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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
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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