Stromovka Park

What, a post about weather? Boring…. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s my blog thus I get 99% veto power on what I write about, and today I start off about the weather.

Besides, I think it’s worth mentioning that the dreaded Czech chill that I’ve heard so much about has yet to appear. I mean, it’s colder in New York than it is here. Imagine that. I was so freaked out by the brief chill from two weeks ago that I called home to have two jackets, my old Uggs and other miscellaneous stuff mailed to me. The box arrived on Friday, prompt and intact.

I’m having a lazy Sunday—sleeping in, washing hair, doing laundry—so I’m going to write a bit about last Sunday instead.

The weather was so unusually temperate that I took an excursion north of the city to Stromovka Park. In a previous post, I had written that Petrin Park was almost like New York’s Central Park. Having visited Stromovka, I must amend that comparison. With acres of flat tree-lined paths for biking, jogging, skating, walking, Stromovka bares a closer resemblance to Central Park than Petrin. Petrin is set on a steep hill and anyone interested in biking or skating through it probably has a bit of a masochist streak in him or her.

A massive land reserve on the outskirt of the city should not be hard to find, right? Of course, I missed it and frantically text-d Dana for directions. On the way back to find the park, I had company—a pleasant Czech woman named Jikta, and her baby, Gabriela.

I’m not sure if it’s my imagination but it seems that I can’t walk a meter without encountering a pregnant woman or new mother. Something about their condition strikes me as contagious, like a virus. (How else to explain why there are so many of them?) If I touch them and I might catch some of what they've got. And Lord knows I didn't come here for that kind of flu.

My take on this seeming baby boom is that people stay indoors in the winter; many cold nights of sumthin’ sumthin’ and bam (!) in the summer and fall, you get a glut of impending and new Czechs. Another thing I've noticed is how fit a lot of the mothers look, as if on the way out of the birth canal the baby decided to take a little extra off of its mother.

Jitka, looking very lithe and fat-free, told me not to bother learning Czech—“Too hard.” After parting ways with her, I discovered Trojska Palac, a chateau that now houses a wine museum. Tasted wine for 20kc, nibbled on free bread and bought a bottle of Medovina or honey wine. I wandered by chance into a section of the Chateau where an exhibition was taking place. The guard stopped me: “Ticket? Ticket?”

“Ohhhh, ticket….” I hoped that I looked apologetic and lost, and perhaps would get a free pass. (Hey, it worked before—got me out of a metro ticket.)

The guard, probably used to tourists feigning ignorance, was impervious. He smiled widely, “Okay. Exit. Exit. Thank you.”

I wandered a bit around the grounds and then crossed a bridge into Stromovka where I joined other Praguists to enjoy the gorgeous weather and take in the sight of changing leaves.

Two Weddings, a Stabbing and a Clubbing

Last Friday, I paid a visit to Prague Castle to mark the end of my vacation—I’d be starting work Monday—and to take a stroll down memory lane. Pictures from my walk:


The interior courtyard of the castle.


St. Vitus Cathedral


Wedding no. 1


Wedding no. 2
Love the setting


In front of Sternberk Palace. Such violence, so un-Czech...? In a newspaper article I read a few weeks back, a police detective said Czech men rarely resort to extreme violence. In a dispute, the most they might do is slap each other.


Where I had my first drink, a Becherovka, with Pch in January and agreed to dinner.

Language Lessons

Pch and SlovakJan are in town and thus I’ve been well-fed this week.

I had dinner tonight with SlovakJan who had just returned from an extended stay in Slovakia. I think he’s less conscious around me now with his English; his syntax is still off—sometimes I make corrections which he appreciates—but he gets his point across. Still I’m always amazed that he’s had no formal lessons. His English puts my Czech to shame. Part of dinner was spent teaching me Czech words for tableware and I could only retain words for two of the items—knife (nuz) and fork (vidlicku). We made plans to see a movie this weekend.

I’m helping Pch with his English in other ways. Last week, he and I declared a temporary truce that lasted long enough for me to get dinner two nights this week. When the truce wobbled I sent him a text message: “You are an Asshole.”

Three minutes later, my mobile rang:
“You text me something.”
“Yes?”
“What does it mean?”

Working Stiff

It’s been two weeks since my last beer (and a week since my last blog entry). I’m going through a withdrawal. Kidding. It has been a while since I’ve had beer and I think the bloat is receding. And attending spinning classes three days a week has been helpful.

The big update of course is that I started working this week. Hallelujah! Subsequently, I’ve come home with headaches two days in a row. Adjusting back to cubicle life after not working for almost three months ain’t easy. The hours yawn ahead of you unending and it’s hard to believe that I did this regularly for five years.

Luckily, my new gig isn’t a standard 9-to-5. First, I’ll only be working 25 hours a week to start—my choice because I foresaw that going straight into 40 hours would kill me. (The above–mentioned headaches would have metastasized into migraines, and later, brain tumors would have started to sprout.) Second, I can work from home (yay!), but I won’t tap into that option until I can get by without asking for help with every task.

My co-workers are pretty laidback. Self-described geeks. (It’s a tech company, after all.) And I think there are less than 10 women in the entire building. It’s raining men, hallelujah.… Seriously. Last week, I went in for an hour to attend a presentation; there were at least 50 or more men and only three women including me.

And what a way to start a first week on the job—next Friday, I’m going away for the weekend to Cesky Krumlov for an offsite event. As my darling sisters wrote to each other: “Can you believe this lazy PART-TIMER is going on a company retreat??? And she hasn't even started doing anything....”

Cesky Krumlov is considered one of the prettiest towns in the region and was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1992. If you want a taste of medieval and renaissance Bohemia without any unsightly communist-era edifice to distract you Cesky Krumlov is the place to go. Ironically, before I even started work I was making plans to visit the town November. I guess I just lucked out. The company will pay for one night’s stay, but I’ll extend my stay into Sunday.

I have the day off today because I’m waiting for the phone company to come install a line so I can get internet access. Last Monday, I finally decided to stop fighting the system—that is, to no longer fume and rage that things are better in America (which they are) but that I’m now somewhere else and should get used to a different way of things. So I went into the 02 store and suppressed the urge to strangle the sales rep who couldn’t tell me if it would take 2 or 4 or 6 weeks to get internet access. I also had to get my landlord’s approval to initiate the process. To my surprise and delight, three days later I got a call saying that a technician would come to my apartment today.

By the week’s end I shall be “disconnected” no more.

Wanted: “Java: A Pre-Pre-Beginner’s Guide”

I’m so addicted to LOST right now. How dare JJ Abrams pack so many good-looking men into one show?! Picking up disc 3 from Regina tonight.

What I’m not addicted to is Java, the programming language that’s at the core of my company's business. Thankfully, I made sure not to misrepresent myself as a Java-phile when I signed on; I was rather adamant throughout that I knew NO JAVA. It has very little bearing on my actual job responsibilities but I figured that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to know what the heck the language is about. My supervisor said, “If you want to learn, cool.”

Y’all, I’m only two chapters into my “Java: A Beginner’s Guide” and I’m about to fall into a coma. Variables, loops, Boolean class, logical operators, code blocks, what? I’d rather be flossing.

Oh yeah, it’s getting cold! Brrrr.

Keywords: Free, Porn

Okay, so the heading may give you an idea of where this post is going, but it’s not what you think! No, I didn’t go to anyone’s apartment to watch free porn nor did I get solicited. I just unexpectedly spent part of last night fraternizing with a porn actor.

Keyword: Free.
Brie sent me a text: It was “free Mondays” at the Roxy; was I interested? We met up for drinks at Soft Bellies—the bar of the “wigga” episode, but no wigga in sight—chatted till 10 and then headed to Roxy. I got mad at the coat-check girl who insisted on charging me for my jacket AND my sweater even though one was tucked into the other. (Damn Czech!)

Keyword: Porn.
Went to the bar on the lower level where Brie bumped into Alex, an acquaintance. Slouched against the counter next to Alex was Cole—tall, dark and brooding, pierced, tattooed and sporting a blue five-inch Mohawk. The kind of guy you take home to give your parents high-blood pressure.

Introductions had barely started when a girl came shrieking over and threw herself at Cole. Brie and I exchanged looks. Jealous girlfriend? We moved aside. The girl continued her chatter and pulled her hair up to mimic Cole’s Mohawk. She went off to say a few words to another girl standing nearby and then returned to throw herself into Cole’s arms again. Cole had a small smile on his face as he held the girl by the waist. Blah, blah, blah. The girl disengaged again and went off with her friend. I looked at Cole who, shrugged, “Never met her before in my life. But next time she comes around I’m going to cop a feel.” I laughed and told him he had my approval.

I’d actually seen Cole before: three weekends ago at another lounge with Brie. I remembered the Mohawk. He was standing outside with a group and on the way into Chateau Brie had jumped up—she’s vertically challenged—to touch his hair just for fun. Monday night was the official introduction.

Alex, Bostonian and baby-faced, curly hair tucked into a baseball cap, struck me as a nice guy. Cole with his scuffed up combat boots, menacing lip ring (how does he kiss with that thing?....), tattoos everywhere (“Sedition” & “Defiance” on his arms), chains, fatigue shorts, looked more like a punk-rocker-skin-head. I had no idea what to say to him or even if he’d be interested in talking to me.

He gave me the once over—long-sleeve high-neck tee, sensible jeans and Mary Jane flats—and declared, “English teacher, right?”

“Is that a bad thing?” I retorted. He smiled. Brie and Alex were in their own conversation, so I asked what he did.

“I make films.”
“What kind?”
“Porn.”
I paused on that one. Hmm. “In front or behind the camera?”
“Both.”

We hit it off from there. Interesting guy, and if you can look past the strange attire and hair-do quite a looker as well. (Even Brie thought so.) The similarly blue-haired bar girl—a kindred rebel soul perhaps?—kept throwing glances at him to no avail. Turns out Cole’s heart is in Germany with his girlfriend. Even porn actors get the romance blues.

“She’s all wrong for me! She’s as dumb as a rock, can’t cook—she can’t even boil water—doesn’t know anything about the world, just wants to make babies, and she’s soooo needy. But whenever I tell her it’s over she turns into this strong independent woman and I fall for her again. But the minute we’re back on—bam!—she relapses.”

Cole was funny, easy to talk to and candid about his job as a porn actor. “It’s hard work. Try maintaining an erection in a room full of people for two hours. That’s where Alex comes in.” (The joke is that Alex is Cole’s fluffer.)

Cole and Brie, however, did not get along; Brie disappeared throughout much of the time I spent chatting with him. It started at the very beginning when Brie tried asking about his hair. I had also asked a few obligatory questions and he had responded politely. But with Brie he got sarcastic.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” He said in response to one of her questions. I was taken aback and I threw a light jab at his chest: “Hey! Be nice!”

Brie, feisty thing that she is, answered back: “Yes, I do! I dyed my hair back in high school!”

Later, when I excused myself to go find her she was still hopping mad.

“He’s nice to you. I don’t know why he doesn’t like me! Is it because I sound like a ‘Valley Girl’? But he doesn’t even know me, he has no right to judge me. All I wanted was advice on how to keep my hair from falling out when I dye it. You know what? I’m going back and I’m going to tell him he’s an asshole!”

Oh boy. And go back she did to tell Cole that he was being obnoxious. Alex and I moved aside to let them go at it, which they did. When it was over Brie got the information she needed but still felt that Cole was a jerk.

I think because an American girl at the bar had annoyed him earlier Cole made a fast judgment about Brie and wrote her off, which I thought was an ironic thing to do given that people probably size him up in similar fashion because of his appearance. And then if they find out he’s into porn? That invites even more preconceived prejudices.

Later, I had to break off talking to Cole to go keep Brie company on the dance floor AND…because I was beginning to find him sorta hot. People, I wasn’t even tipsy.

No, no, no, no, no…! You’ll need more than a wetsuit if you try to swim in those waters. Move on, girl. MOVE ON.

Movie Night: Part Two

It’s been a so-so weekend. Friday evening, I was in a mood about Pch (To end it for good or for a while or give things another chance?) and I also felt something coming on so I canceled on the pub crawl. I ended up going to Dana’s—yes, I went back…. I was bored! Watched another movie: John Carpenter’s The Thing with Kurt Russell. Nice little scare.

Long story short: The second time around, Dana got a bit more up-front about what he was hoping would happen between us, and I got candid back.

People have different outlooks on sex. For some, a warm body is a warm body is a warm body. Feeling blue? Why not engage in a little physical therapy? I prefer to be a little bit more discriminating. For me, casual sex is nothing more than a temporary panacea. You roll over and you’re back to feeling like crap all over again. I’d rather do drugs—although also temporary I imagine that the effects last a tad bit longer.

And I guess Dana was just following one of life’s golden rules—“If you don’t succeed, try again!” Regardless of what my return to his place implied I really did go back because of the free movie and for the company (he's basically a good person). And it looks like there are no hard feelings because I was on Skype earlier and he said “Hello”.

Regina came by to my side of the river this evening and we met up at KavaKava. Kava is a coffee shop-cyber café about eight minutes from my flat. It’s got free wi-fi like many other spots, but what I like about it is that as long as I order something I can wi-fi for hours without interruption. I’ve become a regular. I come in and take my spot in the non-smoking section at the back and the waiters check in on me about a half-hour later. I usually get the soup of the day and it comes with yummy garlic bread.

Regina had disc two of Lost and I returned disc one. (She’s my DVD library.) I went through email, browsed for a bit, and skyped family and friends. I packed up my laptop three hours later. The weather’s getting chillier. Although Kava is just a hop-skip away I don’t really think I want to make the walk out there in the winter for internet access every other day so I can talk to my family. Tomorrow, I re-initiate my quest to get internet access installed in my flat. Wish me luck.

(The source of constant internet angst. Three wi-fi portals near my apartment and all blocked!!!)

Good News on the 13th

Who said Friday the 13th is a jinxed day?

Got a nice phone call this morning from my immigration specialist: my work visa will be ready next week. On Monday, I have to hand over my passport which will be taken to a Czech Embassy in Germany or Slovakia for the stamp. Come Thursday I can officially start work in the Czech Republic.

On the down side, I've been under the weather these past two days with a cold. Feeling lethargic and not very sociable.

I saw Pch last night and he ordered me a double shot of whiskey. "Drink for your cold. It's good." Who can turn down a prescription like that?

Met Dana for lunch today. Got an invite from a friend to go on a pub crawl but I think I'm going to pass on that. It looks like it's going to be a low-key weekend. Not a bad thing in my book.

Movie Night

I’m regretting my decision in July to opt out of having a DVD burner installed on my laptop when I purchased it.

I went over by Regina’s last night to download season one of LOST. When the show had premiered I was occupied—working my two jobs, having little spare time—and ended up just watching everyone go nuts about it. With spare time aplenty on my hands I figured now was a good chance to see what I had missed/have been missing.

I met Regina at a vinoteka (wine bar) next to her flat. (The bar’s owned by a sweet Angolan man who gave us a mini wine-tasting session.) We set up our machines and to my dismay could not transfer any of the DVDS. Turns out, she didn’t have a burner either. A pair of technical nincompoops.

Supposedly when the cold really hits (in a matter of two weeks, I hear!) there won’t be much to do or that one would want to do but stay indoors—in your apartment watching television or in a bar drinking. For obvious medical, psychological and fiscal reasons, I’d like that it not be the latter. I have no television, but I’ve got a DVD player on my laptop. I figured to start loading up on shows—and Regina has seasons one AND two. One show a day could take me clear through November!

Desperate times call for pimping out your friends.

I told Regina she needed to make-up with her Czech man ASAP and get him to burn the DVDS for me. (Regina has issues with him—cultures, age, “Are you just not into me?” etc—but at least he’s useful when it comes to downloading movies.)

We turned to the bar owner and Carlos, another Angolan man—between them they have a combined 42 years in the Czech Republic and thus qualify as experts in all things Czech—and asked, “What’s up with Czech men anyways?”

Carlos’s English was better so he did a lot of the translating. The feedback wasn’t great: Your man is either seeing another woman. (Jerk!) Or he’s conflicted about dating a black woman. (Wimp!)

Supr. More wine, please.

I got a text from Dana who lives nearby. I went over to take a quick peek as his apartment before I headed back home. A quick peek—his apartment’s lovely but empty, and has a beautiful view of a park—turned into me camping out to watch Dodgeball on his Mac notebook. Laughed my head off. Can I marry Vince Vaughn? Ben Stiller will probably never win an Oscar, but a Lifetime Achievement Award in another two decades or so wouldn’t be such a bad idea. I left after 2am. Now, I could have stayed over; actually I think Dana was trying to get me to stay over….

Him: I don’t have work tomorrow, we can hang out, what’s the rush?
Him: Oops, it’s midnight, the last train’s gone, do you want a t-shirt?
Me: Dana, I've got to go. Where’s my scarf?
Him: What scarf?”

Dana’s a cool guy, but I don’t know him that well to casually hop into his bed: “Thanks for the shirt. Be a darling, will you? Wake me up @ 8. Smooches.” Plus, he’s got no furniture so I didn’t even have the option of taking the couch. Prague is a safe city and I had little worries about heading out to catch the night trams.

But I had to wonder: when a woman invites herself over to see a man's apartment is she giving the impression that she's open for a little sumthin' sumthin'? I can be very naive sometimes.

No Money, Mo’ Problems

The Czech Republic perhaps should be nicknamed “the Country of the Jans”. So many men seem to go by that name.

I went into work for two hours today to help out with a project and I got introduced to two of the webmasters. One’s an Australian and the other’s Czech and a Jan. When asked for the gazillionth time when I’d be starting I said I wasn’t sure when my visa application would be completed. I asked an American who was also a contract employee, how long his process took.

“Oh, I’m married to a Czech woman.” He was the second American I’d met in the company who had indirectly gotten around the system that way. I mean, they married for love (I hope…) and the residency permit and all were added bonuses. Is this what I need to do to get started with work? I turned to Jan and smiled:

“You’re Czech....” Yes.
“Are you single?” Yes.
“Good. We’re now engaged.”

Seriously, I’m broke or nearly there. Whoever said, “More money, more problems” got it wrong. I was perfectly fine—no problems!—at the start of this trip when I had money. Now, I get bent out of shape when folks try to rip me off by a mere buck as nearly happened to me this morning at a Vietnamese fruit stall.

I’m annoyed with this immigration process and more so with my company’s HR department. When the rep sent me a welcome email back in July why didn’t she include a warning? “By the way, because we still exist in a somewhat backward post-communist regime and efficiency is still a foreign concept it will actually take you more than a month to get started.”

Tomorrow will be the one-month anniversary of my alleged start date. Coworkers are telling me to take comfort in the fact that I arrived after the “normalization”. Supposedly, if this had been anytime last year or in previous years I would have waited six months or longer to get started. Supr.

Kutna Hora

For every castle you see in the Czech Republic there seems to be five times as many churches. And the country is something like 99% atheist. Okay, maybe it’s more like 90%, but either way Czechs aren’t particularly religious people. Again, that communism thing.

Kutna Hora is not a castle town, but because of its rich silver deposits it was the 2nd most important city in Bohemia centuries ago. Not much happens there today; besides its historical center and picturesque valley the rest of the town (or to be fair, what I saw of it) is not much to write about.

Tourists visit Kutna Hora mainly because of two of its churches: Kostnice, the Ossuary or Bone Church and Chram sv. Barbory, St. Barbara’s Cathedral. Visiting churches/museums/castles can get dreary quickly, but to see the Kostnice alone is worth a trip.

(The bone chandelier [left] is made out of all the bones found in the human body.)

I went to Kutna Hora yesterday with Tiia, a Finnish girl I met through Chatterbox. After a one-hour train ride, we disembarked and walked to the Bone Church, so named because a few centuries back the local monks got bored and decided to create elaborate sculptures out of human bones.

Thankfully, the monks had little to do with the demise of the original bodies; otherwise the church would be even more macabre. Instead, the bones belonged to thousands who died during a plague in the14th century and the Hussite wars (religious wars) of the 15th century. The monks discovered the remains when the area was getting developed and experienced a weird yet inventive light bulb moment.

We paid 40kc each for admission, but balked at the additional 30kc that was needed to take pictures of the interiors. Still, we were allowed to enter with our cameras. I snuck away towards the corners and snapped away. I ought to be ashamed, right? Blatantly defrauding the house of the Lord. Tiia , a tad more respectful of the rules, kept her camera shuttered.

I got my comeuppance about 90 minutes later when I ate what was arguably my worst meal since arriving in the Czech Republic. I love goulash, but not really when it’s served in a bread bowl which was the hint that I was going to hate my selection when I saw the waitress approach. I opened the bread lid and instead of rich liquid-y brown-red soup with chunks of meat and potatoes I got a solid red mush of shredded meat that was over-spiced with thyme. And who doesn’t get suspicious when meat is over-seasoned? Oh, I was mad.

Gee God, could you have chosen some form of punishment that didn’t involve my meal? You know I love to eat. I mean, services aren’t even held in that church anymore; it’s basically a business now. And didn’t Jesus get mad in the New Testament when his fellow Jews turned some of their temples into bazaars? Am I really the one who deserves your wrath? Let’s talk this over.”

I got even madder when less than 10 minutes after leaving our restaurant we happened on a string of better-looking ones with fantastic views of the valley. Tip: When you’re really hungry never settle for the 1st, 2nd, or 3rd restaurant that you see. If possible even skip the fourth, because there’ll usually be something better up ahead. (This even happened yesterday: about five minutes after leaving the “Confederate” restaurant, we saw a nicer place down the road.)

Raise your hands if you agree with me: If you’ve seen one cathedral you’ve probably seen them all. For the architecture buff, St. Barbara would be a very impressive example of Bohemian Gothic. For me, it was mostly a really big church in a very small town in a country where people don’t go to church anymore. After walking around I took a seat in the pews and rested. Ahem, I mean, I meditated. Interesting bit of history is that the church took 200 years to finish.

Tiia and I stopped for dessert at a restaurant that looked down into the valley, and after walked back to the train station. The train back to Prague was crowded; there were no seats and I ended up on the floor.

(The best part of any meal? Having dessert.)

We got back into Prague with enough time for me to get a bit of rest before I went out to meet SlovakJan for dinner.

Green Therapy

I was supposed to go out dancing last night with SlovakJan. But it didn’t happen. My fault.

I was starting to feel a little sick—sneezing, sniffling— Friday evening but instead of calling it an early night and getting some rest I kept up the merrymaking from one part of town to the other. (I think I’m making up big time for being a home-body during my college years….) Hit the sack after 4, then woke up before 9—darn internal clock.

I felt dead tired and dreaded having to do anything that would take me out of bed. But I had to get up. I was meeting David, an Indian guy I befriended at an expat gathering. He had invited me to go for a walk/mini-hike outside of Prague Saturday. SlovakJan sent me a text after 11 about his boat race; I told him I couldn’t make it.

I went to Smichovske Nadrazi train station to meet David. We were headed for Radotin, a tiny town about 15 minutes or so outside of Prague. From Radotin, we would walk alongside the Vltava River, some trails, and through a couple of other hamlets, and when we got tired catch a train from any of the towns back into Prague.

The weather here has been iffy of late; the mornings start off gray, cloudy, cold and with some drops; the sun sometimes burns through later in the afternoon, then the nights get chilly. We hoped for the same yesterday and got good weather until after 5:30 when it started to rain just as we caught the train back from Vsenory.

Even with feeling a bit run down, it was refreshing to be out of the city and do the nature thing. Would I have done this back in New York? Just hop a Metro North and get off somewhere and start to wander? No. And not for a lack of location—there’s plenty to do outside of New York City as Lori and Peter’s slideshows demonstrate every year. (Lori is my dear former boss in NYC; her husband Peter is an amazing travel photographer. December through January each year they host a slideshow of Peter’s photos and family snapshots from the year’s travels.)

Busy, busy, working, working, too tired, etc. I would have excuses. Besides, just getting to Metro North I would have considered a hassle since it involved an hour-long train ride or more from Canarsie where I lived into the city and I wouldn’t even have started my real trip yet! Maybe I’m turning into a different person here (okay, not with the drinking—that’s just a phase which will pass soon I’m sure…), but I’m more open now to scheduling the time to explore my surroundings and that it doesn’t have to be a production doesn’t hurt either.

David was good company for such a long stroll and we had much to talk about. He’s 29 and from Bombay. Also experiencing his quarter-life crisis when he decided to quit India and see the world. He’d recently come back from a month of traveling to Italy, Austria, Germany and Holland, and in a week would be off to Poland. How about that?

Oh, ye gods of immigration, paper-pushing and post-communist era red-tape, please, please help speed up my visa process so I can start earning some money and travel like I said I wanted. Regina’s trying to rope me into going to Croatia at the end of the month. Croatia or Austria? Krakow or Budapest? The fact that I even have such options amazes me sometimes.

(During communism, Czechs weren't allowed to travel outside of the country. Many built cottages, like these ones, in the countryside and used them as vacation homes.)

The one snag during the walk was when I mentioned my desire to learn Czech and David remarked that no matter what I did I would never be Czech. Huh? What does one have to do with the other? I’ve heard this line of thought before and I think it's a daft one. Wanting to communicate with Czech people has little to do with a desire to be Czech. Why do I want to be Czech? I’m having a damn good time being American. Quite simply, it’s a matter of respect; plus, it’ll open up the culture to you—if you’re interested—in a way that English never will. I mean, yes, a couple of my past blog entries have been rants about how Czechs should learn English. But even at the height of my frustration I always had to admit, “You’re in THEIR country; they can choose not to speak to you in English if they don’t feel like it.” (The fact that some can and don’t is a matter for a different blog entry!)

Granted, Czech is an extremely difficult language—ranked #3, I believe, in the list of pain-in-the-butt languages to learn—and there are expats who’ve been here for years who still can’t speak a lick, but it doesn’t mean one shouldn’t try. Many have told me not to bother. Even Czechs. I don’t expect fluency, but a little something to show for my time here wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

By the time David and I got back into town I was pretty tired and felt a massive headache coming on. I knew I needed a long nap but doubted that even afterwards I’d be in any shape to go out to a club. I called SlovakJan, but he didn’t pick up. So I sent him a text. He called later to say he’d been sleeping—was tired as well from his boat race—and we made plans to meet Sunday for dinner instead.

So that’s where I’m off to tonight. Might update on that Monday if there’s anything to talk of, but definitely will have pictures from my trip to Kutna Hora earlier today.


(Remember my brouhaha about the "wigga" experience, how folks outside of America get crazy about aspects of our culture without understanding the context? Well, here's example number two. Behold the Confederate Flat casually draped on the mantle of a restaurant David and I walked into. Now, back in America, I'd probably think twice about eating in a place with such a flag. But here, I laughed, took a picture and ordered my meal.)

Men are From Mars, But Some Want a Trip to Venus?

Life continues without Pch who has gone off again for another week.

Last night, just when I was thinking all men were insensitive lunks—and I had a chorus: Darcie and Regina, to agree with me—I met Nicos.

Nicos, Greek and gregarious, is a friend of Brie’s and whom I met three weekends ago during a club outing. After three carafes of wine and raunchy talk with the chorus, I moved on to another bar for more drinks and blues music with Brie, Lee (English) and Nicos.

I overheard Nicos mention a wife during a conversation he was having with Gabriel whom I had invited to come over.

“You’re married?!” I leaned over; I wanted to hear all about this. What was he doing here then if he had a Mrs back in a flat?

Nicos, it turns out, is 11 months divorced and pretty torn up about it. Awwww, a sensitive one! He was married for 8 years until during a trip back to Greece to bury his grandmother his wife announced that she wanted out. Ouch. Talk about bad timing.

Allegedly, she never gave any signs that she was unhappy so it took him completely by surprise.

"I was on my knees," he says, "I begged her: tell me why, what I did, is it children? Okay, I’m ready. But she said, no, she just didn’t want to be married anymore."

What? A man begging, asking, pleading to make things work? Nicos, where can I find more like you?

The worse part for Nicos has been/is not knowing what went wrong in the relationship. He said he would have even preferred that infidelity be the reason for the breakup versus his wife’s inability to tell him why things didn’t work out. I offered that maybe his wife’s reasons had nothing to do with him which was why she couldn’t give him an answer. That didn’t seem to satisfy him much, and I can understand.

Overall, Nico’s situation gave me pause. When you’re plagued by an errant man, it’s easy to classify the rest of his sex as uncaring, heartless dogs and forget that they have feelings and can get hurt too. In the past, to protect myself I often blithely waved aside Pch’s declarations of affection; I told myself that they were the same sweet-nothings he was telling women all over Europe.

“Tee-nola, you think I make funny?” He would ask in a hurt voice, so sexy with the accent. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not playboi.”

You’re right about not being who I think you are. I thought you were considerate, sensitive, romantic, funny...!

Later that evening, Brie told me, “Nicos has a crush on you.” That’s sweet, I said. But given that his friends have heard the story over and over again (and later that night at another bar Lee had to signal Brie to come rescue me from a second re-telling) I think it’s more likely that Nicos was just looking for a fresh set of ears to pour out his heart to.

“Sex & the City” Sans the Sex

Déjà vu moment had me laughing at myself yesterday.

I had just finished typing up the entry about my date with SlovakJan. I leaned back against my chair, looked at my “work station”—an oval yellow desk and a white swivel lounge chair ("Completely inappropriate for 'work'" said my landlord when he accompanied me to IKEA to purchase it). Both are set up near the window where I have the trams of Stefanikova Street and the chatter of French children from the nearby French school to distract me. And I instantly thought: “This is kinda like ‘Sex and the City’, isn’t it?

Specifically the image that came to mind was of Sarah Jessica Parker’s character in her apartment sitting at her desk next to her window and writing at her laptop about dating.

Okay, I’m not saying that I’M Carrie Bradshaw—I don’t have a shoe obsession, I’m not a size -1, I don’t take cabs anywhere nor do I prance around Prague in ridiculous getups. And Lord knows she didn’t seem to have worries about coming home at night smelling like an ashtray. (I’m basically running my washing machine every few days and washing my hair every week which is a major pain.) Downing mugs of beer? Doesn’t fit the SATC image either.

But I thought, “I’m living in a popular city albeit in Europe, in a nice apartment that I don’t think I can really afford; I’m out socializing way more than my budget allows; Mojitos in lieu of Cosmos; I just finished writing about a date, and I’m hung up on my very own ‘Mr. Big’. What I need now is a trio of girlfriends to chat with over weekend brunch. But then again, this is Prague; this city doesn’t do brunch…”

Then I went off to an internet café where I got emails back from friends saying my blog reminded them of SATC. Imagine that.

On a different note, the weird thing about Prague, and something I’ve also discussed with a few folks, is how it offers a refuge from many things. (I think other big cities can tend to be like this as well.) There’s a shared consensus that Prague has two groups of expats: those who are running from something, and then everyone else. Most of us fit into the former group! If things are not working out well someplace else, come here. Someone breaks your heart? Come forget them here. Want to be a bum? There’s a piss-soaked corner just waiting for you. Looking for a career? Well, maybe not here unless you’re thinking porn or to be a life-long TEFL-er.

I know I came partly because I felt a bit stuck in New York; the rat race was draining me. I didn’t know where I was heading or wanted to be next, and honestly, I was tired and didn’t feel prepared to make the decision either. I guess I escaped to Prague to avoid those hard/personal questions for a year or two; or maybe to take my time thinking of them. Don’t get me wrong, the whole bit about living in Europe and wanting to travel are not just convenient excuses; they are 100% valid. But I didn’t expect that they would coincide with my quarter-life crisis.

So rather than make decisions about my life—grad school, marriage, children—I’m in Prague getting fat and slowly turning alcoholic. Suprrrr.

An Acquired Taste?

Went out with SlovakJan last night. The day we met he had given me the anglicized version: John. It’s a pretty common name around these parts.

We met up on Wenceslas; I had ducked into McDonalds because it was getting chilly and sent him a text to find me there. He showed up and immediately confessed that he was extremely nervous. Adorable. Because his English was very basic he was worried about how we would communicate through dinner. I told him his English mustn’t be that bad because his texts had always been pretty clear. There was a good reason for that, he said. He’d thought long and hard about what he wanted to say and had also used a dictionary. I laughed.

We walked to Old Town to an inexpensive Czech restaurant much to my surprise; when it comes to food Old Town seems like a gi-normous tourist trap—everything is pricey. SlovakJan’s racing heart calmed down enough for us to have a good conversation well into three hours. He’s 38, single, has been in Prague for a year but lived here for four years before. He’s into real estate and hasn’t had alcohol in over 15 years. He smokes though (sigh)—picked up the habit again after his last girlfriend broke his heart, which is also why he came to Prague—to forget her. Awww.

I told him about my hectic life in New York, my first trip to Prague sans details of my encounter with Jan the Czech, and coming to Europe. We also talked about fitness which was a shared interest. I mean, we were all over the place topic wise, and it’s not too important to rehash here. After dinner, we walked to La Bodeguita, a Cuban restaurant nearby for Mojitos (for me; and not the best in town as people have claimed. Sorry…) and to watch folks salsa dance, which reminded me of how much I missed not continuing the lessons I started back in New York. I may just get into it again here, and perhaps find myself a "Juan" in the process.

SlovakJan was so sweet. He asked, "What’s the word when you have a car and other people want it too?" Envious, jealous? I offered. He said many of the men at La Bodeguita had to be jealous of him because he was there with me. Awwww! Can I keep him?! He promised to improve his English because there were many things he wanted to talk about but couldn’t. I told him the more we hung out together the better his English would get. No word on what would happen to my Czech since I’m not learning much yet.

We left at midnight; he drove me home. I think I’m seeing him again Saturday afternoon on the Vlatava River where he’s participating in a boat race.

Pch has priority issues that make him wrong for me at this time even though I’m crazy-ga-ga about him. (He finally called Wednesday evening with little to say for himself.) SlovakJan’s problem is that he’s not Pch; so actually it’s really MY problem because to be fair there’s nothing wrong thus far with SlovakJan.
 
The best way to explain is to go back to a scenario from my dating past: I was having a talk with my friend Lola about a guy I’d just met and gone out with. (Also called John. Ha.) She had asked, “Do you like him like tiramisu or like pretzels?” (Sometimes it really is that basic.) Now, I LOOOVVVE tiramisu—love it; but too much of it is bad for you in all sorts of ways. Pretzels I eat and enjoy but only because they became an acquired taste. I used to not care much for them—they were bland; but once I started adding other things—bananas, peanut butter, etc—to give them a kick I started to like them. (Subsequently, Lola and I dubbed John, “Pretzel”.)

Although I had a lovely night yesterday I didn’t find SlovakJan to be very exciting. But it doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that he could have potential, and that so could other guys who won’t necessarily set my heart racing right away like Pch does. I guess what I may need to do is find that extra ingredient to liven up SlovakJan or whoever comes up next.

Any suggestions?

Mini-Guide to Eastern European Men

Thanks Naomi! Your social research will help many. It's ongoing, I hope, since we still have a few more countries we need to add!

Czech - Well, what can I say. You've got yourself a prime example. Predominantly (as I consider) twats. But can be very cute. Provided they've been introduced to the terms 'shower' and 'deoderant' and 'regularly'.

Slovak - SO MUCH MORE FUN! Party animals. Big 'lifers' (you know, big drinkers, big eaters, big exercisers, big...just...life). Can lean towards psychotic jealousy (of the 'turning up when you're with your friends and demanding why you took 2 minutes to respond to previous text instead of 30 seconds' type.)

Ukraine - Lovely. Gentle natured (surprisingly) and humorous. Occasionally stunning looking (dark hair, light eyes, mawkish attititude - poetry!). And clearly: into you! :)

Serb-Croat - HILARIOUS story tellers (displacement activity from war?). Most have shot people (mandatory military service). Try not to think about that while you sniff the flower they've bought you...

Time to Start Rooting for Slovakia?

Monday was day four of silence from Pch. I wrote him on Sunday; my message had been received (per the delivery notice) but still nothing. His silence though was sending me a message.

I’m not going to get into the whole men-v-women debate because we all know what it is and where it'll head—nowhere—and because we still won't get each other at the end of the day. But clearly, it was time for me to take my fine (and fuller-figured!) self elsewhere to be appreciated by someone else.

At Tesco (the supermarket is always a good starting point...) yesterday, I was approached by a cute Ukrainian. My encounter with him proved that when a man sets his sight on a woman he'll do whatever he can to overcome any barrier standing in his way. Why? My Ukrainian spoke NO ENGLISH AND NO CZECH.

I had knocked down some shampoos as I passed through the children’s aisle and was replacing them when he came along with a confused look on his face. He scanned the shelves and asked in a thick accent, “Head and shoulders?” and then rattled off in his language. No, I said and pointed towards the part of the store where he’d find adult products. I mean, clearly we were in the children's section—the diapers and what-nots should have been a give-away. But did he leave? Noooo. He continued to speak. “Nerozumim," I said and tried to explain that the shampoos in our section were for babies—I pointed at the line of products and made a rocking motion with my arms.

“Ahh, so, you have kids?!” He motioned back at me.
“Noooo.” I shook my head vigorously.
Blah, blah, blah.
“Nerozumim".
Blah, blah, blah.
“Nerozumim".

Now I was laughing. Why is this man still talking to me? We obviously can't communicate for any more than a minute at the rate we're going?

“Jak se…”

Now he was changing tactics. If I couldn't understand Ukraine, then perhaps I spoke Czech? After all, I kept responding to him with Nerozumims. Problem was he couldn't speak Czech well either!

“Tinuola.” I decided to help him a bit.
“Ah. Blah, blah, blah." He gave me his name which I have forgotten.
“Otkud…”
“Ameriky.” I responded before he could finish.
“Oooh.” He rolled his eyes upwards and pointed at himself: "Ukraine. Blah, blah, blah."
“Nerozumim".
He kept talking.
“Nerozumim. Nerozumim, Goddamn it!"

Buddy, you’re cute but this will get tired in another minute.

Remember hunky SlovakJan from the gym? Well, I did get his number that day but had not given him mine. When Pch was starting his nonsense I had sent SlovakJan a text message—call it a preemptive strike—asking if he wanted to meet for the coffee-slash-“English lesson”. But the message was not delivered. I re-sent twice and got the same no-response notice. I called his number and was told the line was unavailable. Hmm, it was beginning to look like Eastern bloc men had a shared habit of disappearing without notice.

After getting a pep talk from Regina yesterday evening I re-sent SlovakJan’s message. He responded in less than five minutes. Now, that’s what I’m talking about! I call and you respond.
 
He was glad to read from me, he said, and it would be his pleasure for us to meet. He was currently in Slovakia and would be back on Thursday. Would I like to meet him at 7pm?

Ano!

Do You Want To Be Friends?

My internal clock needs a hard reset.

After Club Zero Saturday, I hit my bed at about 5am and woke up at 8:34am! My heart was racing and my head hurt like the dickens; worse, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Arggh.

The weather was grey and wet. Not a great start for Sunday. The only thing that looked promising for the day was my 11am brunch with Naomi, the scientist-blogger I met through Chatterbox.

When I made the suggestion for brunch earlier in the week, little did I know about Prague’s brunch culture—specifically that it didn’t really exist. Brunch—as in eggs, pancakes, omelettes, French toast, home fries, mimosas, Bloody Marys, sausages, grits, you know, the works—is uncommon here. Back home, you say, let’s meet for brunch, and there’d be a dozen restaurants within a three-block radius to choose from.

I’m a BIG fan of breakfast food (and I’ve got the gut to show it…) and I’d suggested brunch with the above image in mind; Naomi had been enthusiastic, and now I wanted to deliver and make a good impression! I went into research mode and walked into a few restaurants days before to ask if they served brunch; all but two answered no. The two were The Globe, an English bookstore in the center that served American-style brunch and Café Savoy, a French restaurant not too far from my flat.

Naomi, dressed sensibly for the weather—slacks, warm jacket, and scarf—was up for Savoy and we walked across Legii Most bridge to the restaurant. Feeling oddly defiant about the declining weather and that I seemed to wear nothing but jeans, I had chosen to wear a knee-length skirt and flats. For my effort, I got splashed by cars and stepped into a few puddles.

Savoy was exceptional. I think I may have found my brunch spot for the rest of my stay in Prague. Eggs, bacon, sausages, fries, baked beans, tomatoes, cheese, salad, bread, tea, juice, coffee, croissant, fruit, oh my…. No pancakes, but Naomi’s French toast hit the spot just as well.

Naomi, it turns out is not British; she’s from New Zealand. Her accent hadn’t registered completely the first night I met her at Chatterbox, but it was more evident Sunday afternoon.

In choosing to come to Prague, I had been a bit worried about if/how I’d make friends. It may seem like a silly concern—“Of course, you’ll have friends; you’re not a leper!”—but with having an established set of close friends in New York I had become complacent about knowing how to make new ones.

What if he/she doesn’t like me? What if I’m a complete bore? What if I don’t like him/her, do I not call back? What do I talk about? What if the chemistry was a false start? Should I have a back-up excuse for leaving early? Should I have a back-up activity to extend the date? Is it okay to dispense with the formalities and just blurt out, “Do you want to be friends?! Please say yes because I really, really like you!” and call it a day?


(On the way to the exhibition. Facade of Stavovske Divaldo, theater where Mozart premiered two of his operas: "Don Giovanni" and "La Clemenza di Tito".)

Luckily, whatever initial awkwardness I was expecting was forgotten within minutes of meeting Naomi who was warm, unpretentious, funny and smart. I remember more laughs than silence during our meal. Afterwards, she invited me to go catch the last day of the World Press Photo exhibition in Old Town. We parted ways at 3 when she had to go meet another friend. It was a good outing and I’m glad that we got a chance to hang out. I like her and I hope we get to do it again soon.

"Last Night, a DJ Saved My Life..."

Pch had been incommunicado for two days on Saturday and I was not in a hot mood about it. I had been "difficult" (and for good reason in my opinion…) during our last hours together on Wednesday; when I called to make peace on Thursday after my trip to Karlstejn he stunned me by abruptly saying he was going away and didn’t know when he’d be back. Okay….

I went to the gym late in the morning to spin away some of my stomach and then met up with Lalla for greasy Chinese food for lunch, which may not have been such a good idea—the food, that is—because Lalla commented that my cheeks had gotten fuller.

(Well fed and full-cheeked in Moravia)

I hadn’t seen Lalla in ages because she’d been busy studying; it was good to hang out with her for a few hours. She clapped with glee at my little bits of Czech and offered to help me scam the transit system by getting me metro passes at student price. My cheap self couldn’t turn that down.

I also got calls from out of town: Lola (Virginia) and Funke (London), which put me in a better mood. Now, if my friends can buy phone cards to say hello what’s stopping my two sisters?! Wande, Kemi, stop with the cheapness and get a card and call me! Don't let me get all Alicia-Keys on you: “How come you don’t call me anymore?...”

I guess the same would apply to Pch as well because two phone calls later that afternoon and I got no call back. Although I was tempted I did not want to spend Saturday night alone brooding. I wanted a good time and decent music—none of that Euro-techno that’s considered “good” music here. Last week when I was leaving a small club in Old Town, I ran into a black DJ—Lamont from Georgia and also a friend of Brieanne—who gave me a flyer to a lounge where he’d be performing Saturday night with another American DJ. It was billed as Soul Food Café: a night of soul music from the 60s, 70s & 80s. Sounded like exactly what I needed.

I “smessed” Gabriel, Regina and Dana, a friend of Regina that I’d met before. Regina was already occupied. Dana somewhat so, but he’d let me know if his plans changed. Gabriel was so-so—he’d never heard of the venue: Club Zero. He said he’d give it a try but if it wasn’t right he had two free passes to Duplex, a bigger club on Wenceslas Square.

I put on my Le Mystere Tisha bra—my wonder bra as I call it because it’s truly a wonder what happens to my already ample bosom afterwards. I strapped on my heels, prayed that the shoes would survive the cobblestones of Old Town, and headed for a tram.

In Old Town, I found the street but not the club. I asked two policemen for directions. Blah, blah, blah. Good heavens, wasn’t it obvious I didn’t speak much Czech? When I tried to thank them and get on my way I suddenly drew a complete blank on what to say. Was it Prosim, Prominte, Dekuji Vam, Naschledanou? Whatever? I started to stutter: "Uhhh, ummm, ehhh, ooooh…." Wonderful language skills I’ve got, no? The men started to laugh and helped me out: “Dekuji Vam?” Bingo!

Gabriel joined me at the dance lounge at about 11:15. It was located underground, had a nice setup, a good-looking international crowd and the music was fantastic—I could have sworn I was back in NYC. I was getting my drink (or drinks!) on and trying hard not to stare at the bartender who looked as though he had experienced buyer's remorse half-way through a sex-change operation. Seriously, the dude was weird-looking; even Gabriel tried not to stare. I said hello to Lamont who introduced me to his co-DJ, Natasha who turned out to be a neighbor of sorts—she’s a Brooklynite as well, by way of Park Slope.

Dancing with Gabriel and having a good time that I had to text Dana again to see if he didn’t want to change his mind about coming. He had backed out to console a friend who got stood up by her Czech boyfriend. Not surprising... I knew a bit about Darcie from Regina, so I told him to bring her along to come shake it off. Hey, I was doing it and having a heck of a time. Dana wrote back: they would finish up their wines and come. Even better, they were already half-way tanked. I ordered a round of Becherovka to celebrate when they showed up.

Dana sidled up to me on the dance floor and whispered, “I notice Gabriel is not called Pch. What’s up with that?....” A girl’s got to have options.

It was an interesting night. Gabriel ran into a recent one-night stand. Yikes. We brushed shoulders with an expat-former-English-teacher-turned-porn-star called Jose. Darcie warned: “Stay as far away from him as possible ‘cause he’s just NASTY.” Noted. Apparently, Jose was going about bragging of a porn scene he had done with a pregnant woman. Dana, being the red-blooded American male that he is, abandoned us for a blond Czech thing. One minute he was standing by me, when I turned around he was hot and heavy with blondie. He came by shortly after: “Her folks are heading some place else. See you later.”

From what I’ve heard from some expat women here, dating a Czech man is like begging for a migraine headache. And it seemed like Darcie was in the middle of a big one. The things that were driving her crazy about Tomas sounded familiar. I mean, not all Czech men are Neanderthals—Zosia from Chatterbox is married to one—but I hear that cross-cultural relationships can be difficult when the man is Czech.

That’s all good social observation and it may be the case with Darcie and her man, but I don’t think my headaches with Pch stem from our different backgrounds. Poor Darcie though ranted up a storm and cursed Czech men and Czech culture to hell. We called it a night after 4. Said our goodbyes to Natasha and Lamont, and headed to Wenceslas for kielbasas and the night trams.

When a man's acting funny there's nothing better than going out to have a good time without him.