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.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
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.
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