlštejn castle. It was late afternoon, we were on our way back to Prague. I thought, given the fact that they have a young son, that they would want to say good-bye to us and head home for a restful evening. Not so.
There had been a lull in the conversation for a moment or two, then our Czech host says:
“Would you like to go to a, um—” a moment while he searches for the word, “Burning—”
Burning? What English word could he be trying to get at with “burning”?
He asks his wife for help (in Czech), but she doesn’t seem to have the vocab for this one, either.
“In English you have the veezards, yes?”
“Veezards . . .” Think! What word in English, when spoken in a Czech accent, produces “veezards”? Wizards! “Wizards?”
“Yes, wizards!” he says. “But the women wizards.”
Suddenly I am hit by a lightning bolt—probably a magical one. “Witch?” I’m not really keen on saying the rest of it, in case I’m wrong.
“Yes, witch!” he says enthusiastically. “A witch-burning!”
Did he just invite us to a witch-burning?
I repeated the phrase in disbelief, wondering how we had moved from discussing post-communist Czech democratic politics to the shameful tattered remnants of Salem, Massachusetts. Maybe “witch-burning” means something different to the Czechs than it does to us. At least I hope so. As much as I like trying new cultural experiences, I don’t think I could justify hanging out and watching while they burn young women at the stake.
It turns out that the Czechs didn’t really know the origins of this “witch-burning” tradition, either. It’s just something they do every year, usually involving a bonfire, hot dogs, and dressing up the little kids. So we went with them to a big public park in southwest Prague, ate klobasy (Czech sausage) and watched as firefighters in full gear managed a raging bonfire amidst a crowd of youth and young adults. The closest we came to a witch was a bunch of kindergarteners with face paint and a woman with a pointy black hat. (She was enjoying a klobaska, too.)
Our friends looked on the internet and found that the “witch-burning” of Prague dates back to a time when 1 May was the first official day of spring. The night before was considered especially vulnerable to evil spirits (including witches), so the village would gather around a bonfire lit to scare them away. Then folks would take torches or ash-brands into their homes and clear the evil spirits out of each room. (This sounds similar to the rituals around Beltane, the Celtic day(s) of fertility in the spring.) There must have been witches burned at some point, because apparently some 30 April celebrations have a straw witch to be burnt in effigy; the fire we attended didn’t have one of those. They just had big bright balloons with rabbit ears for the kids.
For any of you who are interested, the evening is also called “Philip-Jacob’s Night,” but our Czech hosts didn’t know why this is so.
We look forward to future parties when we can tell people (over knackwursts, maybe) that we went to a witch-burning in Prague.
~emrys
Botanicus
On Saturday we went to a place outside of
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