Tuesday my husband and I returned from a three-week trip that took us to Krakow, Vienna, Prague, Budapest, and finally London. I began writing in a journal that I bought in a Jewish museum shop in Oswiecim (Auschwitz), down the block from the apartment where my mother, of blessed memory, lived until the Nazis took her to a ghetto, and then to a series of labor camps. But after touring each day, I was too tired to write. And so in my journal I'm still in Krakow.
I'm still processing everything we heard from our various guides and everything we saw. Palaces, opera houses, monuments. Grand synagogues that are, for the most part, museums. Graveyards where we searched, mostly in vain, for family tombstones; other graveyards where we visited the resting places of renowned Jewish scholars.
People ask, "How was your trip?" I tell them it was wonderful and depressing, beautiful and tragic.