Broken Family

Having just finished my second week of Intensive Czech class, I have newfound respect for myself. Seeing how difficult Czech is to learn, I wonder How the hell did I ever learn Spanish? Until this point in my life, I have never truly appreciated my Spanish abilities.

When people hear that I speak Spanish, they all ask the same question.
Most people: "Are you fluent?"
Me: "Hardly. I only know a little."

I realize now that that's bullshit--and that I need to stop being modest. Compared to my Czech abilities, I am fluent, and only because I can say, "I do my homework" (Yo hago mi tarea) and "My father's name is Brad" (Mi padre se llama Brad).

This is the sad thing about Czech. I have been learning the language for two weeks, and I have yet to learn how to say, "dad," "father," or even "husband to my mother who is the reason I am born." None of this. Mother, yes, sister, yes, even boyfriend I have learned, but somehow my Czech education has glossed over the word father.

I am fairly certain that I am the only student in the class who seems to have missed the father memo, though I can never be certain because, to tell the truth, if they were saying the word "father" I wouldn't understand. For all I know they could be saying "I play basketball with the my drug dealer" or "I live at home with my mom, my brother, my sister, and the milkman."

Because of this, I am convinced Jana, my Czech teacher, thinks I come from some broken home, where any mention of a man, or father figure even, is something that's just not done. In class we had to answer the question, "Koho mám ráda?" (Who do you like?). Because of my ignorance, I had to respond to the question, "Mám ráda moje maminku, moje sestru, moje kluk, a Obamu" (I like my mother, my sister, my boyfriend, and Obama). And when I am posed the question, "Who do you telephone?" I can only simply answer, "Telefonuju moje maminku" (I telephone my mother) or else, "Telefonuju domu" (I telephone home).

Saying that I telephone home would be the easiest bet at this point to ensure that all my bases are covered when it comes to including my father, but I worry that the damage has been done. Already my teacher has it in her mind that I have been raised by a lone woman and that father figures don't factor into my life. Therefore (tak), when I say maminku or maminka, I say it to mean "parents" rather than just mother.

I hope you're not offended.


PS--Dad, maminku, congrats on the new job :)

Tonight's Tally

I just got back from the opera (+2 culture points for me) and I actually liked it (+2 culture points, +2 cool points), at the Statni Opera House where I took a picture of their take on the big flush little flush toilet (+1 cool point, -1 class point). It was a little something called "Rusalka," written by Praguer (-2 cool points for using this term) Antonín Dvořák, maybe you've heard of him? No? Well he is famous and he's buried in the cemetery right next to the CIEE study center. Even if you've never heard of him, I have seen his grave (+1 culture point) twice (+1 culture point).

Coming back from this experience, I feel incredibly cultured. I have been to the opera. Before now, my closest venture to the medium (is this the correct word?) was seeing Phantom of the Opera when we were in London and watching Bertoldt Brecht's Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny on DVD in my Jewish class last semester.

This feeling of being cultured, however, has been slightly dampened by the fact that I had a double cheeseburger from McDonald's for dinner (-1 culture point) and that I ordered in English (-1 culture point). One good thing from this, though, is that along with my Value Meal, I received a Coca-Cola glass in the shape of a can (+2 cool points for the free glass, -1 cool point for it being Coke). It was like a Happy Meal for adults, and I am most happy to have been treated to this small bit of treasure.

Final Tally:
Culture: 4 points
Cool: 2 points
Class: -1 point

As you can see, I came out ahead in both culture and cool today, though could use a little work in the class department. Hopefully tomorrow I can come out on top.

Love.

Old Friend

It's a comforting thing, finding yourself in the company of an old friend while traveling. You will be going about your daily business, and suddenly find yourself staring at your old friend. Greetings arise, and you are pleasantly surprised to find yourself more at ease. Even if you're in a foreign country with a foreign language and a foreign currency and a completely foreign way of thinking, there's just something about seeing that familiarity that makes your day brighter and your trip happier.

"So there really are fortuitous events such as these," you say to yourself. "What are the odds that I would run into my old friend here, in such a place as this?"

You rarely seem to run into them when you expect to. It's always in the darkest, grungiest places where you'd least expect them to show up (and vice versa), or else it's the most elegant places, where you never thought the high and mighty would deign to allow them (or even allow yourself).

In the past year, I have traveled my fair share. I was New York in the winter, Ireland in the summer, New Zealand at the end of summer, and now Prague in the fall. There were no old friends for me in New York, though it was in Ireland where I made the friend I have been describing.

And you cannot understand the excitement I felt when I came across this old friend, big flush little flush toilets, in both New Zealand and Prague.

It's quite possible that these toilets were the highlight of my trip to Ireland. Who would have thought that using the toilet could pose so many choices (and potential problems) for said bathroom goer. No longer is it, "How many squares of toilet paper should I use?" Instead, it is, "Is this worthy of a big flush, or can I get by with a little flush?"

One of the main reasons I love the big flush little flush function is because of its potential to save the planet. We are living in a world of global warming and limited resources, and we must do everything possible to save as much fresh water as possible so that when all the glaciers melt and we are left floating on rafts thatched together (think Huck Finn), there are somehow patches in that giant ocean where salt is unable to go. Sounds crazy, but I'm pretty sure scientific researchers funded by Al Gore have said something of the sort will happen and that's how we get our fresh water.

Big flush little flush, though, is a beautiful thing. It allows us to limit the amount of water that we use--when we don't need much water we choose little flush, when we need a bit more we go for the BIG flush.

Regardless of the necessity, I always use the big flush. It's the potential for their saving the world that makes me love them so much--knowing that someone, somewhere, someday will use them correctly and make a difference in the world. I, however, am not worried about making a difference in the world by regulating the size of my flushes. I probably would be if there weren't something so satisfying about hitting the big flush, slapping it like I'm on the Price is Right, and then watching it push the little flush button in along with it as toilet water rains down upon the discharge and flushes it from sight.

I'm sure many of you are now questioning my sanity--I have managed to write a good 574 words (I counted) on the topic of a style of toilet flush, calling it my "old friend" and saying it makes me "feel more at ease." But if any of you doubt that a toilet can be considered a friend, much less an old friend, I would like to say this to you:

The "squatting hole with water hose" I saw in Singapore is most definitely not my friend. It does not make me feel at ease or comfortable in a foreign place; it makes me feel panicked, anxious, and incredibly curious.

In a foreign country with a foreign language and a foreign currency and a completely foreign way of thinking, I'll take all the comfort I can get, wherever and whenever it comes.

Trevor's New Zealand-Style Big Flush Little Flush.

Kutna Hora Public Restroom-Style Big Flush Little Flush

Note: The NZ big flush is on the right-hand side, opposite from the one from the CR. In NZ people also drive on the right side, while people in the CR drive on the left side. Coincidence? I think not.

Some Sad News from Across the Atlantic

Sad sad day:

1) I got stung by a bee
2) The Minnesota t-shirt is no longer in the shop window and when I went in there after class today, the woman behind the counter didn't speak English and had no idea what I was trying to ask.

(My stung finger is now fine, though it was touch and go for a while)

I Was Almost Killed by a Sniper on the Tram This Afternoon*

After class today, I hopped onto a tram and took it (once again) to Andel and made a stop at Tesco so I could buy some notebooks and bread. Coming out of the Tesco (a European version of Walmart), I saw my tram pull up and I was cheered by the great luck I had happened upon. I would be home sooner than I had expected, and I was even looking forward to the trek up the hill.

But somewhere between the U Zlvonu (I think that's what it's called) and Bertramka, we ran into a little problem. I was thinking happy thoughts and thoroughly enjoying my life, so I didn't immediately notice that the tram had stopped prematurely. I was pleased I had the opportunity to look at shops that I usually don't get to look at. After a few minutes, though, I began to notice something was wrong. Stops were never this long, the doors hadn't opened, and I hadn't heard the automated Czech voice declaring the stop.

I looked around the tram car to see how others were responding to this. I was comforted by the fact that the man across the aisle from me was calmly reading "Dnes," what I can only assume is a daily newspaper. It was only when I saw a man in orange out in the street shouting at cars and hordes of people, obviously displaced from their trams, walking up the street that I began to be worried. Why were they walking up the street? Why were they not sitting comfortably, guarding their wallets and purses from pickpockets? But Dnes man was still reading his newspaper and I felt that I should take my cues from him--it's better to be calm in a horrible situation than it is to be freaked out in a fine one.

And then the people in the back of the car started banging on the doors, trying to find a way to open them. That's when it struck me--the tram had received death threats from anti-commuter terrorist groups and they were about to blow up the tram and had the entire area surrounded with snipers. It was a no-win situation. All was lost. How could Dnes man read the newspaper when his moments were limited?--either he would be blown up or shot to death, depending on the end he chose. If I had not been worried about my own life, I would have applauded this man. He was the equivalent of the string orchestra playing as the Titanic went down.

The orange man came into our car and opened the front door, shortly saying some things to us. I have no idea what he said, but the people in the back of the car booked it to the front and got out of the door. I followed them, deciding the people left sitting in their seats had chosen to sacrifice themselves to the certain death from the bombs for those of us who were younger, and had more life, and decided to brave the snipers.

I still wasn't completely sure what was going on, but I didn't want to ask. To do so would risk my own safety. What if, upon hearing I was American, the terrorists decided that I should be the first to die? Or what if the Czechs decided to offer me up as a sacrifice? Or what if they forced me to stay on the wired tram with the other sacrificees?

I refused to risk it.

So I got out of the tram car and began walking up the road to the next tram stop. There were three other trams stopped, other victims, I can only imagine, of the threats.

Literally two seconds after I had gotten off the tram, the tram stopped at the front of the pack began moving and, slowly but surely, the rest followed suit. I quickened my pace to try to catch a tram up the hill--I would face bombs rather than that walk. As I got to the tram stop, my tram pulled up and I jumped into it and plopped down two seats behind where I had originally been sitting, behind Dnes man.

I consider myself lucky that the terrorists called off their snipers, turned off their bombs, and let the daily commute recommence. Otherwise I may not be here.


*It is entirely possible that most of this took place solely in my head.

Slippers

Here's an interesting column from a American woman who writes for the Prague Daily Monitor. Check it out if you have the time.

Dreamer

Forgot to mention one other thing of note that is quite possibly my favorite thing thus far in Prague:

LENNON WALL.
Yes that is spelled correctly. I am not talking about Vladimir Lenin. I am speaking John, quite possibly the exact opposite of what you were thinking.


The Lennon Wall is a piece of wall located directly opposite the French Embassy in Prague, just a few streets up from the Vltava River. It is completely covered in Beatles and peace themed graffiti. I am a huge fan, completely loved it. I honestly have nothing more to say about it, but check out these pics: