Saturday, October 24, 2009
Quizzicality
Sometimes I pretend to be confused by what people are saying just so I can show off my much-practiced single eyebrow raised. People are almost always impressed.
Fall Back
Tomorrow/tonight is when we fall back in the Czech Republic. According to most people, this is a week earlier than in the US. By my calculations, this means that, for one week, even though we will not be closer physically, we will still be closer in the fourth dimension. Or something like that. Enjoy our proximity.
Papers, Midterms, Procrastination, and a Friday Night
Tonight was my first foray into Judaism. I am in a Jewish history class--History of the Jews in Bohemia--and the professor is not actually a professor, but a rabbi. To make up for a class that we missed due to a bank holiday at the beginning of the semester, he decided to have the whole class, all seven of us, over for Friday night Shabbat dinner. The rabbi told us that we were also welcome to come to services before dinner as well.
I decided that, since I was invited, now would be an interesting time to go to services, so I went along with two other girls from my class, both of whom are Jewish and have been to his services before, to the Jewish town hall where the services were held.
The rabbi had warned us beforehand that there would be some security, and that we had to say that we were coming for Rabbi H's Shabbat service (I may have gotten that description wrong--I apologize). He had also pointed out the location of the Town Hall to us before, so I had seen the security guard from a distance.
I did not realize that the security guard was an armed security guard. As we approached to him, the other two girls I was with looked at me and said, "Ok. This is where we have to fight our way in." Looking at the guard, they said, "We're here for the rabbi's services." We repeated the rabbi's names a few times, and the security guard smiled at us, shook his head, and pressed a little buzzer near his head. I assumed this was the button that would open the door for us, but instead it called over a British-accented man.
"What are you doing here?" he asked us.
We told him we were here for services.
"What is your relation to him?"
"He's our teacher. We're in his Jewish history class."
"And you're Americans studying here?"
"Yes. For the semester."
"And are you studying here in a group?"
"CIEE."
"Do you have any identification?"
We all pulled out our Charles University student ID cards and showed them to him. He asked us our names--"Emily Rose Oachs"--and birthdates--"10-31-88. I mean! 31-10-88" (to which he responded, "Everything American is different" or something to that effect).
He finally let us into the building and we continued on our way to services. There were 11 of us there, and from the looks of it, two of us were not even Jewish. I could tell because we were the only two frowning at the prayer books in front of us and not even trying to sing along to the Hebrew. Had the language been almost anything but Hebrew, for example, Spanish, I would have been able to stumble my way through it and make it look like I had a semblance of an idea of what was going on. But I have no idea how to speak a language that is made up of nothing but curvy lines. So I kept quiet.
I spent the entire time sitting quietly in my seat, except when everyone stood, reading the English translations of the Hebrew, my ears perking up every time I heard "Adonai" and "Shalom." At the end I said, "La heim" and drank my wine with everyone else. After that I felt particularly Jewish.
Leaving the building, the rabbi asked me how it was compared to services at home. "Well," I said. "At home it's in English." "In the conservative synagogue," he said in his slightly nasal Chicago accent, "we speak in Hebrew and English." I think he thought I was Jewish.
It was only right then that I realized how nice it is, being able to say that I am Lutheran. It sounds so guiltless, so un-threatening:
"So how does this service compare to your services at home?"
"I'm Lutheran."
"Oh, lovely. We Jews here in Prague reached a time of great prosperity during the Thirty Years War--a war brought on by your Protestantism. Thank you!"
I felt so proud, knowing that I contributed, if only for a short time, to the well-being of these Jews.
We then progressed over to the rabbis apartment near Wenceslas Square. The most important thing here to mention is his elevator. It could be considered a "Shabbat" elevator (an elevator where you don't have to push buttons), though I think it is always like this. The elevator is essentially just this open box that is constantly moving. To get into it, you have to time your step perfectly, and to get out, you have to hold on to the railings outside and prepare for your leap a few seconds before the elevator and floor are level.
While you have the option to ride back down the elevator on the other side--hopping in and hopping off when necessary--I instead chose to ride the elevator all the way around, getting in it going up, riding it around the top, and then riding it back down. Possibly the best decision I have ever made.
Dinner at the rabbi's was enjoyable, though it reminded me of the paper I have due on Monday. The paper where I have only done half the research. And that is why I am at home on a Friday night, blogging. It's a beautiful thing called "procrastination while pretending I am actually working."
Interesting fact: I found an "Add-On" for my Firefox that helps me block sites to help me be more productive. From now on, I will no longer be able to look at pictures from years ago, watch music videos, read about the drunken exploits of my fellow countrymen, or hear about the misadventures of people where things just never seem to go right for them between 7pm and midnight on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. I considered also blocking my blog, seeing as one of my favorite procrastination activities is to check the (approximate) number of views my blog has, but I decided that I should leave it open. Even if I'm procrastinating, I think that it's best that I at least procrastinate creatively. Which is what I like to think I am doing now.
So! Just so you know, this weekend, I will probably (finally) be writing about my beloved Berlin, mostly because I do not want to write about the forced conversions of Jews or to study for my midterms next week. But don't expect much from me next week because, even though it is my birthday week (10-31-1988, in case you didn't read it up there--I didn't put it in solely to help tell my story. I wanted to remind you all that I am turning 21! in a week) and I will doubtless be excited beyond belief, but I will also be in Switzerland (Zurich) and thus most likely unavailable. I am sure, however, that with how much I DO NOT want to write this paper, you will be hearing from me more than enough for the rest of the weekend.
Have a lovely evening. Sleep well. And if you know any good information about the forced conversions of Jews in Bohemia, please please please let me know.
I decided that, since I was invited, now would be an interesting time to go to services, so I went along with two other girls from my class, both of whom are Jewish and have been to his services before, to the Jewish town hall where the services were held.
The rabbi had warned us beforehand that there would be some security, and that we had to say that we were coming for Rabbi H's Shabbat service (I may have gotten that description wrong--I apologize). He had also pointed out the location of the Town Hall to us before, so I had seen the security guard from a distance.
I did not realize that the security guard was an armed security guard. As we approached to him, the other two girls I was with looked at me and said, "Ok. This is where we have to fight our way in." Looking at the guard, they said, "We're here for the rabbi's services." We repeated the rabbi's names a few times, and the security guard smiled at us, shook his head, and pressed a little buzzer near his head. I assumed this was the button that would open the door for us, but instead it called over a British-accented man.
"What are you doing here?" he asked us.
We told him we were here for services.
"What is your relation to him?"
"He's our teacher. We're in his Jewish history class."
"And you're Americans studying here?"
"Yes. For the semester."
"And are you studying here in a group?"
"CIEE."
"Do you have any identification?"
We all pulled out our Charles University student ID cards and showed them to him. He asked us our names--"Emily Rose Oachs"--and birthdates--"10-31-88. I mean! 31-10-88" (to which he responded, "Everything American is different" or something to that effect).
He finally let us into the building and we continued on our way to services. There were 11 of us there, and from the looks of it, two of us were not even Jewish. I could tell because we were the only two frowning at the prayer books in front of us and not even trying to sing along to the Hebrew. Had the language been almost anything but Hebrew, for example, Spanish, I would have been able to stumble my way through it and make it look like I had a semblance of an idea of what was going on. But I have no idea how to speak a language that is made up of nothing but curvy lines. So I kept quiet.
I spent the entire time sitting quietly in my seat, except when everyone stood, reading the English translations of the Hebrew, my ears perking up every time I heard "Adonai" and "Shalom." At the end I said, "La heim" and drank my wine with everyone else. After that I felt particularly Jewish.
Leaving the building, the rabbi asked me how it was compared to services at home. "Well," I said. "At home it's in English." "In the conservative synagogue," he said in his slightly nasal Chicago accent, "we speak in Hebrew and English." I think he thought I was Jewish.
It was only right then that I realized how nice it is, being able to say that I am Lutheran. It sounds so guiltless, so un-threatening:
"So how does this service compare to your services at home?"
"I'm Lutheran."
"Oh, lovely. We Jews here in Prague reached a time of great prosperity during the Thirty Years War--a war brought on by your Protestantism. Thank you!"
I felt so proud, knowing that I contributed, if only for a short time, to the well-being of these Jews.
We then progressed over to the rabbis apartment near Wenceslas Square. The most important thing here to mention is his elevator. It could be considered a "Shabbat" elevator (an elevator where you don't have to push buttons), though I think it is always like this. The elevator is essentially just this open box that is constantly moving. To get into it, you have to time your step perfectly, and to get out, you have to hold on to the railings outside and prepare for your leap a few seconds before the elevator and floor are level.
While you have the option to ride back down the elevator on the other side--hopping in and hopping off when necessary--I instead chose to ride the elevator all the way around, getting in it going up, riding it around the top, and then riding it back down. Possibly the best decision I have ever made.
Dinner at the rabbi's was enjoyable, though it reminded me of the paper I have due on Monday. The paper where I have only done half the research. And that is why I am at home on a Friday night, blogging. It's a beautiful thing called "procrastination while pretending I am actually working."
Interesting fact: I found an "Add-On" for my Firefox that helps me block sites to help me be more productive. From now on, I will no longer be able to look at pictures from years ago, watch music videos, read about the drunken exploits of my fellow countrymen, or hear about the misadventures of people where things just never seem to go right for them between 7pm and midnight on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. I considered also blocking my blog, seeing as one of my favorite procrastination activities is to check the (approximate) number of views my blog has, but I decided that I should leave it open. Even if I'm procrastinating, I think that it's best that I at least procrastinate creatively. Which is what I like to think I am doing now.
So! Just so you know, this weekend, I will probably (finally) be writing about my beloved Berlin, mostly because I do not want to write about the forced conversions of Jews or to study for my midterms next week. But don't expect much from me next week because, even though it is my birthday week (10-31-1988, in case you didn't read it up there--I didn't put it in solely to help tell my story. I wanted to remind you all that I am turning 21! in a week) and I will doubtless be excited beyond belief, but I will also be in Switzerland (Zurich) and thus most likely unavailable. I am sure, however, that with how much I DO NOT want to write this paper, you will be hearing from me more than enough for the rest of the weekend.
Have a lovely evening. Sleep well. And if you know any good information about the forced conversions of Jews in Bohemia, please please please let me know.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Daka's Progress
A few weeks after I got here, and after giving me a particularly large pile of sauerkraut at dinner, Daka confided in me that she planned on sending me home with curves.
Update on Daka's Progress:
Despite all her attempts to fatten me up and give me some good child-bearing curves, she is not succeeding. Every night at dinner I feel like I'm at the State Fair because of all the fried food--they give me weiner schnitzel, chicken schnitzel, sausage schnitzel, fried zucchini, fried cauliflower, and, my Achilles' Heel, POTATOES of all wonderful and glorious kinds--but in spite of all this, somehow I seem to be losing finger fat.
For my eighteenth birthday, my parents got me a ring--the stone is a blue opal (my birth stone as well as my zodiac stone, whatever those are called) set in white gold. It's very pretty and when I got it, it fit. I have been having problems with it of late. It twists around on my finger, it moves up and down my finger, and, if it gets cold enough (my fingers get thinner when it's cold, I guess) it has the nasty habit of flying off. This happened while in line at the Reichstag over the weekend.
It could just be a flukey thing. Maybe I never noticed that it didn't fit me all that well. EXCEPT, while in Ireland this summer, I bought myself a Cladagh ring, sometimes known as the Irish wedding ring. This ring was a great purchase and, because the style of it was so different from the others, there was only one size of it. It was a bit snug, but with some tugging the ring would come off unless my fingers were swelled from heat. I have since quit wearing the ring because of some technical difficulties with it, but after trying it on five minutes ago, I realize that the snugness is gone. While it still fits me closer than the other ring, it comes off too easily, though still not the loose cannon the other ring is.
From deductive reasoning, and because of these two occurrences, I have come to believe that Daka's plan is failing. I cannot be sure, however. It is entirely possible that all of my former finger fat is migrating to my hips, thus making me curvier. But when it comes to seeing whether or not Daka has managed to put more meat on me, I am unable to determine this. There is a scale in the bathroom of the house. Before I left, though, I never weighed myself in kilograms. 60 kilograms, despite being how much I weigh, according to their scale, is a meaningless number to me. I don't know how much it is.
Therefore, I can only conclude that Daka's plan has not yet come to fruition, and that I rapidly losing my finger fat.
Update on Daka's Progress:
Despite all her attempts to fatten me up and give me some good child-bearing curves, she is not succeeding. Every night at dinner I feel like I'm at the State Fair because of all the fried food--they give me weiner schnitzel, chicken schnitzel, sausage schnitzel, fried zucchini, fried cauliflower, and, my Achilles' Heel, POTATOES of all wonderful and glorious kinds--but in spite of all this, somehow I seem to be losing finger fat.
For my eighteenth birthday, my parents got me a ring--the stone is a blue opal (my birth stone as well as my zodiac stone, whatever those are called) set in white gold. It's very pretty and when I got it, it fit. I have been having problems with it of late. It twists around on my finger, it moves up and down my finger, and, if it gets cold enough (my fingers get thinner when it's cold, I guess) it has the nasty habit of flying off. This happened while in line at the Reichstag over the weekend.
It could just be a flukey thing. Maybe I never noticed that it didn't fit me all that well. EXCEPT, while in Ireland this summer, I bought myself a Cladagh ring, sometimes known as the Irish wedding ring. This ring was a great purchase and, because the style of it was so different from the others, there was only one size of it. It was a bit snug, but with some tugging the ring would come off unless my fingers were swelled from heat. I have since quit wearing the ring because of some technical difficulties with it, but after trying it on five minutes ago, I realize that the snugness is gone. While it still fits me closer than the other ring, it comes off too easily, though still not the loose cannon the other ring is.
From deductive reasoning, and because of these two occurrences, I have come to believe that Daka's plan is failing. I cannot be sure, however. It is entirely possible that all of my former finger fat is migrating to my hips, thus making me curvier. But when it comes to seeing whether or not Daka has managed to put more meat on me, I am unable to determine this. There is a scale in the bathroom of the house. Before I left, though, I never weighed myself in kilograms. 60 kilograms, despite being how much I weigh, according to their scale, is a meaningless number to me. I don't know how much it is.
Therefore, I can only conclude that Daka's plan has not yet come to fruition, and that I rapidly losing my finger fat.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Herna Indiana
Tuesday nights are always a crazy time for me. From 16.00 to 17.30 I have my Modern Czech Art and Architecture's out class, after which I have to make my way back to the study center at Vysehrad for my next class that starts that 18.30, which I usually get to just before it starts, and from there we head out to an unknown location where we are given tea and have to discuss Living and Learning (official title: Seminar for Living and Learning).
This week, though, my friend Kyrie, who is in both the seminar and the art class with me, and I decided to by-pass the extra travel time that results from going back to Vysehrad and then off to the tea house, and went straight to Namesti Miru, where class was to be held today.
In the beginning, we planned on just spending the extra hour of time we had at the tea house we were to be meeting at, but upon arrival we discovered that the place was completely full and that there would be no place for us until 7 o'clock when our reserved room opened up.
So we went back out into the cold October air, and started walking down the street. I saw a sign for "Herna Indiana" (for those of you who are not among the 10,000,000 people worldwide who speak Czech, the letter "a" is sometimes added to the ends of masculine words for reasons I have yet to discover). Happily, I suggested we head over. "I could go for a samosa," I said.
As we drew closer to the business, Kyrie and I noticed that out front were statues of American Indians*. We looked at each other and laughed, not sure what this meant for our samosas. "Tobacco...?" Kyrie asked.
Upon entering the front door, we were greeted with slot machines lining the walls, and at the far end a bar, a few tables, a tv broadcasting some soccer game, and a digital counter listing the amount of the jackpot. The Herna Indiana was a casino.
We walked over to the bar where the bartender and two other men looked at us curiously, and we ordered two half liters of Staropramen (at 14 crowns apiece--about 80 cents). We took our beers and sat at a nearby table to do some last minute homework and wait for class to start.
We were about a quarter of the way done with our beers when the bartender, after looking like he was consulting with the other two patrons, came over.
"Hello," he said. "You have 18? Yes?"
"Eighteen?"
"Eighteen years?"
"Yes. We're older than 18. We're twenty."
"You see, sometimes we get police in here. Do you have passport I can see?"
"I have a card."
"Can I see?"
Kyrie and I both pulled out our student ID cards and showed them to him. After verifying we were over 18, he smiled, thanked us, and walked away.
A couple thoughts on this interaction.
First of all: we look older than 18.
Secondly: we were working away, unsuccessfully, on our Czech homework. To me, this does not scream "police accessory." Instead it screams, "I'm foreign."
Finally: I'd think that if the Czech police really wanted to catch them selling alcohol to underage people, they'd choose a couple girls a bit less conspicuous than two obviously American girls.
I'm just saying.
Looking back now, I realize the bartender was only worried the police would come in and think we were underage. Me being me, however, I prefer to think that they mistook me as a covert officer, no matter how obvious it was that I'm not.
*I am using the term "American Indian" because I have been out of the country for two months and do not know what the politically correct term of the week is. Hopefully I have not offended anyone with this. If you do not agree with my terminology, please substitute "Native American" in its place. Thank you.
This week, though, my friend Kyrie, who is in both the seminar and the art class with me, and I decided to by-pass the extra travel time that results from going back to Vysehrad and then off to the tea house, and went straight to Namesti Miru, where class was to be held today.
In the beginning, we planned on just spending the extra hour of time we had at the tea house we were to be meeting at, but upon arrival we discovered that the place was completely full and that there would be no place for us until 7 o'clock when our reserved room opened up.
So we went back out into the cold October air, and started walking down the street. I saw a sign for "Herna Indiana" (for those of you who are not among the 10,000,000 people worldwide who speak Czech, the letter "a" is sometimes added to the ends of masculine words for reasons I have yet to discover). Happily, I suggested we head over. "I could go for a samosa," I said.
As we drew closer to the business, Kyrie and I noticed that out front were statues of American Indians*. We looked at each other and laughed, not sure what this meant for our samosas. "Tobacco...?" Kyrie asked.
Upon entering the front door, we were greeted with slot machines lining the walls, and at the far end a bar, a few tables, a tv broadcasting some soccer game, and a digital counter listing the amount of the jackpot. The Herna Indiana was a casino.
We walked over to the bar where the bartender and two other men looked at us curiously, and we ordered two half liters of Staropramen (at 14 crowns apiece--about 80 cents). We took our beers and sat at a nearby table to do some last minute homework and wait for class to start.
We were about a quarter of the way done with our beers when the bartender, after looking like he was consulting with the other two patrons, came over.
"Hello," he said. "You have 18? Yes?"
"Eighteen?"
"Eighteen years?"
"Yes. We're older than 18. We're twenty."
"You see, sometimes we get police in here. Do you have passport I can see?"
"I have a card."
"Can I see?"
Kyrie and I both pulled out our student ID cards and showed them to him. After verifying we were over 18, he smiled, thanked us, and walked away.
A couple thoughts on this interaction.
First of all: we look older than 18.
Secondly: we were working away, unsuccessfully, on our Czech homework. To me, this does not scream "police accessory." Instead it screams, "I'm foreign."
Finally: I'd think that if the Czech police really wanted to catch them selling alcohol to underage people, they'd choose a couple girls a bit less conspicuous than two obviously American girls.
I'm just saying.
Looking back now, I realize the bartender was only worried the police would come in and think we were underage. Me being me, however, I prefer to think that they mistook me as a covert officer, no matter how obvious it was that I'm not.
*I am using the term "American Indian" because I have been out of the country for two months and do not know what the politically correct term of the week is. Hopefully I have not offended anyone with this. If you do not agree with my terminology, please substitute "Native American" in its place. Thank you.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Berlin Guide Book Breakdown
No points or details here, just a quick synopsis of what the Berlin weekend entailed. More info to follow, but right now you get the guidebook version.
Friday:
-Checkpoint Charlie
-Berlin Wall
-Museum of Terror
-Film Museum
-Jewish Museum
Saturday:
-Modern Art Museum
-Pergamon Museum
-Reichstag
-Brandenburg Gate
-Inglorious Basterds (amazing and in English)
Sunday:
-German History Museum
-New Gallery
-Holocaust Memorial
-Bookburning Memorial
In Review:
Museums: 7
Memorials: 2
Free Things: 6 (including the 2 free memorials listed above)
Quentin Tarantino Movies: 1
I would also just like to point out that my blog now has (approximately) 200 views. How many of them are from me, I do not know. But this is still a monumental occasion. Three cheers all around.
Friday:
-Checkpoint Charlie
-Berlin Wall
-Museum of Terror
-Film Museum
-Jewish Museum
Saturday:
-Modern Art Museum
-Pergamon Museum
-Reichstag
-Brandenburg Gate
-Inglorious Basterds (amazing and in English)
Sunday:
-German History Museum
-New Gallery
-Holocaust Memorial
-Bookburning Memorial
In Review:
Museums: 7
Memorials: 2
Free Things: 6 (including the 2 free memorials listed above)
Quentin Tarantino Movies: 1
I would also just like to point out that my blog now has (approximately) 200 views. How many of them are from me, I do not know. But this is still a monumental occasion. Three cheers all around.
Arachnids
I'm going to risk sounding like David Sedaris in the post, a risk I feel I take every time I write a post (Sedaris=Hero). In my defense, however, I am taking an altogether less loving stance in this post than he did in his essay. Also, I'm not just copying him; this is something that has been troubling me for a while.
When I moved in to my room, it came with a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and three spiders--two in one corner and one in the other. I decided this was something that just came with the territory, one of those things that are still left over from Communism that our program warned us about (along with an early work schedule and punctuality).
"This is fine," I told them. "You can stay here as long as you stay there." I interpreted their silence as acquiescence.
Unfortunately this was not the case. I have been reduced to checking the location of those spiders every evening before bed and every morning before getting dressed. It would not do to put on some shoes and find a spider colony in there.
This breach of contract was not too difficult to deal with, though. It was merely a situation where I was forced to be more watchful.
The spiders decided to wait for me to go to Berlin to make their move on my territory. It was the cowards' advance. I wasn't even there to stake my claim, and still they set up camp in the corner at my bed, about a foot and a half above my head.
When I got back from Berlin yesterday, I found myself staring at a package containing 5 for $25 Victoria's Secret underwear (yes!) and two spiders encroaching on my space. Now I'm not sure if they immigrated to this part of the room from a different location, or if they came from outside my room. Regardless, the treaty had been broken and it was time to take action.
So I killed them. Well, I at least thought I did. Later on in the evening I found one making it's way across my bed. You know as well as I that this will never do.
Naturally I killed that one too.
When I moved in to my room, it came with a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and three spiders--two in one corner and one in the other. I decided this was something that just came with the territory, one of those things that are still left over from Communism that our program warned us about (along with an early work schedule and punctuality).
"This is fine," I told them. "You can stay here as long as you stay there." I interpreted their silence as acquiescence.
Unfortunately this was not the case. I have been reduced to checking the location of those spiders every evening before bed and every morning before getting dressed. It would not do to put on some shoes and find a spider colony in there.
This breach of contract was not too difficult to deal with, though. It was merely a situation where I was forced to be more watchful.
The spiders decided to wait for me to go to Berlin to make their move on my territory. It was the cowards' advance. I wasn't even there to stake my claim, and still they set up camp in the corner at my bed, about a foot and a half above my head.
When I got back from Berlin yesterday, I found myself staring at a package containing 5 for $25 Victoria's Secret underwear (yes!) and two spiders encroaching on my space. Now I'm not sure if they immigrated to this part of the room from a different location, or if they came from outside my room. Regardless, the treaty had been broken and it was time to take action.
So I killed them. Well, I at least thought I did. Later on in the evening I found one making it's way across my bed. You know as well as I that this will never do.
Naturally I killed that one too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
