About two months before I move, I began my bi-yearly ritual of packing up all my stuff to be shipped to my new country of residence. Each country has its own unique postal problem, some more acute than others. The trick is knowing what items will be flagged by customs inspectors and lead to the detainment of your contraband.
In Norway, for example, you won’t have too many problems in terms of contents, but the practice of just leaving your package on your door step or with a perfect stranger that lives in your building is an issue. Luckily, Norwegians are quite trustworthy people and you’ll probably get your stuff somehow. In Korea, it’s virtually impossible to find a full service post office to send your package from, but getting a package delivered- no problem, this is a country of people who love buying things, including online purchases (Koreans are the ultimate consumers) so the infrastructire is firmly in place top handle the demand. It also helps that people work longer hours, so you might even be home when they try to deliver you something, if you aren’t as lucky as I was, and have a door man that would sign for packages for the tenants and bring it up to you himself! In Czech Republic, the problem is the post office itself. It is easily the most confusing place on earth, so many windows that only do very specific tasks and an arsenal of documents and signatures are always required to do anything! I actually have to bring my passport in order to pick up my mail, a receipt and ID card? -you say. “Not enough”, not on the Czech postal army’s watch!
Despite the inherent unpleasantness of going to the Czech post office, something happened the other day that was out of character for them. I got a notice to pick up a large letter from the package window at the main Pardubice post office. When I went to the post office, with my friend Mila, to translate, we selected our queuing number “455” from the many, many options on the automated ticket distributing machine. We nestled into the comfy chairs speculating how horribly complicated picking up this thing would be. When it was finally our turn, it was a package that I assumed would never arrive as it was a birthday gift from Norway, that was addressed completely incoherently; the house number was where the postal code should have been, there was in fact no postal code anywhere, nor return address. About the only think correct information listed was my name and the country- yet, they found me! I was quite surprised, especially since the last package I received (which was addressed correctly) was a month late and was completely broken, dripping and moldy! Then there was the time they charged me $40 USD in tax for a used blanket that I had sent from the US, apparently there is a heftly flat tax on anything called “a blanket”. I was received a similar bill when my mom sent me some coffee. Based on the tenuous relationship I have had thus far with the Czech post office, they have redeemed themselves slightly as a result of their extra effort to get me my birthday care package.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Idiocracy that is the Czech Grocery Store
When I lived in USA, I used to romanticize the notion grocery shopping in Europe. I imagined pedaling my bike while wearing heals and fitted skirt confidently to the local shop (my stereotype of Europeans was that they even bicycled fashionably). I would pick up freshly baked bread everyday, then maybe get fresh flowers from an old woman, who would say hello and tell me in broken English that I looked lovely and should eat more, because I’m too thin! Then I’d go to the green grocer and the proprietor would also be really welcoming, and jovially recommend the best papayas while musing in amazement as to why I don't have a boyfriend, and how lucky that guy would be. (I said it was fantasy right?) *sigh* papayas,in Czech Republic, lol.
So, let's talk about reality. The worst day of my life is every time I have to go to the grocery store in the Czech Republic. If you were to compile every moment I have spent in the check-out line of Penny, Bila, Albert, and don’t even get me started on the rude A-holes at the Czech Tescos; then together that is pretty much the worst day(s) I can imagine! I have completely altered my shopping habits as a result of this unpleasant procedure. I have come up with some basic rules which make the process a bit easier:
1. Never get a trolley/ cart; it requires that I remember to always have a ten crown coin with me, and since the toilet also costs ten crowns it’s really hard to keep those coins in stock! I don't like to get my hopes up, only to discover I haven't got the correct coin. However, this is not a big switch in lifestyle for me, not using carts/trolleys that is. I have never believed is using those things, those are for families! I would never want to be mistaken for being anything other than an ultra-hip swinging single when I shop. I love the feeling of walking past some mom with two screaming kids, cart full of baby formula and diapers, with my bottle of wine, and frozen pizza, bypassing her b-lining it to the check-out, if condoms were widely sold at the grocery stores here, it would be even more of a statement to include them as one of my purchases. That's a non-verbal statement I'd be proud to make openly in that scenario.
2. Target quantities 6: 10 items or less if I have a basket, but even baskets can be a burden, and just make me spend more money. Czech stores never have enough baskets to go around, so I have learned to live without them. It’s an effective way to generate pity, when you have an armful of items you're laboring around the store, while the other shoppers lazy asses are just pushing ‘n browsing like there at the art gallery. I have figured out that I can sustain myself on six items. For example 1. Eggs (breakfast) 2. Yogurt or cottage cheese (breakfast compliment or snack) 3. Bread (I’m of Norwegian heritage, so according to my people bread can be two entire meals right there!) 4/5. Grape tomatoes and green olives (they function as ingrediants but they can stand on their own too). 6. Hodge-podge; maybe pasta, or cheese, tomato beans or kidney beans, fruit, a bar of Milka, but usually just a bottle of wine. That’s really all you actually need, since central Europeans eat hot lunch either in the canteen at work, or at a local café, you don’t need meat, nor do you really need to cook, just some light dinner snack will suffice most of the time. I will admit, Don Delillo made an impression on me when his protagonist in White Noise described grocery shopping as a religious rejuvenating experience, interesting idea. However, I have never found nirvana or anything close to that under florescent lights nestled between the dog food and frozen carrots.
3. Avoid the 5 o’clock shop: This is probably common sense and true in all countries, but I will say it anyway, as it’s an especially acute problem in Europe where store actually run out of staples like bread and fresh vegetables. An additional issue is Czech’s actually eat dinner at home with their families, and most of the time, someone actually cooks this dinner. A novel concept, I thought this was just a myth growing up that mother’s prepared meals for their family and they sat down and ate it… together. I have a mothers that doesn’t believe cooking is something that should be done more than once a week or for other people besides herself, except on a really special occasions. Thus, I don’t cook, not that I don’t know how, I’m actually a pretty good cook, but I’ve got no one to impress, so I’m happy with eating a bowl of tomatoes, olives and kidney beans- and calling it a meal (I am not joking, I eat this on average 4 days a week and totally love it!)
4. Select your check out line carefully: The shortest line is not always the best choice for expediency. Czechs are loyal shoppers, they go to the same store 3-4 times a week minimum, you can trust their judgement on this one, they know which clerk is fast and nice, and which old bag will smell terrible and yell at you, in addition to being slow. So if you see one queue with 2 people and another with 4, you should investigate the reason for this before committing to the short line. I usually regret just getting in the shortest line.
5. Organize your shopping on the conveyer belt: Bear in mind that the check -out bitch is not going to help you in any way, and since you have to bag your own groceries, make it easier for yourself, spread out your items in the order you want her/ him to ring them up (i.e. heavy stuff first, bread and chips last) Another key, is if you have forgotten to bring your own bag, make sure that it is the first thing in the row, it will completely stunt your bagging progress if the bag is at the end of the conveyer belt. Then you’ll get yelled at, for bagging to slow, and holding up the line. For those that cannot imagine the problem, think about what a grocery store looks like in your country. In most countries there is a space for the checker to slide you groceries to after they have done their weighing and beeping. In Eastern Europe and CZ, they don’t have this area! After the beeping and weighing your item basically falls off the end onto the floor if you aren’t ready to put them somewhere. It’s like birthing a baby, or being a baseball catcher, it’s really stressful because you want to organize your bag properly but the if you grew up in a country where some pimple faced high school kid does this for you; you don’t have the training to do this job, let alone quickly! I have studied how Czechs do this in utter amazement, they are so fast! Old people and foreigner just put everything back in the cart/trolley/ basket then use this little side counter to reorganize, but that just seems silly to me, what a waste of time! So I mentally pump myself up when I’m in line, strategizing how to tackle the bagging. This is why in instated rule #2, it solves the problem usually.
6. Weigh your Fruit and Veg: I almost forgot! In the US we have a scale in the fruit section, but I always thought it was just for cheap bastards that were pinching pennies or didn't trust that the cashier would enter the correct weight/ price. I have never actually used it in the US. In Europe, it actually has a really important function! For my American readers; this will shock you! In CZ, if you don't remember to weigh your own fruit and veg, then tag it with the appropriate bar code; they won't let you buy it! I know...a store that WILL NOT LET YOU GIVE THEM MONEY- I had never heard of such a thing either untril I came here. I still haven't really come to terms with the concept that sometimes clerks won't take your money simply because it's too much trouble for them, the result is you either can't have the item, or other times you get it for free. One time I forgot to weigh and tag a bag of oranges, the old wench store clerk snatched the oranged from my pile of purchases and tossed them in the go-backs pile. Nope, I had missed my opportunity- no oranges for me, and no second chances! Then she gave me a really annoyed look as if she were fed up with my games, and hadn't the time for my igornace. Can you imagine such a scenario ever happening in the US that didn't result in the woman immediately being fired, and me getting my oranges and a huge appology from the store manager?! Me either.
Maybe I should submit this blog entry to grocery stores; it wouldn’t change anything, but might make them laugh. If I managed a grocery store, and I knew that for foreigners, shopping at my store was the worst day of their life that might have an impact on me.
So, let's talk about reality. The worst day of my life is every time I have to go to the grocery store in the Czech Republic. If you were to compile every moment I have spent in the check-out line of Penny, Bila, Albert, and don’t even get me started on the rude A-holes at the Czech Tescos; then together that is pretty much the worst day(s) I can imagine! I have completely altered my shopping habits as a result of this unpleasant procedure. I have come up with some basic rules which make the process a bit easier:
1. Never get a trolley/ cart; it requires that I remember to always have a ten crown coin with me, and since the toilet also costs ten crowns it’s really hard to keep those coins in stock! I don't like to get my hopes up, only to discover I haven't got the correct coin. However, this is not a big switch in lifestyle for me, not using carts/trolleys that is. I have never believed is using those things, those are for families! I would never want to be mistaken for being anything other than an ultra-hip swinging single when I shop. I love the feeling of walking past some mom with two screaming kids, cart full of baby formula and diapers, with my bottle of wine, and frozen pizza, bypassing her b-lining it to the check-out, if condoms were widely sold at the grocery stores here, it would be even more of a statement to include them as one of my purchases. That's a non-verbal statement I'd be proud to make openly in that scenario.
2. Target quantities 6: 10 items or less if I have a basket, but even baskets can be a burden, and just make me spend more money. Czech stores never have enough baskets to go around, so I have learned to live without them. It’s an effective way to generate pity, when you have an armful of items you're laboring around the store, while the other shoppers lazy asses are just pushing ‘n browsing like there at the art gallery. I have figured out that I can sustain myself on six items. For example 1. Eggs (breakfast) 2. Yogurt or cottage cheese (breakfast compliment or snack) 3. Bread (I’m of Norwegian heritage, so according to my people bread can be two entire meals right there!) 4/5. Grape tomatoes and green olives (they function as ingrediants but they can stand on their own too). 6. Hodge-podge; maybe pasta, or cheese, tomato beans or kidney beans, fruit, a bar of Milka, but usually just a bottle of wine. That’s really all you actually need, since central Europeans eat hot lunch either in the canteen at work, or at a local café, you don’t need meat, nor do you really need to cook, just some light dinner snack will suffice most of the time. I will admit, Don Delillo made an impression on me when his protagonist in White Noise described grocery shopping as a religious rejuvenating experience, interesting idea. However, I have never found nirvana or anything close to that under florescent lights nestled between the dog food and frozen carrots.
3. Avoid the 5 o’clock shop: This is probably common sense and true in all countries, but I will say it anyway, as it’s an especially acute problem in Europe where store actually run out of staples like bread and fresh vegetables. An additional issue is Czech’s actually eat dinner at home with their families, and most of the time, someone actually cooks this dinner. A novel concept, I thought this was just a myth growing up that mother’s prepared meals for their family and they sat down and ate it… together. I have a mothers that doesn’t believe cooking is something that should be done more than once a week or for other people besides herself, except on a really special occasions. Thus, I don’t cook, not that I don’t know how, I’m actually a pretty good cook, but I’ve got no one to impress, so I’m happy with eating a bowl of tomatoes, olives and kidney beans- and calling it a meal (I am not joking, I eat this on average 4 days a week and totally love it!)
4. Select your check out line carefully: The shortest line is not always the best choice for expediency. Czechs are loyal shoppers, they go to the same store 3-4 times a week minimum, you can trust their judgement on this one, they know which clerk is fast and nice, and which old bag will smell terrible and yell at you, in addition to being slow. So if you see one queue with 2 people and another with 4, you should investigate the reason for this before committing to the short line. I usually regret just getting in the shortest line.
5. Organize your shopping on the conveyer belt: Bear in mind that the check -out bitch is not going to help you in any way, and since you have to bag your own groceries, make it easier for yourself, spread out your items in the order you want her/ him to ring them up (i.e. heavy stuff first, bread and chips last) Another key, is if you have forgotten to bring your own bag, make sure that it is the first thing in the row, it will completely stunt your bagging progress if the bag is at the end of the conveyer belt. Then you’ll get yelled at, for bagging to slow, and holding up the line. For those that cannot imagine the problem, think about what a grocery store looks like in your country. In most countries there is a space for the checker to slide you groceries to after they have done their weighing and beeping. In Eastern Europe and CZ, they don’t have this area! After the beeping and weighing your item basically falls off the end onto the floor if you aren’t ready to put them somewhere. It’s like birthing a baby, or being a baseball catcher, it’s really stressful because you want to organize your bag properly but the if you grew up in a country where some pimple faced high school kid does this for you; you don’t have the training to do this job, let alone quickly! I have studied how Czechs do this in utter amazement, they are so fast! Old people and foreigner just put everything back in the cart/trolley/ basket then use this little side counter to reorganize, but that just seems silly to me, what a waste of time! So I mentally pump myself up when I’m in line, strategizing how to tackle the bagging. This is why in instated rule #2, it solves the problem usually.
6. Weigh your Fruit and Veg: I almost forgot! In the US we have a scale in the fruit section, but I always thought it was just for cheap bastards that were pinching pennies or didn't trust that the cashier would enter the correct weight/ price. I have never actually used it in the US. In Europe, it actually has a really important function! For my American readers; this will shock you! In CZ, if you don't remember to weigh your own fruit and veg, then tag it with the appropriate bar code; they won't let you buy it! I know...a store that WILL NOT LET YOU GIVE THEM MONEY- I had never heard of such a thing either untril I came here. I still haven't really come to terms with the concept that sometimes clerks won't take your money simply because it's too much trouble for them, the result is you either can't have the item, or other times you get it for free. One time I forgot to weigh and tag a bag of oranges, the old wench store clerk snatched the oranged from my pile of purchases and tossed them in the go-backs pile. Nope, I had missed my opportunity- no oranges for me, and no second chances! Then she gave me a really annoyed look as if she were fed up with my games, and hadn't the time for my igornace. Can you imagine such a scenario ever happening in the US that didn't result in the woman immediately being fired, and me getting my oranges and a huge appology from the store manager?! Me either.
Maybe I should submit this blog entry to grocery stores; it wouldn’t change anything, but might make them laugh. If I managed a grocery store, and I knew that for foreigners, shopping at my store was the worst day of their life that might have an impact on me.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Vino Vino Vino!
It's the most wonderful time of the year, if you live in Pardubice and you are a big lush; yes, the last weekend in August is the Pardubicky Festival Vina (The Pardubice Wine Festival). This annual event starts Friday afternoon and runs until Saturday afternoon, with a short pause for sleep. The Old Square is packed with local wine growers and vendors selling their best bottles and hosting tastings. There is a band stand, and a separate special tasting that runs until 6pm inside the Chateau. I was told that in years past even the fountains were filled with wine!(I understand this was stopped because Czech just drank "the decorative fountain", rather than spending money at the festival proper).
My company is a sponsor so employees receive free entrance and tasting tokens. I meet up with a colleague and her friend at the entrance, and we went on a hunt for our companies VIP party, we saw everyone up on the second floor balcony, but couldn’t figure out how to get there. We tried many doors, until finally another colleague came and got us. (It was not obvious, and we were sober at that point). We had some food and a couple drinks with our colleagues, but they were all drinking dry white wine- yuck. We decided to set out to find the award winning wines, and taste the most expensive wines we could find. We meandered among the French, Slovenia to Austria rooms and on to the Chilean wines; drinking and sampling all the way. Stopping briefly to buy some delicious cheese to clense the pallete, and down stairs to try New Zealand wine, all in an hour’s time! I spent every token! We actually hide behind one of the booths with some friends we had meet at one of the Chilean booth, as it was passed last call, we squatted behind the booth, and sample a few more bottles, until security tracked us down and shuffled us toward the square.
On the way we got to chatting with various festival goers, a conversation exchange that occurred with much ease as everyone was sloshed. We all made empty promises to each other and declared that we would see each other in the square; promises immediately forgotten along with names, the moment we went our separate ways. My colleagues and I needed to make a stop at the other work party where we heard there was a lot of good food. The way it worked out we ended up spending the rest of the night there and never even made it to the main square festivities. I understand the party continued after I called it quits at midnight. Apparently many others ended up at a dance club until the wee hours of the morning. I, however, woke up feeling remarkably okay, and even went jogging this morning. I was the only person in Pardubice that felt that way I presume, based on the fact that I was the sole runner on the normally high traffic trail.
If you plan to visit Pardubice, I highly reccomend planning your trip around the last weekend in August.
My company is a sponsor so employees receive free entrance and tasting tokens. I meet up with a colleague and her friend at the entrance, and we went on a hunt for our companies VIP party, we saw everyone up on the second floor balcony, but couldn’t figure out how to get there. We tried many doors, until finally another colleague came and got us. (It was not obvious, and we were sober at that point). We had some food and a couple drinks with our colleagues, but they were all drinking dry white wine- yuck. We decided to set out to find the award winning wines, and taste the most expensive wines we could find. We meandered among the French, Slovenia to Austria rooms and on to the Chilean wines; drinking and sampling all the way. Stopping briefly to buy some delicious cheese to clense the pallete, and down stairs to try New Zealand wine, all in an hour’s time! I spent every token! We actually hide behind one of the booths with some friends we had meet at one of the Chilean booth, as it was passed last call, we squatted behind the booth, and sample a few more bottles, until security tracked us down and shuffled us toward the square.
On the way we got to chatting with various festival goers, a conversation exchange that occurred with much ease as everyone was sloshed. We all made empty promises to each other and declared that we would see each other in the square; promises immediately forgotten along with names, the moment we went our separate ways. My colleagues and I needed to make a stop at the other work party where we heard there was a lot of good food. The way it worked out we ended up spending the rest of the night there and never even made it to the main square festivities. I understand the party continued after I called it quits at midnight. Apparently many others ended up at a dance club until the wee hours of the morning. I, however, woke up feeling remarkably okay, and even went jogging this morning. I was the only person in Pardubice that felt that way I presume, based on the fact that I was the sole runner on the normally high traffic trail.
If you plan to visit Pardubice, I highly reccomend planning your trip around the last weekend in August.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Life in the Village: a trip to the cottage
When I signed my contract to work in Czech Republic, the language and cultural barriers were less of a concern than my feelings about living in a small town (a populous of only 100,000 less than 1/5 the size of where I had been living previously) What comforted me was that it was only an hour outside of Prague, so I figured I could still easily escape to Prague if i caught small-town-fever. I certainly had a “what am I getting myself into” feeling when I drove through the countryside on my way to town the first time, but was pleasantly surprised at the liveliness of old town once I arrived and settled in.
One of the more confounding conversations I regularly have with Czechs at work or around town is their curious weekend activities. I would estimate that one in two report that they spend their weekends at their cottage in the village, this confused me, because as far as I was concerned, we were ALREADY IN The VILLAGE! I would laugh to myself when people would say they needed to escape the hustle and bustle of city life, just as I was planning a weekend excursion TO THE CITY, to escape the doldrums of our little city, which insiently gets progressively less exciting come Saturday night. This odd proclivity toward village life runs deep in the Czech Republic, and is not limited to East Bohemia; it has its roots to Communist times.
During the occupations, the Czechs were not able to travel or cross borders easily if at all. So they had to find alternate way to keep themselves entertained within their own borders. Another immense loss to the Czech lifestyle steaming from this time was the decline of the family garden, a long standing valued tradition amongst Czechs. Since everyone had to work by law, this meant there weren't enough jobs in the countryside, so people had no choice but to relocate to the cities. To accommodate the influx of workers, the “commie blocks” sprung up. The skyline of every city and town throughout Czech Republic is now dominated by these ugly concrete high-rises just beyond the city center (I live in one myself). It is unusual to find a Czech that is proud to live in one such block, most just accept that it is inevitable if you wish or need to live in a city, but most are quick to tell you they spend their weekends at the cottage. The cottage requires constant upkeep and most Czech have ongoing projects at their cottage, usually general improvements or repairs, and gardening. Much like Africans count their wealth interms of how many children they have; Czechs measure wealth in terms of how many fruit trees they have. These gardening commitments ensure that they are at the cottage every spare moment.
The idea of the cottage is fascinating to me. Americans consider a weekend home a luxury that few can afford, to Czech's it normal and middle class to have a cottage. As far as weekends go, I love a low-key Friday dinner out with friends and an exciting Saturday night out til dawn, followed by a good solid lie-in on Sunday, so the idea of packing up and heading out to the cottage to garden and do home repair doesn’t sound like a fun weekend to me! When you consider the fact that many of these cottages don’t have plumbing, or electricity, I find myself completely perplexed at what draws people there. It sounds more like a punishment than something anyone in their right mind would do out of their own freewill; but that is the Czech mentality.
I had to find out more. In mid July there was a killer heatwave which lasted more than a week, at one point I actually flinched when I brushed against the exterior-facing wall of my flat, the concrete was hot…inside! There was only one thing to do, I had to get out of the city, without air-conditioning, there was no way I could bear to be in my flat a moment longer. A lovely Czech friend of my had extended an offer to stay at her cottage over the weekend with her family. If nothing else this would satisfy my curiosity about this widespread tradition. I took the local train about a million stops to the village, which in actuality was only about 20 km from my town, it just seemed far away in an un-air-conditioned crowded regional train. The first thing I thought of was that my cottage in Oregon was the lap of luxury compared to this cottage. I'm not saying it was uncomfortable, just rustic. Our cottage was really just a house in the country, this was an actual cottage, and old farm house, even the brick floor had a depression in the high traffic areas it was so old. I found that charming, and made this place intriging. The doors and windows remained open at all time, the bathroom was put in by the family, it was a big step above an outhouse, despite being outside in the former barn. The town itself was so small that it didn’t have a school, a market, or local government, the several hundred-year-old church had its door chained, and weeds threaten to completely overtake the courtyard. It did have a pub and a massage center though…odd. I enjoyed our little walk around town the air was nice and clean, and it was much cooler since it had just rained.
“What’s next?” I kept asking, confused about what I should be doing the whole time, once we had taken a walk, and eaten something, I really didn’t know what to do. Not to mention, the electricity kept going out due to the passing rain storm. We all did some reading (when the power was on), which reminded me of my summers in Oregon. “What’s next?” We played some cards, which I admit was pretty fun, as I rarely have time or an opponent for such activities. “What’s next?” We ate again. “What’s next?” We watched a film. It was raining most of the weekend so, I assume our options were somewhat limited, or were they? I really had no idea what to do with myself; napping sounded good, but I thought that might be perceived as rude. I also found myself feeling really bad that my friend’s mom was doing so much cooking and cleaning, I offered to help; besides it being something to do, I really felt like I needed to help out. I’m not used to being waited on; this would never happen in my own house growing up, or even nowadays when I visit my family, it’s always a do-it-yourself meal plan (my mom generally doesn’t cook...at least anything that anyone but her would want to eat).
I really hoped that I would have a greater understanding and sense about this local custom after my weekend at the cottage, but I think I might be even more confused. I am so happy I had the experience, but I think it’s unlikely that I’ll seek that sort of entertainment again if there isn’t some sort of regiment of planned activities that includes a hike somewhere of an opportunity to try something that I can’t do at home more comfortably.
One of the more confounding conversations I regularly have with Czechs at work or around town is their curious weekend activities. I would estimate that one in two report that they spend their weekends at their cottage in the village, this confused me, because as far as I was concerned, we were ALREADY IN The VILLAGE! I would laugh to myself when people would say they needed to escape the hustle and bustle of city life, just as I was planning a weekend excursion TO THE CITY, to escape the doldrums of our little city, which insiently gets progressively less exciting come Saturday night. This odd proclivity toward village life runs deep in the Czech Republic, and is not limited to East Bohemia; it has its roots to Communist times.
During the occupations, the Czechs were not able to travel or cross borders easily if at all. So they had to find alternate way to keep themselves entertained within their own borders. Another immense loss to the Czech lifestyle steaming from this time was the decline of the family garden, a long standing valued tradition amongst Czechs. Since everyone had to work by law, this meant there weren't enough jobs in the countryside, so people had no choice but to relocate to the cities. To accommodate the influx of workers, the “commie blocks” sprung up. The skyline of every city and town throughout Czech Republic is now dominated by these ugly concrete high-rises just beyond the city center (I live in one myself). It is unusual to find a Czech that is proud to live in one such block, most just accept that it is inevitable if you wish or need to live in a city, but most are quick to tell you they spend their weekends at the cottage. The cottage requires constant upkeep and most Czech have ongoing projects at their cottage, usually general improvements or repairs, and gardening. Much like Africans count their wealth interms of how many children they have; Czechs measure wealth in terms of how many fruit trees they have. These gardening commitments ensure that they are at the cottage every spare moment.
The idea of the cottage is fascinating to me. Americans consider a weekend home a luxury that few can afford, to Czech's it normal and middle class to have a cottage. As far as weekends go, I love a low-key Friday dinner out with friends and an exciting Saturday night out til dawn, followed by a good solid lie-in on Sunday, so the idea of packing up and heading out to the cottage to garden and do home repair doesn’t sound like a fun weekend to me! When you consider the fact that many of these cottages don’t have plumbing, or electricity, I find myself completely perplexed at what draws people there. It sounds more like a punishment than something anyone in their right mind would do out of their own freewill; but that is the Czech mentality.
I had to find out more. In mid July there was a killer heatwave which lasted more than a week, at one point I actually flinched when I brushed against the exterior-facing wall of my flat, the concrete was hot…inside! There was only one thing to do, I had to get out of the city, without air-conditioning, there was no way I could bear to be in my flat a moment longer. A lovely Czech friend of my had extended an offer to stay at her cottage over the weekend with her family. If nothing else this would satisfy my curiosity about this widespread tradition. I took the local train about a million stops to the village, which in actuality was only about 20 km from my town, it just seemed far away in an un-air-conditioned crowded regional train. The first thing I thought of was that my cottage in Oregon was the lap of luxury compared to this cottage. I'm not saying it was uncomfortable, just rustic. Our cottage was really just a house in the country, this was an actual cottage, and old farm house, even the brick floor had a depression in the high traffic areas it was so old. I found that charming, and made this place intriging. The doors and windows remained open at all time, the bathroom was put in by the family, it was a big step above an outhouse, despite being outside in the former barn. The town itself was so small that it didn’t have a school, a market, or local government, the several hundred-year-old church had its door chained, and weeds threaten to completely overtake the courtyard. It did have a pub and a massage center though…odd. I enjoyed our little walk around town the air was nice and clean, and it was much cooler since it had just rained.
“What’s next?” I kept asking, confused about what I should be doing the whole time, once we had taken a walk, and eaten something, I really didn’t know what to do. Not to mention, the electricity kept going out due to the passing rain storm. We all did some reading (when the power was on), which reminded me of my summers in Oregon. “What’s next?” We played some cards, which I admit was pretty fun, as I rarely have time or an opponent for such activities. “What’s next?” We ate again. “What’s next?” We watched a film. It was raining most of the weekend so, I assume our options were somewhat limited, or were they? I really had no idea what to do with myself; napping sounded good, but I thought that might be perceived as rude. I also found myself feeling really bad that my friend’s mom was doing so much cooking and cleaning, I offered to help; besides it being something to do, I really felt like I needed to help out. I’m not used to being waited on; this would never happen in my own house growing up, or even nowadays when I visit my family, it’s always a do-it-yourself meal plan (my mom generally doesn’t cook...at least anything that anyone but her would want to eat).
I really hoped that I would have a greater understanding and sense about this local custom after my weekend at the cottage, but I think I might be even more confused. I am so happy I had the experience, but I think it’s unlikely that I’ll seek that sort of entertainment again if there isn’t some sort of regiment of planned activities that includes a hike somewhere of an opportunity to try something that I can’t do at home more comfortably.
Life in the Village: PROLOGUE
I grew up in the suburbs of Los Angeles, the town(s) I lived in were on the small side (assuming you consider populations of 80- 100,000 small), but when you consider that I was insolated if not surrounded by a 50 miles stretch on almost all sides of urban sprawl with no open space in between, you can hardly call this living outside The City. As a young adult I was on a quest to relocate closer to the action, a fairly normal practice for people my age. Indeed, I am a city girl at heart, even though I love nature and being outside, I just don’t know how to function in small towns.
When I was a kid, we had, well still technically have, a cottage in coastal Oregon. It wasn’t huge, but nice, each of us had our own room, and the house sat on a half acre of land, so there was plenty of space to run around in our little forest, although one had to be mindful of the poison ivy patches. The beach was 10 minutes away by car, (bear in mind it was an Oregon beach, so it was usually overcast and freezing), there were a couple kids around, but every activity they suggested we do, seemed like a cruel joke to me. The mere suggestion of trying to trap woodland creatures for no apparent reason led me to help my dad organize the garage, rather than join the local kids on their bizarre “fun” adventures. Yes, I pretty much hated it there. After a few days, I was bored out of my mind, so bored in fact that my preferred task was getting a jump start on my summer reading list for school. I regularly knocked out two books a week, and this coming from the world's least motivated student! My favorite activities included going to the costume store and trying on funny outfits, getting a meatball sub, at “The Sandwich Station” followed by a float from the old school A&W root beer stand, but these hubs for fun were in town proper, almost 20 minutes away by car! In lieu of a ride to town, I had to settle for walking to the local mercantile; located in a log cabin along the main road. In this shop you could get all manner of sundries, and you could rent films! There wasn’t much of a selection, but they did have the Lost Boys, which had just been released on VHS, my favorite movie at the time. I rented it over and over! If I were to have written one of those first week back to school English essays about my summer, it would have read like this: I spent my summer playing horse shoes with my dad, until I lost the horse’s shoes in the poison ivy ravine at the base of the forest. Therefore, I began practicing archery, until I lost all the arrows in the poison ivy ravine at the base of the forest. After that, I switched to darts; until those too were gobbled up by the poison ivy ravine at the base of the forest. Later in the summer I wised-up, avoiding the middle-man, my brother and I just hit golf balls into the poison ivy ravine. Once I had exhausted our family’s supply of airborne sporting objects; I read the entire Sweet Valley High canon, watched Lost Boys more times than the film's editors, and counted the days until I could return to LA. The End.
I offer this preface to give the reader an idea of my point of reference when it comes to talking about villages, and villagers. Am I a city snob? Without question. Am I biased? Absolutely. Am I ashamed of my blanket judgments on village life and villager? Well not entirely, because there is some truth to every stereotype, and it's no as if I'm malevolent towards the village existence, I envy villager; I envy the simplicity in which they live; their ties to their community and their sense of self and purpose is admirable, but that doesn't mean I understand it.
When I was a kid, we had, well still technically have, a cottage in coastal Oregon. It wasn’t huge, but nice, each of us had our own room, and the house sat on a half acre of land, so there was plenty of space to run around in our little forest, although one had to be mindful of the poison ivy patches. The beach was 10 minutes away by car, (bear in mind it was an Oregon beach, so it was usually overcast and freezing), there were a couple kids around, but every activity they suggested we do, seemed like a cruel joke to me. The mere suggestion of trying to trap woodland creatures for no apparent reason led me to help my dad organize the garage, rather than join the local kids on their bizarre “fun” adventures. Yes, I pretty much hated it there. After a few days, I was bored out of my mind, so bored in fact that my preferred task was getting a jump start on my summer reading list for school. I regularly knocked out two books a week, and this coming from the world's least motivated student! My favorite activities included going to the costume store and trying on funny outfits, getting a meatball sub, at “The Sandwich Station” followed by a float from the old school A&W root beer stand, but these hubs for fun were in town proper, almost 20 minutes away by car! In lieu of a ride to town, I had to settle for walking to the local mercantile; located in a log cabin along the main road. In this shop you could get all manner of sundries, and you could rent films! There wasn’t much of a selection, but they did have the Lost Boys, which had just been released on VHS, my favorite movie at the time. I rented it over and over! If I were to have written one of those first week back to school English essays about my summer, it would have read like this: I spent my summer playing horse shoes with my dad, until I lost the horse’s shoes in the poison ivy ravine at the base of the forest. Therefore, I began practicing archery, until I lost all the arrows in the poison ivy ravine at the base of the forest. After that, I switched to darts; until those too were gobbled up by the poison ivy ravine at the base of the forest. Later in the summer I wised-up, avoiding the middle-man, my brother and I just hit golf balls into the poison ivy ravine. Once I had exhausted our family’s supply of airborne sporting objects; I read the entire Sweet Valley High canon, watched Lost Boys more times than the film's editors, and counted the days until I could return to LA. The End.
I offer this preface to give the reader an idea of my point of reference when it comes to talking about villages, and villagers. Am I a city snob? Without question. Am I biased? Absolutely. Am I ashamed of my blanket judgments on village life and villager? Well not entirely, because there is some truth to every stereotype, and it's no as if I'm malevolent towards the village existence, I envy villager; I envy the simplicity in which they live; their ties to their community and their sense of self and purpose is admirable, but that doesn't mean I understand it.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Self-Help at Starbucks
When I first arrived in the Czech Republic I had a strong aversion to anything American, this meant that I protested even looking at Burger King, McDonalds, Subway, or KFC for fear that I might be mysteriously teleported home. I figured:"I moved to Europe for a reason, and I won’t let these degusting American franchises rain greasy western plight on my central European fantasy". That being said, I still, to this day, have problems ordering coffee drinks at cafes. It’s not even the language barrier, it’s that Europeans don’t seem to understand that I want way more coffee than they are willing to sell me, and that if even a drop of milk or a speck of sugar infiltrated my coffee; I will spit it out and demand a new one. Another notable difference in the relationship Americans have to coffee as compared to the Europeans is that for Americans coffee is medicinal. Many of us literally cannot function without our morning coffee. Tea drinkers may have a similar addiction, but from my perspective it really doesn’t compare with the wrath of an un-caffeinated American coffee drinker. Often I purposefully don’t drink coffee before my first class so that I can remain incoherent throughout- it makes the day go by a little faster.
I think it was back in autumn when I had to make a trip to the American Consulate in order to get something notarized. The Consulate is located in Mala Strana, a neighborhood I used to live in a few years ago, so I knew they area well, and had plans to do my business then relax at the *Hanging Coffee (see foot note) before work. The owner of The Hanging Coffee is an interesting fellow; he opens the café when he feels like it, which often has nothing to do with the posted hours. On this particular day, it was one of those days where he was there, sweeping the front walk actually, but wasn’t “open” despite it being after 10am. I asked when he would be open, he said “maybe 11:00”. I can’t really take chances when it comes to getting my coffee fix, especially when I’ve just spent an hour going through security and dealing with some of the most unhelpful consulate workers ever. My other coffee place of choice had been Café Loretta ** (see footnote) just a 2 minute walk from the Hanging Coffee, but the place had changed ownership, and I wasn’t even sure it was a café anymore.
Two strikes, still no coffee, I walked back down the hill and scoped out possible café option. Mala Strana is quite touristy as it sits nestled between Prague Castle and Old Town, this means that most of the cafes are touristy and overpriced, and I really wasn’t in the mood to hear tourists trying to read maps and argue about how to fit in a trip to the Mucha Museum, the Charles Bridge, the Segway tour of Old Town, and The Prague by Night Ghost tour, while trying to figure out if 60 koruny was a lot of money to pay for a coffee- the answer is "yes" by the way. I was working hard to stear clear of anyone wearing Croqs and money belt to try to avoid overhearing this type of conversation. I found a simi-out -of -the -way place that seemed nice enough, just as a pack of middle aged Americans passed me, bitching about Starbucks. “Oh lord, Starbucks is here too, I wouldn't be caught dead in there!” one woman exclaimed loudly as they waddled past me. Before I had time to enter café of choice, I turned and looked across the square. “Of course”, I thought, “I know exactly what to do; I can hide from these annoying tourists in plain sight!” “Starbucks!” No self-respecting American visiting Prague for the first time would step foot in that place, and no ignorant annoying American would visit Prague because they think it’s in Russia!
I confidently entered Starbucks for the first time since I had left The States, the proverbial Starbucks aroma hit me and instantaneously mentally transported me to another time and place, the male barista in his familiar green smock looked up with a big American-style smile and said…”prosim?”I was immediately pulled out of my nostalgic trance and dropped back into reality. I ordered in English…well Italian actually, it is Starbuck after all, to try to sneak back into that other world, just for a second, he understood, and went about assembling my order. Okay, that wasn't so bad I thought, so far so good. When I settled into a table near the window, I listened to conversations buzzing around me, they were in Czech, French, Spanish, Korean…no English to be heard anywhere! These patrons seemed to be students mostly and maybe a few tourists, but no American tourists, just as I had hypothesized. I sat back and enjoyed a coffee that really was “grande” not just in name. It was bitter and watery and lovely, like coffee should be. I sipped my piping hot coffee out of a paper cup with a lid and gazed out the window, it had started to rain, and again it became sadly apparent who the tourists were, they busted out their dorky hotel issued plastic parkas with pride then scurried around like ants that had lost the scent of their leader looking for shelter, while the locals simply opened an umbrella and went about their business. At that moment, I remember feeling really thankful, and not just about having never worn a plastic hotel issued parka- EVER; rather, I felt that my two worlds had seamlessly blended into one singular existance. I could still get a coffee that didn’t taste like fruity-thick-sweet-creamy-crap served in child's play tea set sized cup. And by fruity, I mean gay, yeah, I said it! European coffee is totally gay. I love the gays for dancing, shopping, gossiping, advising me regarding if I look good in certain jeans, etc., but I like my coffee straight!- Thanks. That day I learned to accept a self-definition which I had been fighting for a while. I am an American living Europe- my sensible shoes are a dead giveaway, or perhaps it was the fact that I was in Starbucks, drinking what amounts to a pot of coffee in touristy Mala Strana, but whatever. That's who I am, I'm that girl, and I'm ok with it.
**The Hanging Coffee: http://www.uzavesenyhokafe.cz/en/ The Hanging coffee has a unique tradition that had fostered loyalty among the local expat community. Upon your first visit to the hanging coffee you may be offered a free drink, paid for by another patron in the café, in return on your second visit you are asked to do the same for another newcomer. Thus, it’s a good way to meet people. On my first visit, a girl bought me a drink, I think she was Moldovan, Ukrainian or some other former soviet. I wanted to thank her, so I went over to where she was sitting and we got to chatting for a few minutes, we didn’t become best friends or anything and I was having trouble understanding her to be honest, but this gesture did keep me preaching the gospel of the Hanging Coffee for years to come. Oh, and yes, I did buy someone a coffee upon some future visit, although I think it might have been someone I already knew that had accompanied me.
**Café Loreta: Once located on the ground floor of the school I did my TESOL class in, I went this café everyday during that class. The two girls that worked there feared me, I recently learned from my friend Drew that got a bit cozy with one of the baristas after our class ended. I was always running late for class (because I am always running late generally in life) but it was physically impossible for me to handle my 9am all-day-class after being out late the night before without my morning Americano, which I ordered at a feverish pace in terrible Czech each morning. The fear factor was that I quick to scold them if I saw them reaching for the milk. I would fling my 20 koruny into the pay-tray and rush out yelling “dekuji” as I tramped up the stairs to class. The café closed at some point after I moved away, which is too bad, that place brings back good memories of people and a time that is long gone. I would like to have had a chance to revisit Loreta's, and ruminate about how full circle my life has come since that time. Now it exists only in my memory. I think it might be an ice cream shop now- I don't get excitted about ice cream, it has milk in it.
I think it was back in autumn when I had to make a trip to the American Consulate in order to get something notarized. The Consulate is located in Mala Strana, a neighborhood I used to live in a few years ago, so I knew they area well, and had plans to do my business then relax at the *Hanging Coffee (see foot note) before work. The owner of The Hanging Coffee is an interesting fellow; he opens the café when he feels like it, which often has nothing to do with the posted hours. On this particular day, it was one of those days where he was there, sweeping the front walk actually, but wasn’t “open” despite it being after 10am. I asked when he would be open, he said “maybe 11:00”. I can’t really take chances when it comes to getting my coffee fix, especially when I’ve just spent an hour going through security and dealing with some of the most unhelpful consulate workers ever. My other coffee place of choice had been Café Loretta ** (see footnote) just a 2 minute walk from the Hanging Coffee, but the place had changed ownership, and I wasn’t even sure it was a café anymore.
Two strikes, still no coffee, I walked back down the hill and scoped out possible café option. Mala Strana is quite touristy as it sits nestled between Prague Castle and Old Town, this means that most of the cafes are touristy and overpriced, and I really wasn’t in the mood to hear tourists trying to read maps and argue about how to fit in a trip to the Mucha Museum, the Charles Bridge, the Segway tour of Old Town, and The Prague by Night Ghost tour, while trying to figure out if 60 koruny was a lot of money to pay for a coffee- the answer is "yes" by the way. I was working hard to stear clear of anyone wearing Croqs and money belt to try to avoid overhearing this type of conversation. I found a simi-out -of -the -way place that seemed nice enough, just as a pack of middle aged Americans passed me, bitching about Starbucks. “Oh lord, Starbucks is here too, I wouldn't be caught dead in there!” one woman exclaimed loudly as they waddled past me. Before I had time to enter café of choice, I turned and looked across the square. “Of course”, I thought, “I know exactly what to do; I can hide from these annoying tourists in plain sight!” “Starbucks!” No self-respecting American visiting Prague for the first time would step foot in that place, and no ignorant annoying American would visit Prague because they think it’s in Russia!
I confidently entered Starbucks for the first time since I had left The States, the proverbial Starbucks aroma hit me and instantaneously mentally transported me to another time and place, the male barista in his familiar green smock looked up with a big American-style smile and said…”prosim?”I was immediately pulled out of my nostalgic trance and dropped back into reality. I ordered in English…well Italian actually, it is Starbuck after all, to try to sneak back into that other world, just for a second, he understood, and went about assembling my order. Okay, that wasn't so bad I thought, so far so good. When I settled into a table near the window, I listened to conversations buzzing around me, they were in Czech, French, Spanish, Korean…no English to be heard anywhere! These patrons seemed to be students mostly and maybe a few tourists, but no American tourists, just as I had hypothesized. I sat back and enjoyed a coffee that really was “grande” not just in name. It was bitter and watery and lovely, like coffee should be. I sipped my piping hot coffee out of a paper cup with a lid and gazed out the window, it had started to rain, and again it became sadly apparent who the tourists were, they busted out their dorky hotel issued plastic parkas with pride then scurried around like ants that had lost the scent of their leader looking for shelter, while the locals simply opened an umbrella and went about their business. At that moment, I remember feeling really thankful, and not just about having never worn a plastic hotel issued parka- EVER; rather, I felt that my two worlds had seamlessly blended into one singular existance. I could still get a coffee that didn’t taste like fruity-thick-sweet-creamy-crap served in child's play tea set sized cup. And by fruity, I mean gay, yeah, I said it! European coffee is totally gay. I love the gays for dancing, shopping, gossiping, advising me regarding if I look good in certain jeans, etc., but I like my coffee straight!- Thanks. That day I learned to accept a self-definition which I had been fighting for a while. I am an American living Europe- my sensible shoes are a dead giveaway, or perhaps it was the fact that I was in Starbucks, drinking what amounts to a pot of coffee in touristy Mala Strana, but whatever. That's who I am, I'm that girl, and I'm ok with it.
**The Hanging Coffee: http://www.uzavesenyhokafe.cz/en/ The Hanging coffee has a unique tradition that had fostered loyalty among the local expat community. Upon your first visit to the hanging coffee you may be offered a free drink, paid for by another patron in the café, in return on your second visit you are asked to do the same for another newcomer. Thus, it’s a good way to meet people. On my first visit, a girl bought me a drink, I think she was Moldovan, Ukrainian or some other former soviet. I wanted to thank her, so I went over to where she was sitting and we got to chatting for a few minutes, we didn’t become best friends or anything and I was having trouble understanding her to be honest, but this gesture did keep me preaching the gospel of the Hanging Coffee for years to come. Oh, and yes, I did buy someone a coffee upon some future visit, although I think it might have been someone I already knew that had accompanied me.
**Café Loreta: Once located on the ground floor of the school I did my TESOL class in, I went this café everyday during that class. The two girls that worked there feared me, I recently learned from my friend Drew that got a bit cozy with one of the baristas after our class ended. I was always running late for class (because I am always running late generally in life) but it was physically impossible for me to handle my 9am all-day-class after being out late the night before without my morning Americano, which I ordered at a feverish pace in terrible Czech each morning. The fear factor was that I quick to scold them if I saw them reaching for the milk. I would fling my 20 koruny into the pay-tray and rush out yelling “dekuji” as I tramped up the stairs to class. The café closed at some point after I moved away, which is too bad, that place brings back good memories of people and a time that is long gone. I would like to have had a chance to revisit Loreta's, and ruminate about how full circle my life has come since that time. Now it exists only in my memory. I think it might be an ice cream shop now- I don't get excitted about ice cream, it has milk in it.
Harvey and the Great Curtain Caper
Harvey is one of the first people I became friends with when I returned to Czech Republic. He’s a smart and worldly guy; works in the film industry, and seems pretty competent at adapting to his surroundings unlike many expats I know in Prague. However, if he were to have a handicap; it might be his Briticisms, well no, on second thought, it is not so much Briticisms- they’re just "Harveyisms". He hasn’t adapted his diet much, so despite not having a kitchen, he has figured out how to make fried chicken in a small frying pan on a hot plate. Being the suffering artist that he is, he has lowered himself to drinking store bought tea, rather than growing and drying his own tea leaves; something which he considers a normal practice. Another interesting thing about Harvey is he has method to everything he does. I guess this is not surprising coming from someone who has a story board facing his bed. Just watching him make a cup of tea in quite engrossing, because he does it the exact same way every time. I know what you're thinking; most people do things in their own kitchen the same way most of the time, but not with the mindless sameness in which Harvey carries on. Step 1: decide to make tea, take out milk from the refrigerator, and do something else for a few minutes. Step 2: grab (a) cup(s) and place it on top of the refrigerator handles facing to the right for one cup to the right and to the left if there are two cups, pour milk into cup (while asking if his guest wants milk*) and add tea bag, again carefully positioning the tag to lie against the handle. Step 3: start boiling water, go sit on sofa and watch a clip or two on YouTube or similar. Step 3: Turn off boiling kettle, wait a bit little longer, then pour into cup, and stand there casually timing the steep. Step 4: Remove tea bag and is enjoy. Perhaps this is your standard tea operating procedure too, but with Harvey, it is always this exact process, no phone call or ring of the door bell will disrupt his precision.
During the summer, Harvey and I would regularly meet Monday afternoons and have a few beers in one of the millions of beer gardens in Prague, we’d talk about this and that, mostly about things that Czechs do that piss us off, or Harvey would have long contemplations about how it is possible that some of this students had gall to ask him such stupid questions, and not be completely embarrassed for themselves. (Whoever said there is no such this as a stupid question is probably someone Harvey would think was an idiot). As the summer wore on, autumn arrived and Harvey happened to mention a conversation he had had with his land-lady, who incidentally he has a tremendous crush on, despite her being married, and being about 55+ years old. (Don't let Harvey's old-man-name confuse you, he is a spritely young 32 year old, who would definitely be carded in the US). Perhaps because Harvey has this boyish crush on his land-lady, he doesn’t really manage to be very assertive nor effective when it comes to getting things fixed in the flat. He told me that all summer he has been going crazy with the early morning sunlight. His flat has great big windows, a voyeurs dream, since they seemly lacked any sort of window coverings, but terrible for getting a full night sleep. This was a point on contention for Harvey, so whenever he passed his land-lady he would tell her he needed curtains! She would reply there are curtains. There were these lacey sheaths that cover the length of the window, but they provided no respite from light or anything really. He continued pleading with this woman and her husband every time he saw them to no avail.
It was now mid-Autumn, the days were much shorter, and colder, and the issue was no longer sunlight, but heat; the windows of this 100+ year old building were drafty and a nice thick curtain would have provided some insulation. To prove how drafty it was Harvey had me stand next to the window. After a few minutes of commiserating about the draftiness, I noticed a string that was in my way, I moved it a few time out of my eye line, before asking him: “What is this?” He replied that he didn’t know, but it had always been there and he wished it weren’t. Then we looked at each other with mutual understanding and back at the string. “Pull it!” he said with a look that can only be described as sheer unabashed glee. Suddenly, a thick, dark woven curtain fell between the two panes of glass. I wonder if Harvey had had one of his students over, if they would have passed the curtain IQ test. It was a glorious day, and it still makes me laugh whenever I cross the street in the direction of Harvey’s building and see light in his windows, but nothing else, as the curtain have been permanently draw ever since.
**If you have read any of my other blogs, you probably don't require this footnote, as an illusion to my dislike of milk pops up in every post it seems. I shall say it again to be clear,I do not drink milk under any circumstances, and no not like it (Sam I am)
During the summer, Harvey and I would regularly meet Monday afternoons and have a few beers in one of the millions of beer gardens in Prague, we’d talk about this and that, mostly about things that Czechs do that piss us off, or Harvey would have long contemplations about how it is possible that some of this students had gall to ask him such stupid questions, and not be completely embarrassed for themselves. (Whoever said there is no such this as a stupid question is probably someone Harvey would think was an idiot). As the summer wore on, autumn arrived and Harvey happened to mention a conversation he had had with his land-lady, who incidentally he has a tremendous crush on, despite her being married, and being about 55+ years old. (Don't let Harvey's old-man-name confuse you, he is a spritely young 32 year old, who would definitely be carded in the US). Perhaps because Harvey has this boyish crush on his land-lady, he doesn’t really manage to be very assertive nor effective when it comes to getting things fixed in the flat. He told me that all summer he has been going crazy with the early morning sunlight. His flat has great big windows, a voyeurs dream, since they seemly lacked any sort of window coverings, but terrible for getting a full night sleep. This was a point on contention for Harvey, so whenever he passed his land-lady he would tell her he needed curtains! She would reply there are curtains. There were these lacey sheaths that cover the length of the window, but they provided no respite from light or anything really. He continued pleading with this woman and her husband every time he saw them to no avail.
It was now mid-Autumn, the days were much shorter, and colder, and the issue was no longer sunlight, but heat; the windows of this 100+ year old building were drafty and a nice thick curtain would have provided some insulation. To prove how drafty it was Harvey had me stand next to the window. After a few minutes of commiserating about the draftiness, I noticed a string that was in my way, I moved it a few time out of my eye line, before asking him: “What is this?” He replied that he didn’t know, but it had always been there and he wished it weren’t. Then we looked at each other with mutual understanding and back at the string. “Pull it!” he said with a look that can only be described as sheer unabashed glee. Suddenly, a thick, dark woven curtain fell between the two panes of glass. I wonder if Harvey had had one of his students over, if they would have passed the curtain IQ test. It was a glorious day, and it still makes me laugh whenever I cross the street in the direction of Harvey’s building and see light in his windows, but nothing else, as the curtain have been permanently draw ever since.
**If you have read any of my other blogs, you probably don't require this footnote, as an illusion to my dislike of milk pops up in every post it seems. I shall say it again to be clear,I do not drink milk under any circumstances, and no not like it (Sam I am)
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