I was walking up vinohrady today and there was a guy standing in front of the Skoda store reading the specs of the latest model. “Don’t do it!” I wanted to tell him. “If you buy that car, you will turn into an American!” Alas, my czech is woefully insufficient for communicating anything remotely abstract.
I have named her Talks Like Waterfall. She has short blonde hair, fashionably square glasses, and she smokes. She looks good in blue jeans. She is a waitress at Pizzeria Roma. While I sit writing she comes in to the bar area to smoke and relax. While she is there she will turn to me and unleash a torrent of czech. (Although for all I know she just babbling at me to mess with my mind.)
Normally when she does this I just feel stupid. I don’t know the words she’s saying, but the message is You’re still here and you still don’t know czech? Only tonight it was a little different. She came into the bar and despite the fact I knew she was going to waterfall me I was glad to see her. I gave her a smile and she said “czech czech blah blah dobrý večer”.
I was so surprised to understand anything she said I almost didn’t answer. “Dobrý Večer” I said back. Good evening. She smiled.
It’s only fair to assume she throws the czech at me to mess with me. She has every right to test me, and to expect me to make some effort to learn the language of the land. Still, she doesn’t make it easy. I was at the bar with Fuego the other night and the czech she threw our way was too fast for him to pick up, and he’s pretty fluent. Talks Like Waterfall does not necessarily want to be understood.
Really, though, she does want to be understood, but on her terms. She wants me to prove I’m not passing through, to prove that I’m willing to commit to a new language and a new culture. She is challenging me. The possibility of knowing the meaning behind the waterfall is enticing. How sweet the day when she unleashes her torrent and I can answer back with a stream of my own.
It’s too bad she smokes, though.
Now that my hosts are back in town, I will have no choice but to have a social life again. The day they arrived back in country, weary from their long journey, we were invited to a party hosted by Marianna’s mother. The travelers tried to weasel out of going, but Jirka, Mariana’s stepfather, would have none of it. Eventually we headed over there “for half an hour”. I knew before we started that this would not be the half hour that the Assyrians invented so long ago. It was more a company party than anything else; not too crazy but not many people there that I could talk to. No biggie, I had some munchies and a couple of beers and fun was had by all. At the party Jirka insisted that the next day (yesterday) we go down to their house in Southeastern Czech Republic, the region of Moravia, to pick up a car that Phil (still working out what to call my brother these days) and Marianna will now have to look after (and, worse, park).
The adventure expanded (unbeknownst to me) into an overnighter. As the time to leave approached I was finally informed that we might be spending the night down there. Despite some anxiety about stayiing in touch with Piker Press (I have a new bit coming out today and I was worried about some edits) I packed up the laptop and toothbrush (what else could I possibly need?). We packed into a car and away we went.
I was rather surprised that wedged into the car, unable to see much in the darkness, not driving, I still got some of the road feelings as we headed out.
First stop was a 24-hour roadside cafe next to the motorway that Jirka had been visiting for years. Better by one beer and one schnitzel I squeezed in with my fellow travelers again and off we went. It was dark by the time we got to the smaller roads, so I didn’t see much of the farmland. We went around a giant Soviet-built nuclear power plant (since then the good people who built Three Mile Island have checked it over and declared it safe) and to a little village not far away. Before going home we stopped off to visit the villiage priest, whose name is also Jirka. That’s when things started to get interesting (sorry about those previous paragraphs).
We went up the stairs to the priest’s rooms and when we opened the door we were met by the small of cooking sausage. Jirka the priest is fairly tall but doesn’t look it because of his big belly. He sweats a lot, and his diet seems to be composed mostly of cooked meats. His slightly shaggy dark hair is in full retreat from his forehead. After he made us comfortable he left for a moment and came back with a bottle of wine from the vinyard of a friend in his home town. Then there was the next bottle of wine. There was an unlabeled bottle of what I assumed to be homemade slivovitce (distilled plum hootch) sitting on the table, but Marianna’s mother nixed the idea of breaking that out. Still, I’ve never hung out drinking with a priest before. He was a good guy.
Just up the road was our final destination, and after more snacks and beer we went to bed. In the morning after breakfast Jirka was trying to feed me more of the sausage I had complimented the night before, and I jokingly said, “No, beer is all I need.” I thought I had made it clear that I was joking, but not too much later I was wrapping up breakfast with Pilsner Urquell. As my brother pointed out as he raised his glass to mine, “You’re not in California any more.” That’s also what he said when we passed the fitness center/bar.
I was cold when I woke up this morning, even though the window was closed. I looked out over the rooftops and saw a sky of brittle blue. Steam was gushing from the chimneys and hanging in the still air, dissipating reluctantly. It looked cold. I’ve come to appreciate the sun, however. I haven’t seen a whole lot of it lately. I bundled up and headed out with three goals: Palacinky, baterie, and pictures. I succeeded at all those things.
First, the batteries. I figured the drug store at the corner would carry a double-A cell or two, so I popped in there. A note on the layout of Czech stores: they love bottlenecks. If you’re not caught in a traffic jam while entering a store of any size you’re dealing with amateurs. Droxi is as professional as it gets. As soon as I was caught in this shuffling mass of tiny shopping carts driven by people who I am convinced were not there to shop at all (the carts were empty and the drivers stood staring at shelves, not moving), I forgot how to say “excuse me” in Czech. The phrase just flew right out of my head, leaving me to bull my way gently through the narrow aisles filled with people smiling blankly at toothpaste.
There were no batteries that I could find in the store. I did need shampoo, however, so the adventure was not a total waste. I escaped to the cold hard air outside and moved in the direction of Namesti Miru. On the way I passed an electronic gadget store. I popped in and sure enough they had batteries. I asked for four of them. He went to the rack and discovered that they came only in packs of six. He began to tear into the pack. He can’t do that! My neurotic American mind said. I went so far as to stop him and buy six batteries rather than four. Am I a tool or what? I stopped him from accommodating my wishes because I didn’t want him to violate the wishes of the manufacturer! I’d like to think I was just saving him the trouble, but fundamentally that wasn’t it. To me a “buy-four-get-two-free” pack was fundamentally different than a “price reduced 33%” pack. Not so this merchant, and more power to him.
Wiser and encumbered by two extra AA batteries, I made my way on toward a late breakfast. There’s a little place in a perfect location, a fast-food joint czech style set at a major tram connection and above a metro stop. Across the tram tracks is an old church. For people watching, there is no better place. For sitting and writing, there would be no better place except for one thing: They are always busy. When you sit at a table, expect to share. I would feel guilty settling in for the afternoon at a place like that. Still, for a buck and a half I get my fill of Palačinky and a čaj čern
The logo is available in three different styles (two with the androgynous sausage eater) in several different image formats in a press kit on their Web site. Unfortunately, I don’t have a vector image program and when I resized the png I lost some of Liza’s lovely long eyelashes.
I was watching a hockey game at a bar the other day. The home team scored a goal, and of course the place went nuts. They showed the crowd waving huge banners, and there, up in front, was a guy with a full-sized accordion. Must be the Czech Republic.
I haven’t decided who to root for yet – I want to make sure I don’t accidentally become a Yankees fan.
You don’t have to be assaulted by crowds of little people, accused of manslaughter only to be instantly acquitted because the victim deserved it, then snared into a blood feud with the victim’s sister, to know that you you’re a long way from home. Sometimes the signs are more subtle, but they add up.
Take being locked in the building. Any building manager that would change the locks without warning so that his tenants could not get out in a fire would be arrested in the US. Here, people just shrug and go find the guy to get their new keys. Apparently it’s not that uncommon of a circumstance.
I smell ham right now. Mmmmm… ham. I can smell the ham because my window is open. It’s really quite chilly outside, but it’s nice and toasty in here. In fact, it’s downright hot. There is no temperature control in the apartment. In the true collectivist spirit that reigned when this building was slapped together, everyone freezes or bakes together. I guess the man with his hand on the dial down in the boiler room likes his toes to be toasty.
And speaking of buildings, there’s a dead rooster on the little balcony outside one of the landings.
I have to say, everyone I’ve talked to has been very friendly – or at least they sound friendly. For all I understand all the things they say, they could be cursing at me from behind their friendly smiles. When they discover I don’t know what they’re saying, that doesn’t stop them at all. On they go, discussing the weather or, well, whatever. Once NaNoWriMo is over, hopefully I’ll have more brain to devote to learning czech. The guy at Roma Pizzeria has taken it upon himself to teach me one new czech word each time I go in. Last time it was “Dobrou chut” (bon apetit), which I already knew, but I didn’t know how to tell him I already knew.
Yesterday while I was at Roma eating pizza, sipping pivo (beer), and doing some writing, they changed the lock to my building. I got back and my key simply didn’t work. There was no sign, nor any warning that it would happen, and no indication what to do about it. It wasn’t just a language thing; there were no signs up at all. I stood outside the building in the light rain, asking myself, what the heck?
I stood in the doorway, flipping through my slovnic (dictionary) trying to figure out how to say “What the heck?” to anyone who happened to open the door. Eventually someone did, but by then I was too tired and frustrated to try to ask him anything. I really should have. Even if he spoke no English I by then knew the words for lock and key, and certainly he had got a new key from somewhere.
I mentioned the incident to another Prague NaNoWriMo participant and she said that she had heard of that happening to three other people. I had planned to be reclusive this month, but this is just crazy. The key is required to either enter or exit the building. (Most buildings are like that as far as I can tell. Imagine an American fire marshall over here.)
The biggest problem of all is that since I buy beer in quantities that fit in my coat pockets, I have no reserve. It never seemed to be an issue; there’s a beer store half a block from the front door. It is filled to bursting with yummy beer. Just down the street from there is a grocery store with even more beer. In between there’s a wine store and a booze store. All of them are on the other side of that door.
This just in: According to an email from Marianna, the building superintendant leaves town on the weekends. I probably puttered around the house too long, and now he’s gone. I will just have to hang by the doors until people pass through this weekend. Next time I leave, I’m coming back with plenty of supplies!
Those of you who have been around me at all have heard this story before, but it bears repeating. I first met Marianna when traveling to Prague with Triska a few years back. We had flown into Munich and after spending a day there we hopped on a train and popped on over to The Czech Republic. My brother and his girlfriend met us at the train station.
My first impression was of a very attractive woman – slender, with dark hair and blue eyes. She has an elegance to her. She was quiet, not confident enough of her english to try to make conversation right away. She was efficient, though. She had our metro tickets ready to go and herded us down the escalator, past the ticket police and onto our train. She showed us how to use the tickets and how to read the metro map.
Once we got settled in their little apartment, it was time to go out. Naturally, that meant having beer. The weather was beautiful and we strolled around the neighborhood. Marianna was a dutiful tour guide, pointing out the sights. “Good beer here,” she would say as we passed a bar, or “Nice to sit, but not good beer,” gesturing at another. Marianna, I realized, was a beer snob, and she took her role as beer tour guide very seriously. I was definitely starting to like this girl.
Eventually we found ourselves parked at a little beer garden, Marianna and Phil facing Triska and me. The first round of beers arrived. A nice color, a rich head, and very tasty. I had another sip. Yep, Good stuff. I set my glass down and looked around the table. Marianna’s glass was empty.
“The czechs,” My brother explained, “Use the first beer to quench their thirst. After that they slow down and sip them.” Another beer arrived unbidden. The waiter was just walking around with mugs of beer, and when it looked like someone was running low he’d just plunk another one on the table. There was no asking for another round here, it was up to you to tell them when to stop bringing more.
Marianna’s second beer lasted longer than her first one did, and before long we were all feeling jolly. Her English was plenty good enough to hold up her end of the conversation and teach us a few czech words while she was at it. Then it happened. This strikingly attractive woman who my brother has somehow managed to fool into dating him leans over and gives him a great big hug. “I’m so glad you love beer,” she said.
If you put that in a beer commercial people would laugh. Why? Because it could never, ever happen in real life. It’s a fantasy. A dream. The kind of image they use to make you buy more beer so a beautiful woman will love you. But it happened.
I have had the pleasure to get to know Marianna much better since then, and some of you have met her as well. I have the little book she gave me where we write in Czech phrases for me to practice. I have eaten her cooking and admired her inventive handicrafts. We have talked about politics into the night over pivo. She has been always a window onto czech culture and the music and events going on in Prague.
Now I’m heading back, for a longer stay this time, long enough that perhaps some of those language lessons will stick, and long enough so they can get really tired of me. But what can I say? I like it over there. I’ll tell you more about why some other time, but if it weren’t for Marianna I wouldn’t have seen the side of the Czech Republic I find so cool.
One day I was out on my own and wrote down all the phrases that I had wished I could have been able to say that day. On that list I had asked why sometimes ‘water’ was ‘voda’, as in dobra voda meaning ‘good water’, and why sometimes it was vodu as in jednou vodu, meaning ‘one water’ when asking for another water.
Mariana went through my questions and answered all but that one. When I asked her the next day why it wasn’t jednou voda she looked at me and said, “Because voda is the infinitive.” I blinked a couple of times and said “Infinitive of a noun?”
Yes indeed. There are seven forms of each noun, although form 2 and form 4 are usually the same, and the difference between them is apparently meaningless in English. I’m used to the idea of masculine and feminine nouns, but conjugating nouns? In Czech, and presumably Slovak and maybe others, nouns are either masculine, feminine, or neutral. There are seven standard patterns for conjugating masculine nouns, four for feminine, and four for neutral. As far as I know there is no way to tell by looking at a noun what gender or pattern to use. You just have to know.
I’m guessing that when a Czech parodies a foreigner, they always use the infinitive form of the noun. I bet it’s friggin’ hilarious.
The first night we stayed with Marek (pronounced marrrk), and there is a story there, but not the story for today, children. It ended at 6 am with a long cab ride. Ask me for the story of Marek’s parents some time over beers. Weird.
So a couple more nights like this follow, and Phil and I are feeling pretty run down. We decide to head over to Telc (pronounced teltch), as it is a very nice little traditional czech (pronounced check) town with a very old town center. Phil (pronounced fill) called his focus-puller and cameraman friend Tomas (pronounced toMAHSH – it would be more obvious if I could type the accent marks) to see if he wanted to come out and play. He replied that he could join us for a while, but that he had been up all night playing bluegrass music with his old band, and he was very tired, so couldn’t stay out late. Whew! An easy night at last.
We met up with Tomas and his girlfriend Dasa (pronounced dasha) in the town square, and went to the restaurant owned by a friend of Marianna’s (probably not really spelled that way) named Ivan (pronounced eeVAHN). Dasha was heading back to Prague that afternoon, and once she was gone Tomas seemed much more interested in hanging out. He cancelled plans to go and edit a documentaty he is working on and invited us over to his house. Uh, oh (pronounced here we go again).
At his house we met his parents, who were really very cool. They gave is beer, and after a little conversation Tomas’s mother complained that we weren’t drinking them fast enough. Tomas and his father played some music for us, and dad showed us some of the american folk and bluegrass albums he had collected quite illegally during the communist times.
After a while Mom came back from the kitchen with some sausage and bread and cheese, a traditional czech snack. The sausage had been made from wild boar by a friend of theirs only the day before. I’m no sausage expert, but this was pretty tasty. Then dad got up and came back with a vodka bottle. Not to worry, he quickly said, this was not vodka but slivovitce (pronounced, more or less, SLEE-vo-vit-seh), a drink made from plums (was it plums? it’s all so hazy now) and very alcoholic. This had been made by a friend of his. It was pretty tasty, but I had to be careful – if I let my guard down for a moment, my glass was refilled. There was some other really sweet cherry booze that we tried also, but apparently it’s purpose is to give the women something to sip while the men drink their slivovice. Talk about your good hosts. There was also plenty of good conversation, with Tomas and Phil being very diligent with translations.
Well, of course after that there was nothing Tomas wanted more than to go out drinking. We went to a little bar near the center of town (the town is small enough that almost everything is hear the center of town), and bellied up to the bar. Tomas is the only czech I have been with that even considered sitting at the bar. Tomash was barely staying awake until a bunch of women showed up. Nothing came of that, but that got him going again and then there was the whiskey… It’s hard to find good scotch in the czech republic, but that night we did. We had a good time discussing movie stuff – My brother (for my sake) and Tomas (for his own) thought it would attract the women over to us if we were talking like we were going to film a movie in town. Of course it didn’t work, but we did come up with a really good steadycam shot involving two cranes and all kinds of people moving around. (Apparently cable cams aren’t good for shots that require tight sound synchronization. Who would have thought?)
So there you have it, just another day in Cesky Republiky (prounouced Cheskie rePOOblikie).
Jerry (pronounced jerry)
