Around The Next Corner

Our grandfather's green Pontiac
filled up with as many relatives
as it could hold
for the weekend trips
to New Hampshire.
Sisters, husbands, grand kids
squeezed into any open space.

We laid on the floor
of the big back seat,
in between legs of passengers,
feeling every bump on the road.
Gramp said, " go to sleep,
the ride will go by faster."
When we asked," how much longer Gramp?"
he said, "just around the next corner",
but it never was.

Smoke from Camels and Luckies
made us carsick.
We wanted to stick our heads
out the window,
to feel cold air blow against our faces.
On winter nights, windows closed,
heat turned on, we struggled to keep our suppers down.
Sometimes Gramp had to pull over.

The adults continued to smoke,
eat sandwiches and drink coffee
from their thermos' throughout the night.
Soon the card games would start,
the drinks would fly,
the cigarettes would cloud the New Hampshire kitchen.

Gramp left the mountains
and the hilly street
where he lived,
He found a new home for his family,
and a better paying job,
as a foreman in a spring factory.


But this weekend and many others,
they were traveling on a road,
that took them back home,
to the friends and family left behind.
where the late night trips
were a straight shot North
on a parkway
that seemed to have no corners.

Znojmo

It was a small sandwich board at the Westbahnhof train station in Vienna and it might not have caught our attention but for one word; Znojmo, and the price 9 euros. Where was it, what was it? A gentleman at the information desk told us that it was a city in the Czech Republic but the train left from Pratersten station, a short tram ride away. We were on our way to the Austrian Alps for a few days of hiking but if the sign was still there when we got back, we’d go.

Four days later, there it was. A quick dash to the tram, a short wait at the ticket counter and we were sitting in a train heading north. After riding for an hour, the train stopped and everyone got off; not a good sign when the station plaque says Retz, not Znojmo, and all the signs are in German. Following a group we overheard speaking Czech we ran across the tracks and headed for a bus. A few nods from the driver and passengers left us feeling fairly confident we’d made the right connection

We soon pulled up to a small building in need of paint where two border guards boarded the bus. If we didn’t know where Znojmo was we at least knew we’d made it to the Czech Republic. Everyone got off at the next stop, a bus and train station, empty of people except one person at a ticket counter and another at the tourist desk. Outside all we could see were grey concrete buildings and an old hotel. Was the attraction of Znojmo a cold war architectural theme park? Still there were no trinket shops or cheap t-shirts and the woman at the tourist information who’s English was as non existent as our Czech was the friendliest person we’d met in days, and our pantomime got us a map and gestures to go out the door and up the hill.




Everything changed in a few hundred meters. The streets were narrow and winding, steeples and red tiled roofs loomed ahead and suddenly we were in a town square lined on two sides with Medieval and Renaissance town houses and shops. On one end an old Capuchin monastery and cathedral faced a large concrete department store on the other, it’s display windows filled with washing machines. Even this one Soviet remnant couldn’t spoil the setting, in fact it made it more real; Znojmo was not a restored tourist Mecca. Vendors by the church were selling home grown vegetables, dried flowers, fruit and the local favorite, pickles.


We wandered about until we found an area that seemed full of small pensions, some above cafes, one over a bicycle shop and another down a covered alley. All had vacancy signs and prices listed outside but the front doors were either locked or the reception areas empty. Few stores have posted hours and for those that do, it’s best to consider them flexible.




A small sign with the word Penzion and an arrow led us down a street to a large closed gate with a bell, and expecting the same response we pulled on the chain and waited. This time someone answered, opening a small door in the gate, and led us into a courtyard with a garden, a flowered pool and an overlook of the Dyje River, 200 meters below. Our rooms were in a Gothic building, originally designed for housing the priests and clergy of the adjacent St Nicholas Church.















Finding a restaurant was a lot like finding a room. About to give up we saw people going in and out of a doorway on the square. A crowded cafeteria, it’s menu in Czech only, a student helped us order; goulash with sauerkraut and the full range of vegetarian offerings; mushroom soup, fried mushrooms and fried cheese, all delicious.

There was more to see than we’d first thought. Across from the cafeteria the Museum of South Moravia houses art from the Gothic through the Baroque in a Renaissance palace. Narrow streets brought us to neighborhoods and small parks. At the Chapel of St Wenceslas a bearded monk at led us down a spiral staircase to the older sanctuary, a two story circular room adorned only with a cross hanging from the ceiling. A monastery and castle on two of the city’s hills offered views of the forests and fields across the river where we hiked along the Czech Greenway the next day.




















Waking up early, looking out over the Dyje Valley from our window it was time to leave after two days in Znojmo. We headed back to the bus station, knowing where we were going this time, but maybe something would happen between here and there, all we needed was a sign.