One of the most important parts of any European excursion is a person’s first interaction with traveling Australians. We—our group—met our globetrotting Aussies in Český Krumlov (The most beautiful and charming secret everyone needs to hear about and see when visiting the Czech Republic. The definition of quaint. A life-size snow globe). No one quite understands an Australian’s unique travel schedule but no one would complain either. Every traveling Australian a person meets in Europe is like a little gift. In the Czech Republic, it is like a gift from God.
The meeting is always altogether ordinary: “YOU SPEAK ENGLISH!” “I SPEAK ENGLISH!” …And you friends, mates, besties for remainder of your stay. For them (the Australians), the friendship starts and ends there. An American in awe of a Aussie’s Aussie-ness is a dime a dozen. For you (the star-struck American), you hope the lunch, dinner, trip, casual sighting…will never end. Then he or she speaks…and all of your wildest dreams have come true.
Okay, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but meeting an Australian in Europe is a lot of fun. They are fun to talk with. They are fun to drink with. They just are fun.
Auschwitz is sad. There is really no other way to describe it. The second a person sets a foot onto the camp, it is like his or her body has walked into a bubble of sadness. Around you see hundreds and hundreds of people, but somehow the area is quiet — minus a few claps of hard-soled shoes and the occasional, “Oh, my God!” It is impossible for a person to smile cordially, let alone with joy.
Three quarters of a century later, there is still no joy inside of Auschwitz. Perhaps it is lost amidst the remnants of torture chambers and killing machines, but more likely it was taken with tattered shoes and clothing as a helpless million walked into hell on earth.
Joy will never come back to Auschwitz. It can’t. The best a person can do now is to try to learn from the painful experiences of others in the hope that our sometimes-evil world retains as much joy as possible. If not, we may as well give up on hope too.
I would like to introduce Europe to proper lawn care—if only for the next three weeks. Lawns in the Czech Republic often resemble something similar to a cattle grazing pasture—but without the cattle and with some of the most beautiful tulips a person could ever imagine. Sadly, instead of proudly displaying his or her beautiful tulips, people often let them become hidden behind a foot and a half of overgrown grass and dandelions. To me (the American), it is like Europeans are lost to the beauty that is proper lawn care. To them (probably the rest of the world), proper lawn care does not make sense. An old episode of This American Life made me mildly aware of the sort of distain many Europeans have for lawn mowers and hedge trimmers before coming to the Czech Republic. According to the European interviewed in the episode, mowing one’s lawn regularly is a sign of conformity that reminds many people in Europe of communism and totalitarian regimes—especially in Central and Eastern Europe. While this makes sense—because nothing says conformity quite like the suburban image of “little boxes on the hillside”—I still cannot help wanting to show them (the Europeans who do not mow their lawns) that a little bit of conformity can be good—you know, like driving on the right side of the road or liking the Goonies. Then, perhaps. I could escape the mutant mosquitoes that have taken over my residence. Sadly, I do not see the tides turning—or the grass trimming—any time soon.
There is a reason Polish people only drink hard alcohol…and it has nothing do to with tradition. It is the theory of this writer that Polish people are constantly trying to wash back the taste of their beer. Nothing short of 80 proof can bring a person’s taste buds back to any state of normalcy.
After my first experience with Zywiec, the national beer, all of Poland became a bit dimmer. The grass was no longer as green…the sun not nearly as bright…but seriously, a pile of horseradish would have please my mouth more.
The traditional and delicious Polish perogi helped me to choke the painful brew down, but my victory was short lived. I spent the better part of three hours trying to escape the bitter toxin that had taken over my whole body. Coke and water did nothing to let my body leave it behind. Just as I was preparing to make run for a little of that 80 proof, I was released. All I can say is Zywiec can remain in Poland, and I will go back to the Czech Republic—and I will not bid it a fond farewell.
No one person is safe from homesickness. A person can be having the time of his or her life one night. Then, a split second later, he or she wants nothing more than a Runza sandwich and a hug from his or her mother.
My first signs of homesickness came as I was walking back from the big box store. Jolly as I could be, I was clinching the world’s most delicious chocolate bar and thinking about all the wonderful opportunities I have coming in the next few weeks. Then, I saw her: my high school math teacher as she stepped into her car. A few minutes later, I saw a friend walking a dog. Finally, I see one of my coworkers reading a newspaper. As I would step closer and closer to each of these individuals, excited to make conversation, I would just as suddenly realize how impossible it was that these people were gallivanting around the Czech Republic. As I arrived back to my empty dorm room, I realize how much I miss the life I left behind.
To be able to take part in a study abroad experience is one of the greatest opportunities any person can be afforded. The participant is literally taking on the world, and no person can come back the same. This fact has made me feel guiltier and guiltier about my growing desire to step back into the “Cornhusker State.” However, at this particular moment, nothing in the world sounds greater than a glass of ice tea with extra ice, a prime rib dinner, and the company of my closest friends and family. Honestly, I would settle for the tiniest taste of stable Hastings in the chaos that is the rest of the world. Dorothy said it best, “There is no place like home.”
There was a bus, a tram, a subway, and a train…that got our group back to Rome from the beach. We had secured plane tickets for Thursday the 22nd of April from Milan to Prague late Monday night, and we figured we would spend a short Wednesday afternoon in Italy’s fashion capital before bunking down in the airport for our flight the next morning.
And then the fun began…we arrived at the Rome train station at 8:29 am with the intent of buying a ticket on the first train to Milan—at 8:33am. As you may or may not have guessed, we did not make the first train, so we bought a ticket on the second train scheduled to leave at noon and arrive in Milan around 7:00pm. Not a problem, we would just catch dinner in the city, right? Wrong, a train derailment caused a two hour delay for our train that only made my getting up at 6:00 am that much more pleasurable.
We arrived in Milan: smelly, tired, and a bit temperamental around 10:00pm hoping, praying, and pleading that our flight the next morning would not be cancelled.
We found a place to eat. We found a place to check the Internet. We found our way to the airport. We crashed.
And we commenced the longest night of my life. I could pretend that I was tough and say it wasn’t that bad, but my middle class upbringing has caused me to covet certain things. The least of which is a bed with a blanket and a real shower. Freezing, fearing the loss of our possessions, and just downright uncomfortable, I wanted nothing more than for morning to come.
The next morning—never so happy to get out of bed—we prepared for our flight. On time and ash free we make to the City of Spires, but we are still a bus, a train, and a tram away from our almost homes. 36 hours of travel and many purchases of price gouged food later, we arrive to our almost real beds. And we stayed there for the next 36.
For spring break, our group was pretty meticulous—honestly, we were downright anal. We had multiple planning meetings lasting no less than two hours each. Books detailing what we should and should not see, and how to get there. And comprehensive spreadsheet outlining every dime and every minute we planned to spend. Honestly, the Travel Channel had nothing on our group.
Then the message came: “Dear Sir or Madam:/We regret to inform you that your flight destined…has been cancelled due to the ongoing…” Words cannot describe how disheartening a letter like that can be when a person is several hundred miles away from their already temporary home. What does a person do? Where does he or she go?
My worry wasn’t that we wouldn’t have something to do—we were in Rome after all. My worry was that we would have nowhere to go. The hostel we were staying at was already booked through the week, and the websites listing other hostels in our area weren’t much more promising. Not to mention, the newspapers and talk radio were doing nothing to improve my optimism.
So…what does a person do when all the airports are closed and all of the train tickets have suddenly skyrocketed? Well, they find the nearest beach, of course, buy a few bottles of vodka and hope it will all be over in a few days.
When they are hungry, they eat…when they are thirsty, they drink…when they are tired, they sleep, and they realize very quickly that life goes on. I may never see the Eiffel Tower or Abbey Road, but I would also never give up our few sleeps at the beach. It is a sunset, a symphony. It is that which makes life interesting.
There is nothing like a little slavery and animal cruelty to pull in the tourists. In fact, many cities survive on the exploitation of other's peril alone, but none quite like Rome, Italy. With perhaps the exception of a deep southern Civil War reenactment, no one place takes on the slavery with such indifference. Everywhere a person looks there is someone celebrating one of the blacker spots on the history of humankind.
Yes, men donned the garb of warriors to fight lions…and tigers…and bears and, oh my, that would be frightening, but not nearly as frightening as the reason these men were fighting in the first place. Remember, gladiators were Roman slaves force to fight, usually to the death, for their freedom. And if I were enslaved by a tyrannical ruler, treated as though I were less than human, I too would probably consider the near certainty of death almost as liberating as a meager chance for real freedom. Yet, here we are as a society celebrating this savage practice with costumes, souvenirs, and all things that gather dust as we age.
Ten feet from the entrance into the Coliseum stands several guides wanting to help tourists, “Walk in the footsteps of the Emperors…” while they hear, “stories of Gladiator fights, [and] blood thirsty battles”— and hippies are considered to be threats to society. I suppose I am supposed to look at these stories of valor and strength as a testament to the resiliency of man…the knights—or Romans—in shinning armor. However, I am always stuck with images of the barbaric nature of man. The people, with any hope, we—as society—are teaching our children not to be.
“Come, sit down! You try our strawberry wine. My brother make it himself.” If the Maître d' of a restaurant is willing to hunt people down on the streets with promises of free wine, a person should expect a surcharge somewhere. If a man approaches a person on the street claiming to have the cheapest boat fares, a person should expect a less than subtle request for a tip. If a vendor sees a person staring too long at his or her Versace and Burberry knockoffs, a person should expect to be nearly accosted unremittingly for what seems like hours. This, in short, is the essence of Venice, Italy. No traveler should set foot in the city without the expectation of losing his or her shirt.
And as horrible as that description sounds, it is what I loved most about the city by the sea. The constant presence of swindlers and gypsies provide the city with a sort of endearing, “I have your money; you have a story” quality. Yes, you just paid thirty dollars for a glass of wine and spaghetti…yes, you just paid twenty-five dollars to ride in a glorified canoe…yes, that person is going to follow you back to your hostel…” but, if you can make it through with a Euro still in your pocket, you have a story. And that, in my opinion, is the essence of why a person desires to travel.
Vienna, Austria is famous for many things…The Habsburgs, Mozart, churches that take up entire city blocks, and Sigmund Freud. Being the rather morbid person that I am, only one of those things truly caught my attention. And so I was off to the Freud museum.
Anyone that is not a psychology major should know that there are really only two reasons to visit a museum devoted completely to Sigmund Freud. And none of them revolve around the id, the ego, or the superego. Well, not exactly.
Freud loved coke. And by coke I do not mean: “I’d like to buy the world…,” “The pause that refreshes, “Good til’ the last drop,” “Pure as Sunlight,” “The real thing.” Well, maybe I do, but not in the same sense.
To the good doctor, cocaine was that cure-all drug for any psychological illness—well, really any illness—that was in no way meant for thugs. And with side effects like: addiction, paranoia, irritability, restlessness, auditory hallucinations, and mood disturbances, this writer does not know how any person could disagree. This was the first question I wanted answered after paying four-euro to step inside the museum.
The second question revolved around Freud’s stages of psychosexual development—which makes a lot more sense once a person realizes the man spent the better part of his adult life literally hopped up on uppers. According to Freud, a person cannot develop a healthy personality unless he or she accepts his or her libido as the driving force for all desires. A concept made stranger when understood that this healthy personality should be developed by the age of five.
Any common tourist would expect to read about these things when walking into a Freud museum. Sadly, no. Less than two pages each of the sixty-page guides given to visitors are devoted to the only things most people know about Freud. Reading about his wife, his family, and his education are all great fun, but honestly, all real quests for knowledge are rooted in a desire for scandal—any Freudian scholar would know that—and the Freud museum offered very little.
I am not a particularly sunny person; in fact, I can be downright dark. I like rain. Rain can be fun, but even Bea Arthur liked a little sun every now and then. Today marks—I am not sure—the umpteenth day of rain since my arrival in Europe. And I cannot take it anymore.
My shoes are wet. My pants are wet. My hair is wet. And I can feel my soul becoming wet. All I ask is for one solid week of perfect weather.
One week where I do not start my walk to the big box store with a cloudless sky and finish the mile having waded through varying degrees of rain, sleet, and snow. One day where I only have to dry my hair once. One hour where I do not even have to think about my umbrella. Just one.
Easter Monday is a very special day in Czech culture. For centuries a custom known as pomlázka has been practiced in the Czech Republic and other neighboring Slovak counties (each country uses a different name for the tradition). For this one day—and one day only—men, both young and old, walk around city squares with whips—yes, whips—made out of pussywillow branches scourging women’s legs—foolhardy men also scourge other areas of a woman’s body.
The practice has pagan roots but, unfortunately, I am not familiar enough with them to go into great detail. I did read somewhere that traditionally pussywillow whips were tools used by women to whip their livestock, husbands, and children into shape…so, I guess, Easter Monday is like a Sadie Hawkins ritual but with men taking on the dominant role. Women, in turn, are expected to take on the role of a submissive by giving out intricately decorated eggs (antiqued), candy, and in more recent years, shots of alcohol to the man performing the whipping. In the end, women who have been whipped are expected live longer lives and be more fertile.
I had first heard of this ritual during our group’s second week in the Czech Republic, but it was not until one of our leaders Jan discussed the ritual that I began to understand the full extent of it. Nonchalant, as always, he explained that Easter Monday is the only day that it is legal to whip women, and men use this to every advantage. He then went further to say —jokingly—that if a woman did complain to police or other officials she would likely be whipped again.
To try and put it into perspective…on Easter most of the stores that are normally open on weekends remained open for the holiday. On Easter Monday, everything but a few restaurants and the big box store was close in observance of the holiday. The people here really love their fetishism.
Being the masochist that I am, I decided to venture out Easter Monday morning to see the debauchery for myself.
Toddlers to men well past retirement age were running up and down the streets of the city with their sticks and bags for candy looking to find a woman. It was like trick-or-treating with whips. Seriously.
And everyone was having a good time—unlike most holidays in America where a specific group is either uprooted to the children’s table or thrust out completely because he or she has no one to kiss under the mistletoe. Aside from the chauvinistic undertone, I think America could use a little of this pure madness—sadly, I am sure we would ruin it with a marketing scheme.
I would like it to be written that I love art. Impressionism…realism…cubism…I like them all, but I hate the Renaissance with my whole heart…my whole heart. A person can only look at so many cherubs before actually attempting to gouge his or her eyes out with spoons. And with the brief rant…it should come as no surprise to any of my readers that this gnome was forced into an art museum filled completely with art from the Renaissance period.
During our eight hours in Dresden, Germany our group was given tickets to attend the city’s famed art museum, “The Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister.” The museum is filled with three stories of Renaissance art. Three stories! Every story a little more painful than the last.
There was the dead white guys with collars room (actually there were a few dead white guy rooms), the dead white girl room, and paintings commissioned by the dead white guys and girls depicting either Jesus’ crucifixion, birth, or random cherubs—because that is what every person need hanging over his or her dinner table. As I walked past the dead nobles and Jesus I found myself wishing I were the dead white girl on the wall instead of the person who had to stare at her. Unfortunately, I could not figure out how to make that happened, so I walked and stared and walked and stared and walk…until I could take no longer.
Our group was given nearly three hours to walk. I made it about two and a quarter before deciding that I was either jumping through the nearest window or leaving peacefully through the front door…either way I was getting out of that museum. A week later, it is my sincere dream that I never have to see another cherub again.
by Laura Ahlman (I am not a poet...and I know it).
My quadmates seem to be stealing my soap, At least now their dishes would be clean, you’d hope, But nope Oh, how will I cope
I am starting to become mad, Because they make my living conditions so bad, It is just a little sad, That they can’t figure out how to open a Glad,
They never hear it when people knock, But constantly invite people from other blocks, To enjoy whatever is in their wok, And pay no attention to the clock.
They fail to clean up the eggs they broke, On Thursday, they filled the building with smoke, I wonder how many ways they can make me choke, I really wish I were making a joke
The Habsburg Empire ruled the Czech Republic until the early twentieth century. Who were the Habsburgs, you ask? Well, just your prototypical family that just happened to rule the greater part of Central Europe and the Holy Roman Empire…but that is a story for another day. It is much more interesting to find out how the Habsburgs managed to gain their power.
Most empires are built with guns, swords, and the blood of innocent men. Not the Habsburgs (well, they did a little of that on the side too…just not well). During the dynasty’s youth it was discovered that the Habsburgs have fighting skills that are akin to the boy who always received the swirly in middle school, but they knew how to play the political game.
Through a series of strategic marriages the Habsburgs managed to take control of the old world stating that empires are created in the bedroom not the battlefield. In my opinion, their family philosophy was probably one of the most intelligent political moves of all time. Sadly, families that only allow for noble birth can only sleep their way so far…and eventually they too fail—and everyone in the former empire now hates them. At least they can say that they added a whole new meaning to the phrase, “sleep you way to the top.” That has to count for something.
Germany is an interesting place, and last Saturday morning our group found out why. As most readers probably know, Dresden, Germany was the site of a major Allied firebombing during World War II. The bombing is controversial to this day in likeness to the controversy express over dropping atom bombs in Japan—namely, the opposition views that there was a more peaceful end to the war.
The bombings in Dresden destroyed a large part of the city and thousands of innocent people were burned alive. It is little over a half-century later and the city is still trying to recover. Part of the city were left in ruins and many historical sites, such as the Church of Our Lady, were left as ash. After the war ended, Dresden and other cities in Europe were faced with a decision of what was worth saving and what should be forgotten.
Luckily (or not, depending on you views of nobility), many of city’s upper class neighborhoods were spared. They now make up most of city’s museums, and in 1985, it was decided to rebuild the famed Church of Our Lady. Still today as a visitor walks around the city he or she notices the constant process of rehabilitation but he or she can also feel the immense old beauty trying to work its way out.
Arriving at Prague’s train station Thursday morning I was not sure what to expect. I have been to the city before. Actually, I have been to a lot of cities—cities bigger than Prague—but I was still a little nervous as I stepped off the train. Prague was supposed to be amazing. According to my friend back in Nebraska, Prague was supposed to be THE city. The city that I will love the second I step off the train. The city that will put all other cities to shame. In short, Prague was supposed to be like a little piece of heaven on earth. I, however, did not find Prague to be any more impressive than any other city I have ever seen and by the end of our long weekend I found the city to be downright vexing. Now, let me count the reasons.
People As is the problem with just about any place in the world, people make much better doors than windows. And in Prague, there are people everywhere. Trying to walk between our group’s hostel and the main square—where we spent the majority of our time—was like trying to win a game of dodgeball by yourself against an opposing team comprised of thousands—and I hate dodgeball. Throughout the entire weekend I held on for the one moment outside where I could stop dodging and smell the roses. It never came. Instead I spent the better part of the weekend trying to avoid tourists who cannot rationalize why it is a bad idea to stop squarely in the middle of random places so that they can molest a thousand year old statue. Honestly, I have nothing against assaulting statues…just please, the next time you do it, step away from the crowd and help everyone to avoid a domino effect.
Money As one would expect…Prague is a very expensive city. The average meal in Olomouc, from a street vender, is around $1.75. In Prague a meal from a street vendor is double and a restaurant is nearly triple. To put it into perspective…a cup of water in Prague costs about as much as a hamburger in Olomouc—not to mention that a cup of water is generally just that: a measuring cup’s worth of water. Continually a visitor to Prague must make the choice: food or water – or the choice many of my fellow group members made…beer.
People with money are the real problem with Prague—and, in general, with humanity. In Prague—and I am guessing the rest of the major cities in Europe—the locals do their very best to take the tourists for everything they have. And since many of the tourists are willing to give everything they have to the locals a vicious cycle has ensued. The locals have realized that they can charge just about anything and add on just about any fee as long as they advertise with the words, “Authentic Czech” somewhere in English. They know that they can add gratuity onto restaurant bills—which goes against European custom—and have tourists pay it without little or no fuss. Before going to Prague, a visitor hears about all of the city’s history and beauty. However, for this gnome, none of that can be enjoyed when several thousand people are vying for the chance to get a 25-dollar caricature of him or herself as he or she drinks a Czech beer.
The city seems, to me, to be a big charade and this sinister creature would much rather experience that which is real. After all, that is why I left my comfy bridge. I should note: not everything about Prague was bad, but that is another post for another day. To be continued…
Give my best to planes and automobiles, but European trains are my new favorite way to roll. They are efficient, fast, and the rider gets the constant feeling that he or she is part of the Hogwarts’ experience—by the time our group made it to Prague, I was ready for a wand and a tall glass of butter beer. May this experience never get old…and may my motion sickness never kick in.
Parks in Olomouc are like parks in Nebraska except there are people—lots of people…and everyone is doing something. An observer feels like he or she is stepping into an episode of “Leave it to Beaver” until he or she realizes unadulterated bliss is real life. And is then forced to jump into the ambience.
There are people running, biking, playing soccer, Frisbee, having picnics, reading…and they are all past the age of ten. If Americans could see and feel this bliss, the entire world would be a happier place. Not only will I go back, but I may never want to leave.
Robot is the only international word deriving from Czech origin. The Czech people seem to view this as their greatest achievement…aside from the kolache, of course.
An introduction and discussion between robots appears in the first lesson of our group’s "New Czech Step by Step" book—it comes before the numbers and the alphabet. Yesterday, during our Czech history class, the lecturer did not make it five minutes without talking about robots. The lecture consisted of, “The oppressive Soviet regime…and I am sure most of you have heard the Czech country is responsible for the word Robot.”
This little quirk amuses me to no end. I have found the Czech Republic’s Koolaid! I can assure everyone…I will NOT leave this country without an authentic Czech robot.
I have recently decided that someone or something in Olomouc is tracking my habits to prevent me from sleeping. It seems that every time I lay down for the night or even a short nap the volume in the city escalates.
On Thursday, my Indian neighbors were arguing over…well, I do not speak their language so I am not sure, but it was very loud. Friday, it was seven drunk men singing “My Darling Clementine” in Czech outside my window at four in the afternoon. Saturday, the neighbor that I am to be weary of decided he would blare a movie as loud as physically possible—I am fairly certain that people in Nebraska could hear it if they were standing in the right breeze. And finally, Sunday, the light switch in my room has served as an on/off switch for people shouting outside my hostel window. Currently I am tempted to sleep with the light on in the hope that I will get a little peace and quite. However, I fear that that would not serve as a cure for my insomnia either.
So, here I lay. Awake. Contemplating how to solve my problem. I could create my own noise…stage an elaborate revolution—General Sherman style—to get the entire city to shut up…or go to big box store and buy earplugs. Decisions, decisions, decision.
Running in the Czech Republic is a interesting predicament. For the past two days I have began my morning with a run down and back up the hill that leads to my Neredin--hostel. Visually the run is extremely stimulating, but contextually it is fascinating. It is very different than the gravel roads and empty highways I hold so dear back in the heartland.
As I pace myself downward, I see an elderly man mixing cement, a woman hanging her laundry, and two students enjoying a cigarette. Upward, I hear the constant beep of car horns and scratch metal wheels hitting metal tracks. Back at my hostel, I see my once white shoes now graying in the city atmosphere and I stand in awe of the juxtaposition between here and my home. Toto, I don’t think I am in Nebraska anymore.
Last night, I did my laundry for the first time here. After separating my whites and coloreds, I began to place my first load in the washer. Two pairs of pants in and I realize why Europeans wear the same clothes for days at a time.
My two pairs of pants and a single sweater nearly filled the entire washer—by the time I added a few shirts, I was literally punching my clothing into the tiny hole. I am fairly certain the hole was only a small bit larger than the Fisher Price washer the children use at the daycare where I work. However, I somehow managed to shovel all of my colored clothes inside.
Now I waited…and waited…and waited…and waited. In American, I can put my laundry in the washer and in thirty minutes place it in the dryer. Within two hours I am usually done washing and drying two loads. Not here. In the Czech Republic, I placed my laundry in the washer at 5:00p.m. and at 7:00p.m. pulled my first load out of the WASHER. Immediately, I placed my second load inside and began to carry my wet laundry to my room—there are no dryers here. At 9:00 p.m, I brought my second load upstairs to let the drying begin. It is now 2:00p.m. the next day and my socks are still wet. Never in my life have I wanted anything more than an energy efficient washer and dryer combination.
I have finally met all of my quad-mates—well, sort of. I have met all of the quad-mates willing to meet me. One of my quad-mates runs to his room every time I see him. The other men in my quad have told me that this is actually much more pleasurable than to physically speak to him. They have also hinted that he is largely the reason for the mess. Hence, I think I will start running the other direction when I see him too.
The other four men are very nice. Two are them are from India—it would be a sad sight for me to even try to spell their names. They are from Mumbai and will be living in the hostel for the next four years while they study. My favorite trait about them so far would have to be that, while they seem to cook all of their meals inside the hostel, they never make Indian food. I have seen them make both pancakes and hardboiled eggs throughout the week but not a single curry or anything with vegetables. The closest thing to Indian food I have seen made is rice—and I am not sure it is their rice. Continually, I am wondering if I am actually living with Raj from The Big Bang Theory’s brothers. This thought usually sets me off on an unremitting laugh.
Last night, I met the last two men. They are both from Romania and are staying for the next three weeks. Tamáš is a history professor. He and his PhD student Laurent have come to Olomouc to study Central European architecture—probably because of the Czech Republic is known as place unscathed by war.
Tamáš possesses a peculiar idiosyncrasy that causes him to apologize for almost anything and everything. It is almost like a nervous tick. When the men first arrive home Tamáš came around the corner saying, “Hello, you must be the new arrival. This is Laurent. I am Tamáš. We did not make this smell and filth.” These apologetic interjections went on four about forty-five minutes and by the end of the night I was tempted to say, “Really, Tamas, I do not think it was you.”
Interestingly, Tamáš will be presenting to our group Monday on, “How Nationalism has Influenced Central Europe Over the Past Two Centuries.” Tamas was very excited to tell me of this fact and, of course, apologize for his poor English—which is probably better than my own.
Overall, my quad-mates are not bad. They are like an added lesson in world culture—not to mention what it is like to live with men. Sometimes I am tempted to thank them for their enlightenment—that is until I step outside and smell the bathroom.
Today I decided I was going to make my own dinner. After class, off I went to Olomouc’s big box store and embarked on an hour-long journey to find food among other things. I bought pasta…and rice…and water…and laundry detergent…and coke. I was set, or so I thought.
Stepping towards the counter I realized I had no idea how I was going to get all of this junk home. I was needing to carry half my weight in groceries a half mile with both eggs and bananas in cheap plastic sacks. The task seemed impossible. Back in Nebraska I would drive a car; here in the Czech Republic it was not possible. Why was I so stupid not to make that distinction? Why?
Oh well, I had paid for the groceries…they were going to make it back to the hostel, dammit. And so I set off. 800 yards, 800 yards that is all the farther I need to make it. I could do it. I knew I could.
Halfway to the tram stop, my heart racing and my muscle shaking I contemplated what I could discard. The water was the heaviest but definitely the most essential. There was no giving up my coke and I felt I would need the detergent eventually. It was in a Catch 22.
Suddenly, a small elderly woman stopped to tell me something. While I am sure her words translated to “you’re an idiot,” I decided to believe she was providing me with helpful words of encouragement. And, again I set off.
With 200 yard to go I turned the corner to the tram stop. My hands were now blister, my shirt soaked but the end was approaching. I was going to make it. As I carried my bags up the four flights of stairs to my room I felt a sense of triumph. I had made it and I was going to make my dinner. Still, I will be damned if I ever try it again.
Last night was St. Patrick’s day—an American classic, but not a favorite among the people who actually live in Europe. Being Americans…our group decided to celebrate anyways. Thus, we donned our green and found an Irish party along with a stop at Olomouc’s only Irish pub from there we began to celebrate Ireland—or American, or alcohol, or just about anything and everything else.
I arrived late with around 10 other members of our group who had gone out for dinner first. Not surprisingly we had already attracted a large audience and those person who hadn’t already decided to leave starred at our group like a circus sideshow.
Approximately ten minutes after my arrival a woman asking if we were from America approached two of the boys in our group and myself. Yes, we nodded. Excitedly, she told use that she taught English in a small town near Olomouc and that she, “knew you must be from American because you all talk so loud and wear The North Face.” Certain that I could not think of a better description of an American myself I smiled. Good or bad that is our group and I am fairly certain it is not going to change.
My third day in the Czech Republic started off with a boom. Literally. Around 8:45 this morning, I woke up to a loud bang by my door—but not the answer your door quickly kind of bang. It was the someone has made me very angry and I am going to make as much noise as physically possible kind of bang. Perhaps, one of my elusive quadmates? I did not know. As I sat in my room, scared to go outside, I listened as a woman screamed what I can only surmise to be Czech profanity. I was not what I should do. I am not a fighter, and I am not equipped to be a fighter in Czech.
Alas, it was 9:15 and I had no choice but to leave my room to see what had made this woman so angry. Stepping out I saw that she was a cleaning person and very upset with the cesspool of a bathroom I had previously mentioned. Quickly I scurried to the bathroom as she yelled angrily in my direction. Motioning apologetically I tried to tell her, “It is not my fault. The room was this disgusting when I arrived.” It was no use, and I fled the quad like the running of the bulls—white flag and all.
It was my first truly frightening experience of the trip and I hope I never see the cleaning person again. I am not certain how to say, “It was them. They are the pigs” in Chesky but everyone can be sure I will find out.
Good evening, all! I am currently enjoying a bageta pikani—a sub sandwich with salami, swiss cheese, and what I can only discern to be mayonnaise mix with red pepper—washed down with a Coke, of course.
The flight—which I am sure is everyone’s first question—was exhausting. However, modern technology has made it impossible for me to complain about its quality. My iPod and two square meals coupled with three movies that I would never waste a subscription to Netflix on—but, were enjoyable on such a long flight—made 20 odd hours of traveling go by swimmingly.
Sadly, I could not fall asleep on any of the three planes. I am sure, by the time our group arrived back to the hostel from dinner, I appeared to be the walking dead. This, however, worked well in preventing any major jet lag thus far.
Our hostels…are made up of quad-units with two people per room with two bathrooms in each quad. I managed to score a room to myself because of the odd number of girls in our group. In my quad there are two-to-six other people—none of which I have met. I did see one of the men as I was walking back from the bathroom last night, but was not fit to hold a conversation. My individual room is small but clean with lots of shelves to hold all of the stuff my mother bought me. The bathroom, on the other hand, is a cesspool. Not to speak too much in a generalization but its atmosphere has led me to believe that all of my quad-mates are male with single-male hygiene. The kitchen also speaks towards my generalization. I mean, I am all for saving the environment but am also really tempted to break out the Clorox and ammonia in copious amounts.
Classes…this morning we started our orientation—which consisted of two short presentations and a guided tour in the afternoon. The first presentation was similar to what a person would hear when going on a college visit, “This university has been around for yada, yada, yada…There are small classes with only blah, blah, blah students.” The second speaker was a little more interesting—and an interesting look into the lack of European prudence. Nothing bad or wrong, just different than what would appear in an American classroom. It was enlightening really, and the majority of our group found it downright hilarious.
On our afternoon tour, we visit all of the major cathedrals—that were open—in Olomouc. The man giving the tour was a professor at our college and a very funny little man. In the first church, our entire group stood in awe of the beautiful carvings and paintings while the professor remarked that this is a less impressive building and he promised to show us better.
Tomorrow our group will go on another tour and begin our lessons in Czech, but today I am planning to call it a night. I will post photos and write to all of you again soon.
Best,
Laura
P.S. For anyone wanting to send me letters, gifts, small unmarked bills…my address at the university is:
