Guest Post: Finding a Little Czech in Cedar Rapids

I have a special treat for you today! Instead of the usual stuff, we have a guest post today from my friend Cindy Ladage from Traveling Adventures of a Farm Girl. She wrote a terrific post for me about a city in the US. Since most of my trips are international, I thought this would be a fantastic change of pace. I hope this story makes you want to visit Cedar Rapids as much it does me.

In the heart of downtown Cedar Rapids is a historic neighborhood, Czech Village. The village was settled when Czech immigrants arrived around 1852 to work in local packing plants, and soon a “Little Bohemia” was established in the southwest sector of the city.

Today portions of the area have been restored and there are some eclectic shops and the amazing National Czech and Slovak Museum and Library. Laura Formanek, Director of Marketing & Communications provided my mom and me a guided tour while on a press trip to this wonderful city. 

The Museum: 

• The first thing we saw when we entered this amazingly beautiful building was the Czech chandelier made of glittering and sparking Czech glass.  

• The current rotating exhibit was Immortal: Warhol’s Last Works which will be on display until October 2, 2016.  I was amazed to find I really enjoyed this exhibit.  I usually consider myself more of a Van Gogh kind of girl, but Warhol’s work was quite interesting and expressive of the times he lived in.   

• The timely exhibit Faces of Freedom, the Czech and Slovak Journey hits home because like the brochure points out, “It’s everyone’s story.” 

• The immigration story of many Czechs and Slovaks coming to America comes to life for youngsters through the eyes of Mana a child who immigrated to the US in the 1920’s.

I loved this museum and really liked the Czech and Slovak costumes and the gift shop which had amazing jewelry.  For more information about the museum, log onto their website.  

While out and about I stopped in a neat spot Forget Me Not Antiques and Gifts where I bought Czech buttons that the owner placed in an earring set, so I now have my very own “Bohemian” jewelry! 

On this press trip where I was learning about art in Cedar Rapids and more, we met up with Go Cedar Rapid’s Jennifer Pickar and enjoyed some amazing grilled cheese on parmesan-herb encrusted sourdough along with a bowl of tomato bisque soup.  This selection was after a good ten minutes of mulling over the menu.   

While it is cool to dine in a fun new place, what is even cooler is to dine in a cool new place in a historic building in a historic neighborhood. That’s just what I did on a recent visit to Cedar Rapids with my mom. The Sauce is located in a revamped building and is located in the historic Czech neighborhood. 

The Food: 

• Lenny Sims one of the owners of The Sauce Bar & Bistro along with his business partner Chris Robinson was on hand to share a bit of information. Lenny and Chris literally saved this building from demolition after the record breaking flood of 2008 that has transformed this city from the inside out.  

• The Sauce has been open since 2013 after the owners took the building down to the studs and worked revamping it over an 18 month period.  

• The Sauce is not Lenny Sims first foray into the food business.  “I started at the ballpark
  at 11 or 12 and I liked the hospitality side,” Lenny said.
    

• After a stint at Olive Garden and a few other places he and Chris decided to give this a go.  “I hosted, bussed, bartended, was front of the house and cooked, I did it all,” Lenny said.  

• These days Lenny is mostly front of the house and he uses his degree in finance.  The name of the restaurant came from a quote Lenny said a food writer wrote.  “They said food was just food before sauces, and then it became cuisine.”  

• Sauces make everything better. Lenny said his favorite sauce they offer is the Czarina Salad Dressing, “It’s a take on the Caesar dressing,” Lenny added. 

 

• His personal favorite menu items include the House burger, a half-pound burger with mushrooms, bacon, and lettuce and tomato confit.  He also favors the Banh MI, a sandwich made from Braised Pork belly with Pickled Vegetables, Cilantro, Cucumber, Lime, on a Baguette.  Customers love like we did, the grilled cheese, pasta which changes daily and is made from scratch.   

• The beer is local and they have a whiskey club with a devoted following. Besides special events, the diner keeps busy with lunch and dinner options.  Local food, from local producers keeps customers coming back again and again. 

For more information, log onto the Sauce website. 

Many of the places we stopped at were pretty quiet on the weekday afternoon we were there. Same goes for Newbo Market housed in a former industrial space, the area has become a place where local food vendors and artisans sell their wares. It is an incubator for new businesses. Closed on Tuesday afternoon, we missed the activity there, but could see the potential. 

Sykora Bakery where we stopped for a delectable treat after visiting the museum.
With the museum offering a great place to tour, a few cool diners and a great bakery, the area has a bit of special sights like the beautiful mural we spied while out and bout. Of course, the area would not be complete without mentioning the Grant Wood Statues that are part of the Overalls All Over project. Statues from Wood’s American Gothic are all over the city in celebration of Wood’s 125th birthday. 

Art, culture and a little Bohemian Love round out the Czech Village and Newbo market area. Head out on a weekend and see what gives!

Once again, if you want to read more from Cindy, please visit her fantastic blog!

Safe Travels,

Photos were provided by Cindy.

Unlucky Travels: Israel Part II

Riding a camel! I had heat exhaustion at this point, you'll
read about that later.

To pick up where I left off from Part I: I was lucky enough to get onto a red eye flight to Israel from New York after my lost carry on, and passport found their way back to me. At around 10 pm, my fellow orphaned travelers, and I line up to check in for our flight. As I get to the podium, I hand over my passport to the gate attendant who looks at it and asks me the typical questions: Why are you travelling to Israel?  Who are you going with?  How long?  And then he says “so your passport says you’re from Russia.”  I knew in that instant that this was going to be rough. After I confirm that I am, he asks me to please wait there. Immediately, my heart drops. I’ve gotten some very unusual remarks about my nationality, but this was the first time I ever had it be this much of an issue. I look awkwardly back at my cohorts and they give me a very confused look. A few minutes later the gate attendant returns with a colleague and they start asking me some unusual questions such as my father’s nationality, which I am trying to answer as casually as possible. God forbid I raise any more red flags, after all. Once they are through with the interrogation, they ask me to hang out in the area until about an hour before the plane takes off at midnight. Needless to say, I didn’t have much of a choice but to oblige. Seeing how nervous this was making me, one of my new friends (who were kind enough to not abandon me) decides that he should find out what was going on. To make matters even more nerve-wracking the only answer we got was “this is just standard procedure.” 

11 pm rolls around, and I make my way up to the podium once again where I am escorted to a sectioned off area in which they already have my suitcase open and waiting for me. You would think they had found some explosives in my carry on given all the hoops I was jumping through. No one says anything to me, until one girl must notice the look of terror on my face, and, realizing that I am entirely clueless, explains the situation. As it happens, I was the randomly selected passenger to be thoroughly searched: my shoes were swabbed, my luggage was rifled through, and I was patted down. Shy of getting a cavity search, it was the whole shebang. 

After tormenting me for another 30 minutes, they escort all three of us (as my companions were, unbelievably, still waiting for me through the whole ordeal) past the security check point, and get us ahead of the line to board the plane, and everything was looking up…until I sit down, and the gentleman next to me takes off his pants. 

The more I write about this, the more I’m starting to wonder why I loved this trip so much because yes…it STILL gets worse, and you can read about it in Part III.

Once again, photo is not mine.  It has been linked back to the original owner.

Ammonia is NOT For Eating

“Oh god, I think I’m going to throw up!” He says while gripping onto my bicep.

The most amazing church:Hallgrimskirkja

Iceland has a weekly flea market at a crowded, old warehouse where vendors sell everything from freeze dried fish to old books. Although, I decided to forego attempting something as questionable as fermented shark, which is the Icelandic delicacy, when presented to me at the market, I could hardly pass up the opportunity to be able to say that I had eaten shark in Iceland. Half an hour later, I regret this as the acrid taste of ammonia is nestled in my cheek and I am chugging down drinks as though I had just come out of a desert. Normally, it is served with a signature liquor called Brennivin, or more commonly referred to as “black death.” Fermented shark and black death is not an entirely appetizing sounding combination in my humble opinion so I was content to just try the piece of shark on its own. The vendor is holding a silver, doily-lined tray with a few very small pieces of off-white, almost gray, shark meat with toothpicks sticking out of them. In her Icelandic accent, she asks if we want to try some shark. My friend and I exchange a quick look and before I know what I’m doing, I am reaching for a piece of this notorious food. Since smell is such a huge factor in the flavor of food, I bypass taking a whiff of the meat and just pop the tiny portion in my mouth.  I chew the shark, which is an odd combination of chewy and squishy, as my friend looks on nervously, swallow, and proclaim “that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be!” This must be the encouragement that my friend is waiting for to take the plunge, but as soon as I saw him smell the shark, I knew this wouldn’t end well.

Unlike the opinion of numerous people, the bit of shark was not the most disgusting food I encountered in Iceland, but it was the one that lingered the longest. My travel companion disagreed as he gripped my arm, clearly taken aback by the overpowering taste. He was not as culinarily adventurous as I was so the fact that he attempted the shark, was shocking. Even though he did spit it out into a nearby trash can while the stall attendant laughed behind the counter. Just another tourist who couldn’t handle his hákarl. In his defense, it is one of the foulest things I’d ever eaten as well. Oddly enough, I manage to keep it down and I am proud to be able to say that I’ve eaten fermented shark and lived to tell the tale, however, I would more than likely never do it again.  Unless, of course, it was to try the black death, which I wouldn’t dream of doing without the standard accompaniment of the foul seafood.

Blue Lagoon

Unlucky Travels: Israel Part I

Wailing Wall

I’ve touched on this topic before, but as far back as I can recall, I have always had bad luck travelling. With how many ridiculous situations I’ve found myself in, it’s a surprise, even to me, that I still love travelling as much as I do. Until recently, though, I hadn’t paid much attention to it. It didn’t occur to me that getting absurdly sick on the Trans-Siberian railway only half way through was unlucky. Or getting stuck in an elevator with my 10 year old cousin in Moscow when I was 5 was out of the norm. Or even that I somehow managed to be the only one who got separated from my travel group when I was 17 and travelling to England for a tennis tournament. I don’t know how any of these things happen, some are pretty terrifying, some are just inconvenient, but they are fairly regular occurrences in my expeditions. I believe that the trip that finally opened my eyes to the bad luck was my trip to Israel.

It started off normal enough; I boarded a plane in Seattle to layover in Phoenix, and was meeting my travel group in New York. This is where it starts to get ridiculous. As we’re landing in Phoenix, the pilot announces over the intercom that we are landing momentarily and if we are continuing on to New York, we are welcome to stay on the plane or de-board and leave our belongings on the plane as they will not be switching planes. (Disclaimer time: I realize a portion of this was my fault but I was 23 [read: kind of stupid] and I had gotten up very early so my brain wasn’t working too well yet so don’t judge me too harshly.) Given that I am paranoid, I asked the flight attendant if she was certain that we would not be changing planes and that it was okay to leave my carry on. She confirmed that it was alright to do so, so I left my carry on – with my passport still in it. (That would be the part where you hit your forehead with your palm and ask yourself what kind of ding bat doesn’t know that her passport is supposed to be attached to her pretty much at all times. Hi. I’m that ding bat.) I get off the plane and ask the flight attendant at the podium to confirm that the plane would not be changing and get my third confirmation! 30 minutes later, I’m re-boarding the plane, making my way back to my seat, looking up at the overhead compartment, and you can guess what isn’t there: my carry on. That moment of panic is still vivid in my mind as I still feel the heart palpitations while writing this story.

On the holiest mountain, Masada.

I immediately asked the flight attendant what happened to my carry on and she looked a bit confused as she walked off to ask her coworker. When she returned she told me that they had changed planes. Now I’m going to save the rest of this story for the blog entry titled “The Time I Knocked Out a Flight Attendant.” Kidding. I did come pretty close though. I explained, not very calmly, the whole situation to her and she said that they would have to go to the old plane in order to get the bag which would end up holding up this flight, and they could not do that. I was given the option of taking a later flight or having my carry on sent to New York after me. In hindsight, I should have waited in Phoenix.

When I arrived in New York, I went to try and find my carry on and was told that they were waiting to get it on a plane with cargo room. Which apparently means in eight hours. My flight to Israel was in three. I am ashamed to admit that I am one of those people that cry when they get angry. So I made my puffy-eyed way up to international departures to find my group going to Israel to tell the coordinator what had happened. This was the time I should have been mingling with the group and getting to know my fellow travelers but instead, I was sulky in a corner trying to ensure that no one saw me crying (or throwing a hissy fit). Three hours later, the group left without me, and five hours after that, my carry on finally arrived in New York. Thankfully, the group leader managed to get me on a red eye to Israel that night with two other boys that had missed their flights for various reasons.

I’m going to leave this story as a cliff hanger because, believe it or not, it gets worse…

To Be Continued…

Information about the photos in this post: I may be in them but I did not take any of them, I have linked them all back to their rightful owners.

Facing Disappointment

As some of my friends (a.k.a. informal editors/brutal slashers of hope) know, I decided to expose myself to the ruthlessness of judgment from a complete stranger by entering a travel writing contest.  I’m not really sure why I did it.  I know my writing is by no means up to par with the talent of so many others.  But the opportunity looked extremely tempting and I can honestly say, I don’t remember the last time I was so excited about the possibility of something.  Needless to say, I did not win and I’m finding it hard not to be a bit bitter.  Though, I read the winning pieces and it’s really not surprising that they won and I did not.  They are beautifully and, at times, hilariously written.  Two of them made me want to visit the location they were written about.  One was about Scotland, and if you know me, you know that it doesn’t take a lot to make me want to go there.  These are some very talented ladies and I will openly admit that I am jealous.  Not that other people get to go to Australia and I don’t, but that I’m nowhere near as talented as they are.  I received some really good feedback about my piece from my friends who read it so, at least, I have that bit of warmth to get me through the defeat.

Here are the winning stories:

Beware of Bears (this one actually reminded me quite a bit of Jenny Lawson style writing)

Careening Into the Isle of Skye (oh Scottish men.  I can’t wait to go to Scotland next year)

In Full Bloom

I call this one Contrast.

In the name of travel writing practice, I’m going to try to access the dusty corners of my memory and dig out some interesting tidbits about some old trips I’ve taken.  I’m sure that there at least some trips that I can make sound fairly epic…or at least mildly entertaining.  I started a new page on World Nomads called Rita in Wanderland.  Go check it out by clicking on the Wanderland tab at the top of this blog. Even if no one is reading, I’m going to keep writing in the hopes that, at some point, I’ll be good enough to garner at least a miniscule amount of attention.  Maybe even good enough to be shipped off to a different country to write about it.  A girl can dream.

In the meantime, you can read my first story about a tiny portion of my trip to Israel (a.k.a. My Heart’s Home or the story that DIDN’T win me a trip to Australia in 2016):

"The water was rising. The ceilings and walls were getting closer, closer, and closer until we were hunched over, slogging through knee-deep water. I was especially grateful, at this moment, that had I never suffered from claustrophobia. Though, after a while of being 130 feet below ground, I started to wonder how I got here. I was in a stone tunnel that was dug out over 2,000 years ago by hand! Thankfully, my anxiety started to subside as the awe of the situation sunk in. I was in the CIty of David, underneath Jerusalem, walking through Hezekiah’s Tunnel.  

I was 23 years old and had never shown much interest in history, yet here I was, maneuvering my five foot eight frame through an unilluminated, wet tunnel five feet high and two feet wide.  All at once, I couldn’t imagine anywhere else I wanted to be. As I felt my way forward using the tiny flashlights some of us were provided, and the stone walls, that eventually rose to at least standing height, I felt transported. I imagined the people from 2,000 years ago digging this tunnel, all the work that went into it, and the history of it made me dizzy. Or it might have been that I was packed into a narrow, underground tunnel with at least 75 strangers around me. I later learned that the purpose for this tunnel was to divert water from the nearby Gihon Spring into the Pool of Siloam in case of an attack on the city.  It was genius, really. I fell more in love with Jerusalem than I ever thought possible. I wanted to devour every single bit of information. Unfortunately, there was only so much that I was able to absorb in the three days I spent there.  

Prior to this trip, I never had the slightest desire to go to Israel, but, being a budding nomad, when the opportunity to go presented itself, I had no choice but to pack my bags. I wasn’t going to miss my chance to travel.  What I gained, though, ended up being so much more valuable than a stamp in my passport. Walking the streets of Jerusalem, being in the City of David, going through those tunnels, even sitting on an old brick wall on a Saturday morning with a warm cup of tea looking out at this phenomenal city, I felt connected to it in a way I never felt before. This was where I wanted to be, this place felt more like home than any house I ever had, any city I ever lived in. This was where my heart found its home."

But to the wonderful winning and honorable mention stories: congrats!  You earned it and hopefully I’ll be on that list someday.  And to my helpful friends: thank you for being the bearers of helpful criticism and honest opinions.

Inspiration DOES Come From Pinterest

The running joke about Pinterest is that you will never do any of the things that you post.  And if you do, it will be comically horrible.  However, the inspiration I'm talking about is the inspiration to write.  It's quite possible that what I write might still be comically horrible.

I read a quote by Stephen King on Pinterest that said something along the lines of "just write one page per day, 300 words and in a year you'll have written a book."  I never thought about it like that and when it's put that way...it sounds so simple.  Of course it isn't.  But I'm starting to believe that a "natural" talent isn't necessarily a precursor to being a good writer.  It makes it easier and more fun, I'm sure, but it's not a death sentence to your writing if you are not a naturally born writer.  I know I'm not a natural born writer.  I have a horrible time expressing myself.  I love words.  There is very little more important to me than words but I can never put down on paper exactly what is going through my head.  I get frustrated so easily when I can't get a word out that is on the tip of my tongue.  I know the feeling, I know what I want to portray, but I just can't get it out and I become physically anxious and upset...so I stop writing.  This happens every time.  And this is why I like this whole "write one page per day" idea.  It's only one page.  That's all you have to get out in one day.  My frustration is worsened when I start getting too far ahead of myself.  When I start thinking about what comes next, what's the next point I want to make, what's the next word I want to put on the paper.  When you know that you are only responsible for one page that day, you live on that one page, and you don't take it for granted.  And usually, the next day, my inspiration is back.  I have a brand new idea hopping around or a new take on an old idea.  I see things that I might not have seen the day before.

Right now, I have no idea what I'm writing about.  I started writing, and an idea formed.  I'm really not sure where I'll end up with this, but I'm hoping it will be somewhere good.  I'm just happy to be writing again.  I have the utmost respect for fiction writers.  It is so awe inspiring to think that this book that I can't put down came out of one head, one idea.  The twists, the turns, the subtle aspects of it.  I fear that I will never be at that level because I don't even know where my writing will take me the next day, let alone at the end of 365 days.  I might end up with absolutely nothing of any interest, or just some incoherent pieces that don't fit together one bit, but, if I'm lucky, and if I use as much of my creativity as I have available, it will actually be something worth reading.

All that matters is that right now, I can put a word down on paper and not feel the need to rip my head open because it feels wrong.  Right now, I'm excited to be writing again.

To anyone who is struggling with writing (or any creative endeavor really), I found this really helpful blog post and I know I will be taking some advice from it.  Mainly: read more, watch less.

Coming Out

I'm coming out of the proverbial mental health closet:

Last year I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  I was briefly hospitalized and it was one of the most traumatic events of a life filled with traumatic events.  I've been struggling with depression and anxiety for the majority of my life.  At least as far back as I remember.  It may sound dramatic to say that I was depressed as a seven year old but I was.  I just moved to a new country, I didn't know the language, I had no friends, my father was handicapped, and my mother had to be the sole provider.  So, I might have been depressed at a very young age.

Being diagnosed with bipolar was kind of a relief because at least now I knew why standard antidepressants weren't working for me.  But slowly I found that medicating for bipolar is just as complicated.  I was on a medication for PTSD, a mood stabilizer, three medications for sleep/anxiety, and an antidepressant...and I still felt like shit.  I also gained more than 40 pounds in just a few months.  Sadly, we still haven't found a treatment that works for me.  It probably doesn't help that I refuse to be on any medication with even the slightest chance of weight gain.  I figure my psychiatrist could use the challenge...I don't think she agrees.

Regardless...I'm trying to make the best of things and live a fruitful life.  The problem is that what I consider fruitful is probably unrealistic.  I'm almost 30 years old and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I'm terrified of the future.  When everyone else will be retiring with their spouses and nice 401k, I'll still be working because I wasn't lucky or motivated enough to find a path I wanted to take.  And that's the problem with mental health issues.  They make you feel like a failure because they take away your focus and drive.

There are days when I feel fantastic, days where I feel like I'm on the verge of becoming manic, and days where I feel like I'm at the bottom of a pit and will never claw my way out.  The past couple of days have been like that so I figured I'd share my struggle for the few that read this that might be going through the same thing or know someone who is.

One of my favorite TV shows is Supernatural and one of the lead actors, Jared Padalecki, has a campaign to support the fight against depression.  This only makes me love the show and cast even more.  I was happy to support the cause and I will proudly rock my new hoodie when it arrives.

It especially hits home because "I am enough" has been my mantra for a while.  Every time I start to think I am not worth it, I am too weak, I am a burden, I try to remind myself that it is all a lie my bipolar is telling me.

I know, it leaves very little time, but there is still a day left to support the I Am Enough Campaign, and get a cool shirt out of it.

This has been an incredibly personal post and if you are reading it, thank you.  You just being here is helping more than you know.