Today is my baby brother's 16th birthday. They grow up so fast—in his case, well over 6 feet 6 inches, and still growing! When I visited home in May I barely skimmed his shoulders.
One of the hard things about being away is watching from afar as he matures into a young man, missing milestones such as birthdays or his first date, which happened a week after I left. Awwww.
He took her to the movies. They saw The Strangers. Later when I called to snoop he said he thought she had a good time, but he wasn't sure about what to do next. "Where should I take her now?" Could my little bro actually provide me insight into the inner thoughts of men?
He drives us all batty with his lackadaisical approach to homework, but he's a sweetie and a terrific kid.
Happy 16th Tobi.
We love you.
Do your homework and watch out for those low entryways.
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I web browse with Firefox, use Thunderbird as my email client and put up web pages at work with the Sea Monkey suite. But little did I know that one of the honchos at Mozilla—the company behind these products—is a 32-year-old black woman by the quirky name of Window Snyder.
Read about her here.
She sounds amazing.
I want to be like Window.
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....but you can't take New York City paranoia out of a girl.
Call it a twisted urban mindset, but thanks to the stories of assaults and gruesome crimes presented for our daily viewing pleasure on the 5pm news or re-enacted 24-7 on dedicated cable networks, I started to wonder as someone then living in America if I could ever avoid becoming a statistics.
When would it happen?
How would it happen?
Who would be my grim reaper?
Someone I know or a stranger?
Taking the subways late into the night, even walking less than three blocks home from the bus stop sometimes felt like huge risks. But worse was knowing that even inside the four walls of your home safety was not a guarantee. So how did one exist? With rules and strategies, and of course, prayer.
When I moved to Prague I was glad to leave those sort of thoughts behind. Well, in a way.
No matter how safe I feel and that violent crime is pretty low in these parts, every once in a while I still find myself gripped by random thoughts of carnage.
I was at work late Wednesday afternoon when a man called about the closet I had put up for sale online.
Could he see it this evening, he asked. It was too short notice, I told him, and recommended the following evening. I gave him the dimensions of the closet, mentioned that it would need to be taken apart and that I had tools for doing so if he decided to buy the closet. I have my own tools too, he said with a laugh. We set a time—8:00pm, Thursday.
So tell me, why did I walk into my apartment later that evening and immediately thought:
Oh my God, are you nuts?! You live alone and you just told a complete stranger—a man with TOOLS, girl, TOOLS!—that he could come to your apartment at night. He could be some nut job trolling the online expats forum looking for female sellers who live alone. What if he has POWER tools? Perrr-fect for you to get dismembered with! CallhimbackCallhimbackCallhimbaaaack!
I sent a text message rescheduling for a DAY-time meeting. He called the next day to say he had found a better deal.
Okay. I may have lapsed into temporary insanity Wednesday night, but I think it was a needed jolt of realism that though Prague is a safe-r city I should not completely throw away common sense and take unnecessary risks.
What say you if you're also an American living abroad? Do you have to remind yourself to be guarded?
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1/ You never realize how much you have until it's time to move. Where did all these shoes come from?! It's hard to imagine that in the past year and a half so much footware has traveled across the Atlantic—in mine and other people's luggages—to end up here in Prague. In the pile pictured, only one pair was purchased in Europe.
An advantage of moving is the opportunity to whittle down one's possessions and free up space. But I'm not sure that I'm in whittling mode right now. Maybe one pair....
2/ Prague is awash in used furniture—it's summer, that time when non-locals who've had enough pivo, are tired of low wages start skipping out of town. Every other marketplace post on Expat.cz is a listing for “Mattress and Table for sale” “Moving—Everything Must Go!”, etc. Now I'm tossing my two cents—a bed and a closet—into the mix. But unlike many I'm not leaving town, just switching apartments and the new bedroom is small. With such a saturated market, I'm surprised that I've already got one interested buyer. Then again, my stuff is in excellent condition.
Another option I've considered is selling the closet and bed to my landlord or whoever will take over the studio. Yesterday, a man came by for a look at the apartment. I told him both items were up for sale if he decided to take the place. I asked why he was moving. He said: “I'm having trouble with my wife.” I think he'll be needing a bed and a closet....
3/ Something's cooking work-wise. Can't say much about it yet....
4/ Melissa C. Morris. Read about her in the NYTimes's Style section. Personal trainer turned socialite by way of marriage. I wanted to dislike her—living my imagined life of leisure darnit!—but I haven't been able to begrudge the girl her good luck. Why? I thought her blog would read like an itinerary of the shopping excesses one tends to associate with yummy-mummy-socialities and the such, but it's curiously designer-name-dropping lite and filled with mundane details of her life. She seems almost relatable. Modesty it turns out is a pretty disarming weapon.
5/ Lastly, because I never got around to writing at all about my trip back to New York City and the emotions surrounding being back home, I was pretty wow-ed when I caught up with Madame K's blog this weekend and read her spot-on summation of how I feel about NYC now that I don't live there anymore.
Cau.
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(Better to read Part 1 first to get background....)
This BlackGirl ain't that desperate.
Listen, we expat women out here in Prague know that our expat men have easy pickings among the local females. And I'm sorry, but the last thing I want to do here is throw myself into this town's orgiastic mindset because I want to figure out if a man is interested in me or not. I'd rather stock up on batteries.
No text or phone call from G by Thursday and I took his number off my mobile. No drama. I'm a big girl.
I sent a text invite to H to join me and a group of friends on Saturday for Prague's Museum Fest—an annual one-night event in which all national museums in the city give free admission from 7pm to 1am. I figured this was safe to do—with other people around it would not seem too much like a date.
On the day-of (yesterday) only my namesake would be coming—others were tired or had last-minute obligations. I showed up at the meeting point and waited.
H came up behind me on the left.
G showed up on the right.
Can we say major “What the f--k?!” moment?
I mean, “Qu'est-ce que f--king c'est?!”
I gave H a look as in “Whhhy?” He had enough sense to look embarrassed.
Sure, it's okay for you to bring a friend along—it was supposed to be a group thing, yeah—but could I have gotten some advance notice that it would be G? I mean, I know you boys have been friends for four years and not telling him would have seemed sneaky, but really, didja have to surprise a girl like that?
(From the left, G, H and namesake.)
And G, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You don't have the guts to pick up the phone and close the deal—you had all week—but the minute you think your friend might be picking up where you left off you want to throw yourself back in the running? You attach yourself to his invite? What a cock-block.
G offered an awkward, lame apology about not responding to last Sunday's text.
I was tired, you know, busy....
Yeah, and so was I, homme-y. But what about the remaining 100+ hours of the past week? And I'm being lenient on you because I've already deducted 44 hours for sleep.
I shrugged. “C'est ne pas problem.” No need to start a scene. I chose to be friendly and made small talk until namesake showed up.
When I met H last Sunday I pegged him as the laid-back type, but now I couldn't figure out if I was dealing with a natural reticence or awkwardness because G was around. But eventually he eased up a bit while G seemed aloof—sulky—and like the previous Sunday hard to pin down.
Kinda all over the place...can't keep track of him, namesake noted at one point during our evening at the Naprstkovo Museum (Asian, African and American-Indian Culture) in Old Town.
We spent two hours browsing, taking in some Afro-Cuban music and foodie treats, drinks. Conversation started and stalled, and picked up again. Namesake had to meet an acquaintance at Bodeguita at 10p so we left the Frenchies—they had friends who might possibly show up at the same restaurant and said they'd catch up with us there.
I didn't stay long at Bodeguita. When I came out, H was on the sidewalk chatting on his mobile. G was nowhere to be seen. I hung around impatiently while H talked to his family (he mouthed) until I gave him a quick kiss goodnight and walked off to catch a tram.
I wondered about G. Where he had gone off to? Why he had come at all? What purpose had it served other than to make everyone uncomfortable. Sure, I can understand if he was mad—which I think is pretty much a given—but I see no reason to soothe his wounded ego. I know some would think inviting H was scheme-y—a ploy to rankle G—but as I wrote in Part One I had different agendas for both men. Fine, you can call me naive too.
But it really is simple. G screwed up and if he wanted to get back in my good graces (and yeah, my pants—ha!) a bit more attention and a candid-sincere “I'm sorry I fracked up. Please let me make it up to you.” would have helped his case.
I have my pride to live with too.
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Friends of mine are currently dealing with men who talk much, then do little or nothing. My girls are a pretty independent lot—they have minimal patience for such behavior and thus go about proving that their lives do not involve indulging these men's inflated sense of self. In return, the men sulk like little boys deprived of a toy that they paid fleeting attention to in the first place.
It's all rather disappointing at this stage in our lives. Why? We're not asking (yet or at all in some cases) for exclusivity. We just want directness and consistency.
Here's my addition to the fray:
At a French food festival last Sunday in Old Town, I met G, a somewhat-smoking expat Frenchman. (The accent!) He came on to me under the pretext of an expertise about authentic mustards. I allowed him to strut his feathers, not letting on that the typical coarse Americaine that I am the only mustard of interest on my radar is industrialized honey-mustard. Of which there was none at the mustard stand where I was only killing time waiting for my friend C to show up.
A few sampling of mustards later, G led me towards his group of friends for an intro where I met H whose face lit up with what I can only assume was some interest or curiosity as soon as I came into view. Hmmm, la noire. Please introduce....
G played the big man around festival, ferrying me and C (who showed up late) from stand to stand:
Taste this cured meat.
Have a cup of wine.
You like pate? Here, I buy this jar for you.
Good French restaurant? Ardoise—I take you there for dinner.
Yes, I cook (kissing his fingers) I invite you....
Pleaaaasse do and I hope you devour me....
I was completely turned on—maybe it was the wine. (And it helps that I love to eat.) C was swooning with approval, grinning from ear to ear.
... The festival was dying down. By now, G and I had exchanged numbers. I had gotten to know a bit about H and had swapped numbers with him too. To be honest—and you may not believe me—it was a friendly gesture on my part. I had dirty motives only for one Frenchie. Me and H had talked about African food, running and a bunch of other topics, and I thought he was a potential friend as I'm trying these days to even out my social network—I want more male friends.
Here are two little things about G that I noticed: seemingly strategic showy gestures of goodwill for others coupled with a short attention span. He was with you and then just as quickly out of sight, off to say something to this person or another. Back and forth. Back and forth. It had a dampening effect on my excitement. But still I lingered because he had offered to drop me home. When the festival eventually closed down (C had cunningly excused herself early) G walked ahead with his cousin. I saw no reason to be mad—the cousin was from out of town and rightly had some precedence. Don't you think? But still, when you kinda leave a woman alone, she starts to wonder.... H kept me company as we trailed them.
The cousin parted ways. H made his goodbye at G's car. I got a ride home, exchanged kisses and got fervent promises of "I call you", "Dinner", etc.
An hour later, I sent a “Thanks” text to G for the ride and the jar of olive spread that he had bought me.
A text came through—from H.
Nice to meet you, he wrote, and perhaps a shared African meal sometime soon.
Absolutement. Sure why not? I wrote back.
No response to my text from G that night.
Nothing at all throughout the following week.
(Part 2)
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After just a little over a week of searching I have found what will be my new apartment as of July. I'll be relocating to a one-bedroom flat in a different neighborhood—Holesovice in Prague 7.
I had been thinking about a move since January—my needs (and more so my certainty about staying long-term in the Czech Republic) had steadily outgrown my charming studio in Smichov. It was time to stop living temporarily—a state I had clung to by not furnishing much and only thinking of the apartment as a place to cook and sleep. But of course it was more than a crash pad.
One of the difficulties of expat-living in Prague is making personal connections. I interviewed a shrink once for an article on depression among expats and she noted that many clients out of loneliness tended to socialize with people who were not always right or good for them. Some social settings and individuals left me cold; some sapped me of energy; promising connections sometimes never took off or were cut short by the other party leaving. Many times I preferred to be home alone in my cozy studio cooking or listening to music. Having a comfortable place to myself afforded me a getaway where I could reflect on my needs, my energy and my faults, to constantly refine my precepts about people and relationships. I think today my network of friends is better off for it.
Apartment 9 wasn't a perfect haven though. There was the toilet that occasionally emitted fumes so noxious they reminded me of stink bombs from high school. Luckily it knew better than to act up when guests were around. The oven with a mind of its own—arbitrarily switching off in the middle of a roast or bake job and causing me constant worry that I would someday suffocate from a slow gas leak or be burnt to a crisp from an explosion. The four different tram lines a stone's throw from my window—super for getting me wherever I needed to go but horrible for my sleep. The grating of the garbage trucks twice a week at about 6:45 a.m. And of course, my fair bit of crying about Jan.
These days I feel pretty definite about staying in Prague and I want a place to reflect this. Sure, I could just customize the studio a bit more—add a couch, hang up pictures, buy a bookshelf, personal touches, etc. But sometimes you just wake up and know when you're done with a place, when it has served its purpose—for which you're grateful—and that you're now ready to cut ties and move on.
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If I had only one entry to post this month I could not ask for a more amusing story to recount than one about what happened to me late Friday morning.
An epic footware disintegration while heading to an appointment.
For years, I owned a pair of super-comfortable Kenneth Cole sandals that saw me through four (five?) summers in NYC before I decamped for Prague in 06. They would have been perfect for the cobblestones of my new city, but the thick rubber soles that provided my feet such great cushioning also made the shoes a bit hefty to add to my already stuffed suitcases. I left them behind.
During this last trip back to the States, I cleaned out my NYC closet—donated a ton of stuff, trashed a few—and rediscovered my beloved sandals, looking seemingly just as solid as I'd left them almost two years ago. This time they would not be left behind.
Unpacking in Prague, I noticed a thin crack on each sole. “Hmm, didn't realize they were so fragile after all; I should have packed more carefully....” But nothing so alarming to dissuade me from wearing them.
Friday morning. I had an appointment to see a flat in Holesovice. (I am moving house....) I strapped on the sandals for the first time. I took a tram, disembarked and began the seven-block walk. I noticed my sandals felt a bit loose. I thought a strap had come undone. I looked down and sure enough the right strap was not in place. I adjusted and continued on.
But a few meters later, another strange feeling that something else was afoot. (Yes, a pun.)
I looked down to the left:
The lower half of the sole was jutting out at an angle.
Behind me: a trail of black crumbs and a sizable chunk of sole.
My
sandals
were
falling
apart.
Can we talk panic? Regardless of how slowly or gingerly I tried walking the next two blocks bits and pieces continued to trail me.
A woman walking her dog stopped to stare in disbelief. If she had been anywhere close to a size 9-10 I swear I would have mugged her. Instead I shuffled on looking for a convenience store. Luckily, the street had very little human traffic and most didn't seem to notice (or pretended not to).
One store owner chuckled at the ravaged state of my sandals and suggested heading to a main street one block over to find shoes. But he couldn't be sure. Super. More walking... Would there even be anything left on my feet by then? I pictured myself wandering Milady Horakove in my bare feet.
Heading over to hunt for a Bata, I stopped midway—by now, the only semblance of support left was coming from one corner of the right sandal; otherwise, all that separated my feet from the pavement was the thin upper sole.
And then a lightbulb moment! The thin sole was still fully intact and being held together by the straps! Technically I still had a shoe.
I tore off the remaining chunks of rubber, stuffed them into my bag (I was already thinking what a hoot it would be to take pictures for a blog post....) and voila! I had fashioned myself a pair of super-uber-thin strappy sandals.
I tell you there's an idea here. A light-weight (you'd barely feel them in your bag) emergency pair of shoes for those unexpected footware emergencies!
Fine, it's already been done--the flipflop--but the above scenario is probably close to how those informercial products that sell like hot cakes come about..... Someone improvising a solution to a sudden (or in most cases, nagging) problem.
My “new” sandals may not win any awards for comfort but they got me to my appointment and even held up when afterwards I decided to take a quick walk through a nearby park before getting on a tram home.
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Today is my baby brother's 16th birthday. They grow up so fast—in his case, well over 6 feet 6 inches, and still growing! When I visited home in May I barely skimmed his shoulders.
