“Buy Me. I’ll Change Your Life…”

…or so I imagined the black Moschino dress at Selfridges was whispering to me as I tugged its hip-hugging lower-half down my body.


The red Valentino number at Harrod’s didn’t bother with whispers—it bellowed its promise of a life transformed as I swished this way and that while trying to ignore my body’s reaction—a fine sheen of sweat—to being clad in the most expensive outfit I had ever dared to try on.

Displayed solo on a large white table at Browns, the yellow Marc Jacob bag, smug and hip—it would have rolled its eyes and yawned if it had human features—demanded with a hint of impatience: “Just take me home for gosh sake’s. You know I’ll be good for you.”

I thought escaping Prague for London would be good for my soul, but seven days and counting and I’m in a bit of pain…and loving it. I see it as meaning that I’m still alive and that nearly six months of living in Prague—the last two of it gray—has not dulled my appreciation (and lust!) for the beautiful and finer things in life. (Prague is known for a number of things, shopping isn’t one of them….)

When I decided to spend the holidays in London I had few illusions about shopping—I knew I pretty much wouldn’t be able to indulge. The pound to the dollar is 2:1 and the koruna barely makes a dent. “You’re doubly screwed.” A friend had remarked. I would have used another stronger term, but that’s me. Still I looked forward to just being able to browse/window-shop, convinced that at the very least I would have options other than Tesco and sizes beyond 0-2 to contend with.

Not having much money to spend—I’d been warned to save all I had for New Year’s Eve—was actually a bit liberating. (Okay, I know…but I need to make myself feel better about not having money!) The shopping moment of truth, you know, the agonizing over if to buy the beautiful dress that you’ve just tried on, the lip-biting rationalizing—"If I wear it 20 times, that’ll come out to 20 quid per wear and that’s a pretty good thing, right?"—was mostly absent. I tried on, admired, fantasized, returned to the rack, thanked sales clerks and moved on.

Still there were a few moments when I wanted to believe Selfridges’ holiday shopping mantra (this blog entry’s title) and hand over my plastic and wait for life to change.

Five Months Later: Prague in Review

Best view in Prague: Prague Castle at night

Best views of Prague:
From the top of Petrin Hill at dusk; trams going uphill towards Chotkovy Sady

Most impressive about Prague:
Great transit system. The trams are always on time. If I have a late-nighter I never leave home without checking dpp.cz for the night-tram schedule. “#58 hitting Vaclavske at 2:22am? Gotta leave lounge/restaurant/friend’s apt @ 2-ish and start a-walking to the stop….”

Worst thing about afore-mentioned trams:
Hopping on in the mornings and sitting through the stench of someone’s overnight bender

Things Prague could use less of:
Second-hand smoke, dog crap, graffiti, dirty cars, puke, urine, grey skies, expat men who think Czech women are the s##t

Things Prague could use more of:
Handsome Czech men, more sunny days in winter

Cliché tourist thing you have to do:
Rub statue of St. What-cha-ma-call-him on Charles Bridge for good luck. (Just look for the statue getting the most attention.) But be careful what you wish for or at least ask thoughtfully; you just might get it and loads more….


“Czechs are mean, humorless, communism-nostalgic zombies!”:
Clerk at Na Bojisti who yelled my English-speaking ass when I tried to get my first metro pass.

“Not all Czechs are mean…”:
The man who stepped out of line to translate and help fill out my application form for the metro pass.

Grub
Best Czech meal:
Roast duck and accompaniments at Savoy Westend Hotel in Karlovy Vary

Worst Czech meal:
Goulash-in-a-bread-bowl at tourist trap in Kutna Hora; and horror of all horrors, the restaurant was actually listed in Frommers!

Best brunch:
Café Savoy; but I’ve since discovered that brunch can be had in a few other spots around town. Hoorah!

Ho-hum brunch:
Bohemia Bagel—grease; Kava Kava—liquidy scrambled eggs

Cheapest meal:
Sausages on Vaclavske Namesti

“Be Careful How Much of It You Chug” Drink:
Becherovka
I heart Becherovka.
Factory Pro
Approximate Weight Gained: 10?
Approximate Weight Lost: 3
Number of penis sightings: 9
Number of anoxeria sightings: 2


Funny Workout:
Spin class with snooty gay instructor who thinks he’s an orchestra conductor

Best Workout:
Spin classes with Lucienne (Dutch) and Daniela (Czech)

Gym Low-light:
Battling the towel Nazis at the front desk

On Language
“Bravo, I’m speaking Czech”:
“Mam rada vas spinning. Mate dobre hudby.”
Telling Daniela I love her spinning class

“Shoot me for I am trying to speak Czech”:
When buying cheese I normally stick with 100 grams—it’s a tidy amount for a few days, plus the word for 100 is easy: Sto. But one day, I decide to buy a bit more cheese than I need. Why? Not because I’m making fondue, lasagna or any number of eats that call for globs of cheese, but because I just feel like practicing my numbers in Czech. Off to the cheese counter at Tesco.

Me: Prosim. Chtela bych sto pet set gramu syr.
Clerk: Co?

Hmmm, she’s not scurrying away to dispense any cheese. I’ve said something wrong, haven't I? And it must have to do with my numbers. 100—I know I have that down. So it must be the 50. Shit. How do you say 50 again? It’s not pet set, obviously. So, is it pet desat or patnaact? Okay, there’s no time for this. There’s a line and folks are waiting.

I take pen and pad and write “150”. I’m red—if I don’t look it, you know, on the account that I’m black and all—I can feel it. But for some pigheaded reason, okay, call it ego, I refuse to leave the counter without at least attempting to say “150” correctly in Czech.

Me: Jak se rekne cesky … 150? (I'm pointing to my pad: How do you say in Czech…?)
Bemused clerk: Co?
Give me a freaking break! I know I said that clearly!
Me: Jak se rekne cesky 150?! Je “pet desat”?
Clerk: Nerozumim. (Handing me wrapped cheese.)

I’m just beyond mortified as folks behind me look on with blank stares. I grab my cheese and try not to look at their faces as I head for the cashiers.

Recount tale to Ondrej, my Czech instructor, who has a jolly good laugh. For the record, 50 is padesat, not pet desat, close but still wrong. Pet set is 500—quite a bit of cheese….

Pch
Best Pch moment: Conversations while driving to Moravia

Sweet Pch moment: Spoon feeding me soup in bed when I was sick. (Ahem, before anyone’s tempted to say, “Awww, he did?….”)

Mean Pch moment: Recent reaction to my attempt to speak Czech. “I think maybe you just speak English. Czech is not so important language.”

Men
Number of Jans encountered: 8

Number of Jans kissed: 2

Funny Pickup:
Czech guy on the #10 tram who came up beside me as I was about to step off the tram and wordlessly slipped me his business card.

Weird Pickup:
Late night in Mala Strana, me walking to tram; older European man walking by, stops: Beautiful…. Are you Nigerian? I say “Thank you” to the first comment, but ignore the latter.

As much as I wanted to think that his question about my origin was some sort of compliment, that of course, the most stunning black women come from my dear motherland, there was also the slight chance that he was heading elsewhere with the query—in certain European countries, many black prostitutes are from Nigeria.

Sweet Pickup:
The Bulgarian sales clerk at Moser Glass. I stop by the Na Prikope store to browse—head to Moser if you want top quality crystal and are willing to part with a paycheck or two. All that crystal bling—there’s a Look but Don’t Touch glow about them, that and the fact they’re locked behind glass cases.

The clerk comes up to ask if I need help. “If you want to hold any of the pieces I can open up the cabinets for you. Sometimes it’s good to feel them. But don’t worry; you don’t have to buy anything you touch.” I laugh and thank him but decline his offer. He encourages me to move deeper into the store to view more collections. He's never more than a few feet away. When I pause a bit longer than usual to stare at a beautiful set of colored cordial tumblers he steps in to open the display case.

Later, as I prepare to leave he says, “You’re a customer and I know I’m not supposed to do this, but can I give you my number?”

***

The Great Carp Massacre

Warning! Graphic images of carp slaughter!

Americans do turkey for Thanksgiving; Czechs have carp for Christmas. (By the by, Czechs celebrate Christmas the evening before.... Strange, but that's what I'm told.)

Cyprinus carpio

Americans get their turkey from supermarkets. From what I’ve seen, a fair number of Czechs get their carp on the street. Yeah, around this time of the year the streets of Prague also double as outdoor fish-y abbatoirs.

Fish-mongers put out barrels of water filled with live carp and you choose your dinner. Out it comes from the pool, a well-placed thump, a slice here and there, a quick scaling and gutting, and voila!

The Departed.

Night Settings

With only a few days till Christmas, my mood has lightened up considerably—I was in a deep funk about three weeks ago....

"Hate Prague, hate Prague, hate Prague...." My life had suddenly felt like, well, my life. Oh no, no, no, no. "Girl, this isn't what you came here for. This mopping about as if you have no say in the matter is unacceptable." I had allowed myself to switch out of "vacation" mode and being in Prague had slowly lost its charm. It was rather disquieting. After all, I had come out here to be on an "extended" vacation, not to become a bonafide Praguist. Solution? I needed to start traveling. Which I'll gladly make up for in 2007.

Yesterday was my last day of work—I made my deadlines and skedaddled a little before 7pm. There’s not much left to do but sleep a-plenty, eat a-plenty, pay rent—there goes half my bank account—clean up my bunker, and say goodbye to a few folks before heading to London.

Lately, my blog has suffered from a dearth of pictures. Last weekend, I fiddled around with the controls on my camera, crossed my fingers and set out to take some snapshots of Prague at night. I think me and Canon did okay.

After five months, a night-time glimpse of Prague Castle is still one of my favorite sights in the city. Some failed past attempts to take a decent picture of the castle at night and the above is my best shot. Not perfect. Still it pales in comparison to an actual view from any of the bridges or when sitting on the #9 tram as it crosses the river. PS: I wanted to chop of that kid's head....

A concert underneath the Charles Bridge.

Holiday vendors on Vaclavske Namesti, where I'm told New Year's Eve gets insanely rowdy. People shooting fire-crackers at each other, tossing bottles into the air, and the lot. Loads of fun.

Trdlo. A traditional holiday treat. A narrow strip of dough is wrapped around a metal rolling pin that is then dipped in a sugar-spice mix and placed on a grill to roast. Yumm-o. Below, a Trdlo Chick at her grill. See finished piece in the foreground.

The Christmas trees at Staromestska Namesti and at Vaclavske Namesti. Perspective issues: the one on the left is the bigger of the two. Another Prague tale: Two years ago, some drunk scaled a similar tree to the one on the left. Hard to picture, but the tree came down. The man sued. "If you had secured the tree better I could have continued my drunken escapade up the tree." I suspect he wasn't Czech—they're not usually that proactive.

The weather's barely dipped below 40F since October. Not a lot of rain. The sun breaks through the clouds every now and then. A perfectly good early winter in my book. Still a Czech at my gym complained, "I hate this weather. No snow, nothing, I can't ski, blah, blah, blah...." Are other Czechs just as desperate for a cold snap? How else to explain this fake ice-rink in the middle of Prague 6?

All I want for Christmas are jewels....

Returning home from a night out with friends and you've missed your connecting night tram at Vaclavske Namesti. The best way to kill time is to go grab a bite from the sausage joints that dot the square. It's cheap, it's greasy and it's oh-so-yummy. In my gastro view, the best item on the menu are the German piggies on a bun, otherwise known as #13 or Nemeckych Klobasek.

Xmas-Wish-List

Oh snap!

It’s official: I’m spending the holidays in …London, London, London, we goin’ down like…

Okay, I confess: I like Fergie’s “London Bridge”—damn song is catchy as hell. (Does anyone else think she bears a resemblance to Kirstie Alley?)

I bought my ticket last night. Lola, one of the lovely Fadina sisters, has graciously offered to house me in her new …London, London Bridge… apartment. Alright, I promise not to e-sing that song again.

Even better, I get to see moje matka a few days after Xmas. Mother will be in town for a wedding. (Another woman lost to the “dark side”…. Just joking!) Hopefully she will agree to tote a few things from back home that I’m going to order online this weekend.

Ideally, they’ll be some funky pieces from Anthropologie, a dress from Tracy Reese; wardrobe staples from JCrew; shoes from Sigerson Morrison and Otto Tootsi; and I don’t care what the NY Times says, I want a BIG BAG.

A girl can only dream, as I do yearly.

Instead, I’ll be gifting myself primarily at Drugstore.com for Cetaphil and Lac-Hydrin lotions for my perpetually dry skin; Crest White Strips so I can continue to dazzle (or is it “bedazzle”?) Czechs with my blindingly white teeth; knee braces so I can take baby steps towards running again; Neutrogena hair conditioner, etc, etc, etc. Oh, and a side trip to Amazon for “Lost: Season 2”.

Again, the best news is that I’ll be in London for the holidays. (See? Kept my promise, didn't sing….) I can’t wait to get away.

Corporate Welfare Recipient

These days, it doesn’t take a lot to make me happy:

A sunny morning.
A smile and a naschle from the towel-Nazi at my gym.
A DMC with my sister.
A greeting card from America. (Thanks Anna!)

And today, Stravenky.

The first time I saw a stravenka (sing.) [See? Already learning some Czech grammar from my entries…] was at Tesco in September. The bearer used a bunch of them to pay for groceries and I assumed he collected food stamps from a government-sponsored welfare program.

I wasn’t completely off the mark. Stravenky are meal tickets that some companies give out monthly as perks to their employees. The tickets come in a variety of denominations and can be used at supermarkets, grocery shops and in many restaurants.

One of the things I secretly bitched about on accepting my job offer was that as a part-timer I would not be eligible for any benefits. And at lunch, having coworkers casually whip out their stravenky while I painfully counted out my koruna coins just made me split-pea-soup-green with envy. I wanted to pummel someone.

But HR departments in the Czech Republic are apparently about as coordinated as the ones in America. Not only did I later find out that I’d be getting health insurance, but today, a set of stravenky unexpectedly arrived with my pay slip.

I’m so excited I could go hospoda-hopping and binge on knedlicky.

Cauky!

What Women Want?

One of the things women claim is most important in a man is a sense of humor. In my years as a comedian, I've learned that they're usually referring to the humor of guys like Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Russell Crowe. Apparently, those guys are hilarious.
— Jimi McFarland (Esquire Magazine, January 2005)

Women are crazy. And let me admit before I go on: at various points in my life I have been (and possibly could still be considered) a crazy woman. We claim to know what we want but when it’s staring us in the face we make excuses or run.

Yesterday, I asked a friend about a man she had gone out with recently.

“Oh, we’re cool. In fact, I was at his place Saturday for dinner.”

For dinner, the guy (she said) lit candles, trotted out the silverware, made a delicious salad, cooked roast with vegetables, and as a finishing touch, prepared dessert.

My friend then added: “But we’re just friends.”

Of course.

How many “just male friends” put out that much effort for a woman they’re on platonic terms with?

REPHRASE: How many non-gay men who are not Food Network addicts and therefore are not just whipping up crème brulee because “I saw that recipe on Barefoot Contessa, and oh, it was just the perfect thing to try on a Saturday night…” will put out that much effort for a woman?

I said, “He did all that?! I’m really impressed. It sounds to me that he really likes you.”

She continued: “Yeah, he’s cute, but….”

Let’s pause the story for a few seconds, shall we?

In my past life as a test prep instructor, on the particular days that I had to conduct the sentence-completion lecture, I would tell my SAT kiddies:

“Hardly anything good ever comes after the word ‘but’, especially when it’s about dating. Trust me. I’m imparting knowledge that will take you farther than anything you’ll ever learn in your six weeks here….”

We jokingly called it the conjunction-conundrum.

“I like you but….”
Hold up a second. You most certainly do not like me. Not really. Not enough anyways because here you are trotting out that big ol’ “but” as if what you’re going to say after it is going to make me happy or feel liked.

“He’s cute but….”
Girl, stop right there. No, he’s not that cute. And not enough for you because otherwise honey, you’d be on him like O.J. Simpson on one more minute of fame.

Back to the story:

Not surprisingly, she said, “He’s cute but he’s not my type….”

And there I felt a bit sorry for her “just friends” guy. He was doing/had done exactly what most women say they’d like a man to do—be romantic, cook, etc—yet he was going to end up just a friend.

When I read Esquire last year and saw that quote I kept it for two reasons: it was funny and it captured the frustration "Average Joes" must feel when trying to connect with women. If Clive or Brad or Antonio had been the fella’ doing the domestic tango for me on Saturday I know I'd be selecting baby names by now.

As a [crazy] woman, I’m very much aware of my role in the Esquire paradox, thus I also completely understood where my friend was coming from. Attraction can be so intangible at times—how it comes or does not is anyone’s guess.

If my friend and the guy do stay friends I predict he won’t put as much effort into future dinner plans, unless he’s that rare non-gay guy who likes to watch Food Network Channel and enjoys entertaining and feeding friends Barefoot-Contessa style.