Читать книгу 360 Degrees Longitude - John Higham - Страница 15

July 21–August 1

Czech Republic/Poland

Children do not have an adult’s apprehension about landing in a new city, late at night, hungry, not knowing the local language, not having any local currency, nor knowing where to stay. To them, it’s all part of a grand adventure.

The broken leg changed everything. A week after Katrina’s fall we found ourselves standing on the train platform in Cesky Krumlov, late at night, hungry, not knowing the local language, not having any local currency, nor knowing where to stay. Traveling by bicycle brought changes in our surroundings slowly. Arriving in the Czech Republic by train, our entire environment had changed in the course of a few hours.

We had left our tandems in storage at Zermatt’s train station. Still unable to use her crutches due to her sprained wrist, and now with no wheelchair, Katrina was perched on my shoulders just like when she was three years old. We watched the train slowly depart, leaving us in this strange new place. September announced that she was going to look for information about accommodations, then disappeared.

My gaze turned from our massive pile of bicycle panniers scattered about my feet to Jordan. I said, “Well. Now what happens?”

Jordan looked up at me with a complete lack of comprehension. “You’re silly, Dad.”

I lifted Katrina off my shoulders, sat her down on a bench, then turned to Jordan and said, “I’m not silly. I’m tired and could use an ice cream cone.” I pointed to a small convenience store. “Go over there and get me an ice cream cone, and when you’re done with that, see if there’s a tourist office and find us a hostel.”

“Dad. I never know when to take you seriously.”

With some relief I spotted an ATM in the distance. One problem solved.

We were refugees from the high prices of Western Europe. We had briefly considered the offers to stay at friends’ homes during Katrina’s convalescence but decided to head for Eastern Europe where we believed living indoors would be affordable. Camping in our current state was simply out of the question.

While I was negotiating with Jordan for an ice cream cone, September was perusing the bulletin board at the train station. She returned with a small piece of paper she’d found posted there. “This was the only thing I could read,” she explained, handing me the flyer. “Hostel Skippy offers free pickup from the train station.”

“I like the name. Sounds like a winner.” After our ice cream issue was resolved, September pulled out the cell phone that had been faithfully serving us since London and dialed the number printed on the flyer.

“It reminds me of the Burrow,” Jordan commented as we approached the hostel.

I was having the same thought. Hostel Skippy was on the banks of the Vltava River and appeared to be held together by paranormal means; one good exorcism and the entire structure would dissolve. Of course you knew that the Burrow is Ron Weasley’s house. If you didn’t, ask a kid to explain.

Skippy, the Rastafarian half-Cuban, half-Czech matron of the hostel, greeted us at the door. She was a walking, talking TMI telling anyone waaaay more about herself than polite conversation would dictate. We stepped into the entry when suddenly, with no provocation, she proceeded to tell us her life story and how she came to be matron of the hostel that bears her name.

“I bought this place for 800 U.S. dollars ten years ago when it was in shambles,” she explained. “I did all the repairs myself.”

I glanced at the rope holding up the front door frame and made a mental note that building inspectors are underappreciated.

In the microcosm of our nuclear family, Katrina and Jordan are … well “nuclear” is a good adjective. But to the casual observer they are reserved, perhaps even shy children. Katrina began to attract adults who wanted to hear how her leg came to be encased in plaster, and she had to confront her injury without pretending it away. For Katrina, this was more difficult than the broken leg. In a matter of just a few weeks this matured her from a little girl who avoided eye contact into a young lady who could look adults in the eye when speaking to them. Skippy was simply the first person to help Katrina through that transition.

“What happened to you!?” Skippy asked when she saw me carrying Katrina.

Katrina pretended to be invisible.

“She was rock climbing and the rope snapped,” I said after an awkward silence. “Not only did she break her leg, but her wrist is sprained.”

“You are lucky you just broke your leg!” Skippy exclaimed. “Did you bite your tongue, too? I bit my tongue once. Fell off a ladder and needed stitches, then couldn’t talk for a week. Do you want to see the scar?” Skippy stuck her tongue out and simultaneously tried to give more details about her injury.

Katrina started giggling. I couldn’t imagine Skippy not being able to talk. I needed to change the subject before she started showing us any more scars. “I was hoping,” I interjected, “that you could help us find a wheelchair we could use while we’re here.”

“A wheelchair will not be of much use in Cesky Krumlov,” Skippy explained. “The town is a maze of cobblestone streets built on hills with long flights of stone steps.”

We discovered there was a lot more to Skippy than her scar and that she essentially built her hostel herself, albeit with the help she received from the spirits that lived with her right there in the hostel. She was a capable and resourceful woman, but I still went to bed each night praying I wouldn’t wake up in the Vltava River.

• • •

Just as it had taken time to develop a routine when we were cycling, it was going to take time to adjust our routine to Katrina’s limited mobility. This meant a hundred little things and one big thing: I started participating more when school was in session.

I had big hopes for school results over the year. In public school, both Katrina and Jordan had approached mathematics with the same enthusiasm they would have for cleaning hair out of a floor drain. I loved math and science as a kid. When teaching my children, my infectious enthusiasm was going to bubble over in class and before long they would be receiving grants from the National Academy of Sciences and having sweet dreams of partial differential equations.

I hit our little school like a gigantic belly flop.

The following Saturday while I was talking on the phone with my mother a half a world away, I complained about the children’s lack of academic focus. “This shouldn’t surprise you. You used to have a bite of dinner and then run around the kitchen table before you sat down for another bite.” I thought I heard the faint hint of a snicker on the other end of the phone.

“My point is you couldn’t sit still either,” she continued. “Remember what your junior high English teacher told you.”

That was really hitting below the belt. I have a selective memory for a reason; it is much more convenient than electroshock therapy. I may have done well in math and science, but I once had an English teacher who told me, “The only reason I’m giving you as high as a D minus is so that I will never have you in class again.”

I was keener to teach Katrina than Jordan. Not only could Jordan not sit still, he was plowing through blatant memorization of the times tables. Katrina, on the other hand, was learning algebra, a “real” subject that applied to everything from cake recipes to Newton’s Third Law of Motion.

“You know, there’s a reason you’re a rocket scientist and not an elementary school teacher,” September said, pulling me aside after a particularly dismal morning of school. “You lost Katrina with that rock example.”

“The relationship of kinetic and potential energy is a straightforward application of algebra. What’s wrong with that?”

“Listen,” replied September, “a lot of Katrina’s friends still play with Barbies. If you want a real-world application of algebra that she can relate to, you need to stick with, say, how many cans of cat food you need for a litter of ten kittens.”

With my help, Katrina liked math even less than when we’d left California, if such a thing was possible. “You help Jordan with his times tables,” September told me one day, “and I will help Katrina with the Pythagorean theorem.”

It wasn’t long before I was banned from teaching Jordan as well, after a class we held in a small park.

“All I said was that seven times eight is the same as eight times seven.” I stood my ground—as the teacher, I didn’t want to get expelled from school. “And then he started throwing things at me.”

“It isn’t what you said, it’s what you where doing when you said it. I understand that Jordan wants to swing from a branch, but you shouldn’t. You’re setting a bad example. You can’t imitate a monkey and hope to get anywhere.” September was folding her arms across her chest and looking at me sternly.

I don’t think the kids dreamed of partial differential equations once.

• • •

We had started taking P-Days in England roughly once a week so we could get caught up on various mundane tasks, such as laundry, but also to take a break from sightseeing and to recharge our batteries. Our first full day in Cesky Krumlov turned out to be a P-Day and we didn’t get very far past Hostel Skippy’s; on day two it was time to see what this new place was all about.

Cesky Krumlov is a UNESCO World Heritage site and rich with lots of sights to see. The castle, situated high on a hill, was built in the thirteenth century overlooking the Vltava River. The walled center of the city is full of quaint stone buildings that time has preserved from the 15th and 16th centuries. Walking down the narrow cobblestone paths with Katrina perched high on my shoulders made me feel as if I were indeed living in a long-ago century … except that there was an Internet café on every street corner. And due to its location in a former Eastern Bloc country, everything was incredibly cheap. But—true to the Eastern Bloc stereotype—by the looks on people’s faces walking down the street, everyone looked miserable, as if they’d all recently had root canals and expected another one wasn’t far off.

We climbed up a long hill to visit the castle in town. The castle had hundreds of stairs and the ceiling was low enough that I couldn’t carry Katrina on my shoulders inside. Defeated, we milled about the castle courtyard looking as though we recently had root canals.

This was a low point. We were barred from doing the things we love and had come to do: cycling, hiking, swimming. We were even barred from the things that we merely tolerated: sightseeing at an old castle. Later, back at the hostel, we sat on the rear porch overlooking the Vltava River and watched people in canoes attempt to go over the locks. At least half the attempts resulted in the canoe capsizing. It lifted my spirits somewhat to watch people get thrown into the chilly water.

“Let’s do that!” September was speaking, but I was wondering if one of the spirits that possessed the hostel had found a new host.

“You’re joking, right? Katrina can’t get her cast wet. Have you observed the capsize rate going over the locks?”

“Well, yes I have, but you’re just noticing the canoes. Watch the rubber rafts. Not one has tipped over.”

There were probably ten canoes for every raft, but she had a point.

“All we have to do is get a big garbage bag and wrap her cast in it. Worst case, she gets her cast wet and we get a new one.”

Next thing I knew we were at a rafting outfitter in town. I was anticipating a release form of some kind that I would have to sign—you know, the standard legalese mumbo jumbo stating that if I die, my descendants waive the rights to sue or haunt the outfitter from beyond the grave. Instead, the nice person who was helping me smiled and handed me a bottle.

“What’s this?” I asked. The man who was helping me spoke exactly three words of English: “Hi” and “Monica Lewinsky.” Actually, “Lewinsky” is Polish, so make that two words of English, but he knew more English than I knew Czech. Context is everything, so asking “What’s this?” while holding up the bottle was sufficient to frame the question.

“Grog,” he grunted.

I didn’t think I needed “grog” to captain the raft, so I tried to give it back. The man looked affronted, so I slipped it into my pocket.

He led us to the water where we would shove off, but I wanted life jackets, if not for all of us, at least for Katrina, who couldn’t swim with her cast. I made the universal sign-language symbol of a person drowning and then pantomimed someone putting on a jacket. The man looked perplexed. Had no one ever requested a life vest before? After a few earnest pantomiming motions he disappeared from view. Since about the time we’d met the Harley-riding Frenchmen, I had been taking a mental inventory of differences we found in people and cultures. I wondered if the U.S. Coast Guard had ever considered The Grog Approach to boating preparedness.

Jordan’s Journal, July 23

Today we went river rafting. Katrina wore a plastic garbage bag over her cast. We went down a small waterfall and rapids. We got soaked. On one canoe there was a person who was standing up and singing “I drank too much and now I’m drunk and I sound like an idiot.” He sang it in Czech, so we just had to guess what he was saying.

There were so many people plying the waters of the river—for the afternoon or even for the week—it was clearly the thing to do in the area. The four of us were the only sober people on the river. Everyone else was stinking drunk and clearly enjoying themselves way more than they should have been. It was an interesting glimpse behind all those root-canal grimaces that greeted us around town. A little grog and the next thing you knew folks were trying to dance in a canoe. People must have been confused as to why we were sober because many made friendly gestures to give us as much booze as we wanted.

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shy away from what?” Jordan demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• • •

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

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

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

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

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

“Be brave. You can do this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was confused. “What?”

Jordan said, “I want you to guess!”

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

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

“Dad! You aren’t guessing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day after we went to Jordan’s go-kart track, the Auschwitz tour company we’d arranged for came to pick us up at our hostel. It was a hot August morning. When the van arrived we stuffed Katrina’s wheelchair, which we had rented from a hospital, into the back and settled in for the ninety-minute drive.

“Auschwitz” is the German pronunciation of the Polish town of Oświęcim, about 40 miles west of Krakow. The extermination camp was established by the Nazis in 1940 in what was then Nazi-occupied Poland. The exact number of people murdered there, mostly Jews, is not known, but most experts agree the number is between 1.1 and 1.5 million people.

Arriving at the site of the former camp, our van maneuvered into the parking lot. We set Katrina in her wheelchair and made our way through the infamous gates that read ARBEIT MACHT FREI which translates to “Work makes one free.” The morning sun was scorching and we waited for our tour to begin along with the other tourists.

Our group of fifty was eventually led through the camp by a guide. We scurried from display to display. As there was no handicapped access and plenty of stairs, we eventually abandoned Katrina’s wheelchair, but even with me carrying her it was difficult for us to keep up with our group. The rooms throughout Auschwitz were so crowded there was little chance to see the displays or to hear what was being said, even though our tour guide did her best to accommodate the large crowd.

Much of the extermination camp of Auschwitz is still intact, from the gas chambers used for the mass murders to the ovens used to cremate the remains. Some of the most grisly reminders of what occurred at Auschwitz are the things the Nazis kept in storage and historians preserved. As all entered the gas chambers shaven, the resulting hair was baled and over two tons of it is prominently on display in sacks that are splayed open. Room after room of personal effects are also displayed. There is the shoe room and the handbag room and the eyeglasses room. These items were taken from the prisoners after their arrival. Decades later they are on display behind glass, an echoing reminder that their owners never saw them again.

After visiting the various rooms of personal effects we walked across the compound to the ovens that were used for cremation. “I want to sit in my wheelchair in the shade,” Katrina said. Similarly, Jordan had grown weary of being herded along and was on the verge of a meltdown—and not from the heat.

“I’m sorry, guys,” I said. “This is a tremendously important part of history. Think of the millions who died here, what it was like for them to be herded through like cattle to slaughter. Remember, we will go home; we have a safe place to sleep tonight.”

Nearby two teenage girls were in total hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably as they imagined the horrors of the site. As for us, I wanted my kids to be horrified, but the heat and the crowds dampened that effect. Our emotional meltdown was to come six months later at the Killing Fields near Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

Later that evening, in the comfort of our hostel, we talked to the kids about our experience at Auschwitz.

“I can’t believe the people that did all those horrible things are the same ones that we see around town,” Katrina said. “Everyone in Poland has been so nice.”

We explained that the Germans occupied Poland at the time, and most people in the area probably had no idea what was happening at the camp, and most Germans probably didn’t know, either.

“How can that be?” Katrina asked.

“There was a big war on,” September replied. “It was a scary time. I think most people didn’t want to know. But, remember, many people were heroes, like in the book you’re reading.” As part of her reading curriculum, Katrina was in the middle of The Diary of Anne Frank.

There is much more to Krakow than go-karts and Auschwitz. We visited the local salt mine and learned how it thrust Krakow into power in medieval times. In the historic Jewish Ghetto is Oskar Schindler’s factory where visitors can learn his story that inspired the book and movie that bears his name. More important, we were reminded that there were good people in the midst of the ugliness of the Nazi era.

• • •

“Before we move on tomorrow,” September said one afternoon, “we really need to do something about our panniers.”

“Yup. We should probably hit a mall and see if we can find a luggage cart.” Our eight panniers had metal hooks on the back for attaching to the tandems. The hooks had a nasty way of catching on things you didn’t want them to, say, like flesh. Transferring them and a daughter on crutches from platform 1 to platform 9 during a three-minute dash was more than we’d bargained for.

The mall in Krakow was my first visit to such a place in roughly a decade, my shopping habits being nominal at best. The whole establishment seemed like it would blend in nicely in any suburb in the United States, right down to the cineplex playing the latest Hollywood blockbuster. We shopped valiantly, carrying a pencil and notepad wherever we went, but clerks laughed at our artwork. “Luggage cart” just didn’t translate, no matter how hard we tried.

“Maybe they don’t make luggage carts anymore,” I suggested to September at a Samsonite luggage retailer, “since essentially all luggage these days comes pre-equipped with wheels.”

“Then we need to improvise,” September said. “I saw a sporting goods store. We could buy some rollerblades and strap them on.”

“I think a skateboard is more like it.”

Before we could execute on the skateboard idea, September took a 90-degree turn as she passed the hardware store at the mall. She emerged ten minutes later, with a full-fledged moving dolly. Now we could strap our panniers to the dolly and off we could go. And if we decided to move a refrigerator along the way, we could do that, too.

www.360degreeslongitude.com/concept3d/360degreeslongitude.kmz

“I’ve been Pragued!” There’s nothing like a good Praguing to make one convert a noun into a verb. Use Google Earth and the 360 Degrees Longitude layer to get Pragued.