Prague 9/23

I’ve been in this city for 24 days, which is kind of freaking me out. It’s already gone so fast, I don’t want the rest of the trip to move at this break neck speed. I want these four months to last as long as the build up did, but god knows it won’t feel that way. This summer was a long, slow, miserable eternity. This semester is going to be a blissful eye blink. It’s not fair, I’m trying not to dwell on it.

I’m also hesitant to say I’ve developed a routine, as the first two weeks were spent going to class 5 days a week, and now I have class 3 days a week, and even that’s really sporatic. We have a wicked amount of free time, which I’m terrified I might be squandering. You know, I was so proud of myself for throwing out my fears, moving to a new city, etc and now I’ve just found something else to worry about – how little time I have and how I’m not using it right. Anyway, I’m not supposed to be dwelling on that. But even despite not having a solid routine yet, there are certain things that are pretty consistent.

Days when I have class in the morning, I wake up an hour and a half before I need to be there, which gives me ample time to get dressed and duck into one of the potravinies (that’s my bastardized English plural of a word that I’m pretty sure is already plural in Czech) where I’ll grab a couple apples or peaches to snack on throughout the day. I found out that eating on the metros isn’t allowed, which explains some of the funny looks I was getting, but I usually have enough time with my walk and being there a little early to inhale at least one piece of fruit. Having a couple apples stashed away in my purse gives me something to snack on when I’m walking around, too, which saves me from the abundance of pastries in the tourist areas and also tides me over between meals. I’ve always been one of those people who snacks between meals and then eats small portions at dinner or lunch, and after the last 9 months of stomach problems, the habit’s been reinforced. Though the amazing Czech food is doing its damnedest to break me of that. After class there’re really two things I do, and they aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. There’s been a lot of hanging out with the guy I started seeing, in fact every day but Tuesday and Thursday because he has a prior commitment those evenings. We usually eat dinner together, either out because we’ve been doing something in the center or at his place – I like to cook, though his mother’s leftovers far outshine anything I’ve been able to make. Ever. Including the turkey for last year’s Christmas party. If the day’s been busy or full, we just go back to his place for video games, TV, and a prodigious amount of cuddles. Days when I haven’t done anything in particular, I like to go out and do something touristy, with or without him. In the last week, I went to the Museum of Young Art, Charles Bridge, there was a hike with the program to Czech Switzerland (don’t ask, I can’t get a straight answer why it’s called that despite being firmly couched inside Czech borders) where parts of the Narnia films were shot, and spent a couple hours in the Botanical Gardens.

Sundays tend to be “Cydney Days,” which I like. Don’t get me wrong, I love every moment with that certain individual, but it’s impractical to live in each other’s pockets, I don’t want to stifle his social life, and I can still value my alone time despite being pretty infatuated with him. Last Sunday I slept in, got lunch with my roommates, and then spent the afternoon reading a comic in a park. I almost read the thing cover to cover, and only quit when I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. And then I just moved to a quaint little café where I had coffee and cake for dinner, and they didn’t play any music younger than 1952. This Sunday (today) I caught up on my internet, Skyped home, and then ran a short errand. I had to replace my headphones, which was done simply enough at a Datart (it appears to be like a Czech Best Buy). I was starving, though, and found a cute little Czech restaurant with no English on their menu that was tucked into the bottom of a building around the corner from the Tesco. I don’t speak much Czech, but I apparently know enough to politely order in restaurants. Which I will never stop getting a kick out of. I read a good chunk of my comic book, then got gelato down the street (like a fat ass) whilst walking around doing a little window shopping. I want to continue my gift giving, but everything in the really touristy areas seems too manufactured to have much value. I popped home, was walked through how to turn on the heater in our place, and have spent the evening reading. It’s been pleasant.

I’ve mentioned on facebook and in conversations that the food here is amazing, but I really ought to go into more detail. The food here is amazing. Everything just tastes so much better, I don’t even understand why! There are a couple things here I develop serious cravings for, and I better learn how to make them before I leave, because there’s not exactly a huge demand for Czech food in the grand old US of A. So my favorite is, far and away, svičková (read “svitch-co-va”) which is marinated beef in a sweet and savory cream sauce served with cranberries, whipped cream, and these badass things called knedliky that are sort of like dumplings but not in a way most Americans think of them. Knedliky are slices of a really dense sweet tasting bread that sops up sauce like a boss, and they also come with guláš (read like in English, “goulash“) which is also pretty bomb, if you get it from the right places. After that, I love the  smažený sýr (read “smazhenee seer”) which is probably the best culinary idea anyone has ever had after “lets wrap this fish in some rice.” Someone, somewhere, may he be languishing in the presence of a couple fat angels in heaven right now, looked at a chunk of cheese and said “You know what this needs? It needs to be fried.” Seriously. They take a block of cheese, usually cut into wedges, batter and fry it, then serve boiled potatoes doused in butter on the side. Have you heard anything better in your life. Fried cheese. Guys. FRIED CHEESE. It’s great. And it’s a really meal. No one looks at you funny when you say “I would like battered and friend dairy for dinner with a side of starch” here. It’s amazing. This alone makes me never want to leave. There are other things that are pretty awesome – in fact, I don’t think I could go through the list of all the great things I’ve had here. The only mediocre thing I’ve had is the pizza, and there’s a place right below us that does a pretty good impression of American pizza. Oh, and the pastries. Oh my god, anything sweet and sugary here is to die for. There are these great things that I can’t remember the name of that’s basically sweet dough wrapped around a fatass wooden dowel, baked over hot coals, and then dunked in cinnamon sugar. There are crepes every which way, and you can’t throw a rock without hitting fresh bread. And there’s a farmers market at the park right next to our building every Wednesday, so after class I can go get a giant bowl of hot potato gratin, chase it with fresh goat milk, and top all that off with a pastry full of baked apples. I have found mouth-heaven.

Bonus Observations:

• My hair is getting way too long
• I am not doing any of the course work, and I'm finding it very hard to care
• Holy frack, I'm dating a Czech guy. Didn't exactly see that one coming.

Prague, 9/11 - In Which I Get Lost in a Strange City

Man, I feel icky. I was going to say “like a flaming ball of poop” but “flaming” implies there’s violence or a burning sensation to how I feel, which isn’t the case. And “ball” implies shape, which also is not true. So I feel like regular, run of the mill shit.

And no, I’m not hung over. I figure I’ve got about a month before the “coming from 6,000 feet above sea level” bonus to my drinking wears off. There’s a video game reference in there I could make pretty easily. So as long as I don’t drink the cheap shit, I’m good. It’s a fun – if expensive – party trick. Nope, I feel like crap because I either have a really intense cold, a cold that is turning into a sinus infection, or some previously unknown nose AIDS. I can’t get my nose to stop running, I’m tired, sore, and I just generally feel icky. At home I’d curl up in my large and comfy bed, get dinner from Noodles, steal a dog to cuddle, and pop in a movie. Here, the bed I have would really only sleep the Slender Man comfortably, and only if he didn’t move too much. Not to mention I think it’s just a slab of concrete with a mattress topper. There’s obviously no Noodles and Co here, and while I could make my own, I don’t wanna. And my dogs are in the states. I think I miss my puppies the most, especially Gus. I can pop in a movie, I guess, but it’s not the same without the other factors in my magical “get better by tomorrow” equation. And I can’t take a hot shower to clear out my nose because the water doesn’t get hot and the shower faucet is not attached to our wall. Someone explain that one to me.

But I had a pretty cool night last night, and I ought to put it down on paper (or virtual paper) in spite of my headache and stuffy nose and general disdain for everything right now that isn’t cuddles and soup.

So a girl in the program, Heather, told me about a concert she was thinking about going to, and I looked up the band. I liked their sound, and I’d been in the city about ten days and still hadn’t tasted the local night life. There are only so many nights I can be a fuddy duddy before I need to go act my age. I invited a kid from the program, Anthony, and a certain local who isn’t really supposed to be hanging out with the students. We spent maybe an hour before the show, which wasn’t very full, talking about various stuff, including beard growth, which I couldn’t really weigh in on. I don’t understand the male fascination with beards, but oh well. The show started, and while the openers took a while for their set to get good, I was digging it. The boys wanted to leave after the first set, though, and we dipped out and headed for a bar that some other kids from the program were hanging out at. This bar, and I don’t remember the name and don’t care to look it up, is a wine bar underground. The whole thing is a couple levels under the street and the walls are stone, like you’re in a cave. Don’t know if it’s literally carved out of the bedrock or if they brought the stone in for decoration, and again don’t care enough to look it up. We found the students, hung out for a couple hours for more nerdy discussions, and consumed a very tasty though very potent wine. There’s a Czech word for it that I think I can pronounce but no way can I spell for this stuff. It’s a still-fermenting apple wine, I guess they only have it about a month out of the year, and it’s deceptively delicious which proved unfortunate for at least one in our party. There’s a reason I drink straight whiskey – you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into. It’s hard to get accidentally plastered with straight whiskey. Though I will admit to having a large glass of the stuff. I also have to admit to monopolizing the local's attention because let’s be honest here.

Anyway, left the bar because it was getting too loud to talk a little before midnight. Our options were catch the last metro home, or just steer into the skid and keep on going. We were going to some bar in a gated park, but I guess they started closing it at midnight in April, so we couldn’t get there. This is the same bar, apparently, where the local has “celebrated” all his break ups, which lead to a discussion about whether we’d rather be broken up with or do the breaking up. Given the events of this summer, I’m going with option B for the rest of forever, but that’s kind of a depressing story – actually it’s an awful story. Side bar, for a moment, though. I found when we were touring Prague Castle and my inner mantra turned into “Lord Doucheface would love this place” that the overwhelming and toxic rage has mostly just turned into passive sadness. Not a super fun development, but probably a more healthy one. Anyway, since we couldn’t hit the break up bar, we went to a park that apparently translates to Lover’s Hill. The view was stunning, and though there was some cloud cover and a lot of light pollution, I was still able to make out two constellations. Virgo and the swan (nope, still don’t care enough to look it up), if I’m not mistaken. We stayed for about two hours, during which my physical state basically degraded into “shivering, sniffling mess” which I clearly haven’t kicked yet. The tea is helping, though I still want a backrub and some cuddles. But I was having such a fun time talking with the present company that I would have happily stayed on that hill all night. And those of you who know I’m anal about how much sleep I get and am generally a wuss about being cold will get what a big deal that was.

It was almost two by the time Anthony decided he ought to head back, so we left the park and jumped our respective trams. Anthony was headed the opposite direction, so he got on a different tram than me and the local, where we had one last opportunity to talk. I had to catch a different tram, though, and I took the wrong tram in the wrong direction.

I’d looked up earlier that evening which trams would take me home (the underground stops running about midnight, which bugs the ever living shit out of me), and I thought I knew where I was going. I did not. So I got on the tram, and spent maybe fifteen minutes trying to figure out if it was the right tram, or even going in the right direction, which led to a lot of pacing trying to stare at the maps on the walls. After a handful of stops, I finally just asked two Czech girls who looked my age and had been watching my march up and down the tram with increasing curiosity if they spoke English. They spoke enough to communicate that I was headed the opposite direction of where I needed to go, and gave me the number of a taxi company that spoke English. I jumped off at the next stop, after hurriedly thanking them for their help in what I think was the most sincere manner I’ve mustered EVER, and called myself a cab. As luck would have it, sitting at the tram stop was a very nice little old lady who spoke enough English and Russian, that combined with my extremely rudimentary Czech, we were able to have a conversation. Which I’m going to put in the hotly contested “No. 2” spot on my list of favorite things to happen that night. Not telling you “No. 1” because I’m a jerk. Bwahaha. Anyway, this little lady was from a town in the Czech Republic I didn’t recognize, she’d traveled to Moscow while the USSR was still in place, she studied Economics, and she loved classical music. The taxi company sent me a text in Czech telling me they were there while a black cab pulled to the end of the block we were at, and the very nice Czech lady informed me that was my cab. I got home without any more excitement, and though I was in bed by 2:30, I don’t think I fell asleep until maybe 6 AM just because my brain wouldn’t turn off digesting everything that had happened. So I got maybe two hours of sleep, which I’m sure contributed to how I feel right now. Namely like I need to curl up somewhere dark and warm and wait for the end of the world. I’m being dramatic, but dang it I feel icky.

So time to get real. Who knows if this’ll go on the blog. But I joke a lot that my two biggest fears are “Failure and Snakes.” There’s stories behind both of those. But I think that after those two, “Not Being in Control” and “Being Vulnerable” are sharing the bronze medal in my psychosis Olympics. Yes, I hate snakes that much. But last night I was most certainly not in control, and pretty vulnerable. And it all turned out fine. Better than fine, actually. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, or if for the first time I can remember, I’m starting to make some personal growth in a very positive direction. I didn’t even realize it until about 5 in the morning today, but by relinquishing control and putting myself in a vulnerable spot (not just talking the tram escapade here) I think I tripped and stumbled, completely devoid of grace or poise, into having the most fun I have had in a long time, making a connection with another human being unlike any I’ve made in the last five years, had an interesting conversation on a bench with a stranger, and realizing that I am not as set in my ways as I previously thought.

Overall, the night gets an A+, though apparently the price is feeling like lukewarm death. Still worth it.

Bonus observations:

·      The cops here wear combat boots and it makes them look way more intimidating than American cops.

·      I think I might look more Czech than I’m giving myself credit for.

Prague, 9/8

I’m starting to realize something about myself that people have been telling me for years – I take myself entirely too seriously.

Anyway, journal entry. It’s Saturday, which I’m counting as the last day of my first week here, which also means I have only written twice prior, and I really ought to get better at that. The end result might be that I start carrying my large journal to write by hand in, and some day when they collect my memoirs for progeny, they’ll have to get this period of my life from two places. But that’s the price they’ll have to pay for what I’m sure is a riveting tale. Even if it hasn’t happened yet.

So despite the fact that I have a flair for the literary – actually, let’s be honest and call it a religious devotion to the literary and an adamant belief that life must fit inside dramatic tropes or none of it would make any type of sense. Anyway, despite being inclined to fit my life into a five act structure, I can’t really think of how to put what I’m doing into a narrative. I mean, I could narrate the things that I’m doing – trips to see tourist locations, mostly – but that isn’t horrendously interesting or wholly unique. And I’m spamming the shit out of my Facebook with pictures I’ve taken, so I’ll remember the locals even if I don’t remember the conversations I had with tour guides or how much admission cost. I think, really, the pictures will suffice for the grand things I do – concerts, tours, art exhibits – of which there have already been a lot. But this journal/blog I think is going to chronicle what it’s like being a single, white American young lady of mostly sound mind and healing heart in a foreign city.

So what is that like, really? Well, I covered last entry what living in my apartment is like. To recap, pretty but also heartbreaking. I miss speaking Russian, and while there is a girl working at the program’s office from Ukraine who seems incredibly eager to speak Russian with me, I’m also intimidated. She’s a native speaker and I think I can count how many verbs I know on one hand. Also, not a fan of the Czech language. It’s ugly, no one speaks emphatically, and I can’t differentiate a Czech accent from German. I miss Russian. I miss it a lot.

So a funny thing is happening to me here – I’m getting stared at all the time! Everywhere I go! Maybe this was happening to me in Denver and I just didn’t notice because in a car no one gives a flying fuck about much of anything, and other than driving and work, the only time I was out of the house was to be with friends. But I find that here, ESPECIALLY on the Metro, I catch people staring at me. And my Mom is saying, “It’s cause you’re stunning!” and I’m like “mreh, you have to say that. If I’m ugly it’s a bad reflection on your genes.” So I thought it was because I’ve taken to glowering and wearing red lipstick. Nothing really says “Fuck off” like a good old fashioned glower and red lipstick. Red lipstick, while stunning on a face as pale as mine, also kind of implies I’m willing and able to make you my bitch. It’s not true, at least not in a physical sense, but they don’t have to know that. And yet today, I wasn’t bedecked as I usually am here – professional, severe, and BLACK EVERYWHERE – but was wearing white shorts and a t shirt. I also was glower-free, as I had a very good day that makes me think I might have found a niche, this early on. If you know me, you know it takes me a long while to find a niche. Anyway, no glower, no lipstick, and I’m still getting looks. Do I really look that American? Bob Saget.

So, it’s probably worth mentioning what this program is like, since I’ve been getting a lot of questions. It’s put on by an independent company, International Study Abroad, or ISA, that coordinates with Charles University. So they do all the touristy stuff with us, and then we take classes at Charles University, which I’m pretty sure they also coordinate, though don’t teach. The first two weeks we take an intensive Czech language course, which I am frustrated with because it’s moving very slowly and I don’t think I know how to say anything. Also, and I might have mentioned this, but the Czech language is ugly and I miss my Russian. We take that until 2:30 in the afternoons, and while there’s usually something arranged for us after class, when I have the time I’ve been going to Old Town Square and haunting a couple art museums and churches. Despite having more or less expunged religion from my body like a bad cold, these churches are taking my breath away. And on the weekends, though not every weekend, they take us on excursions to the cool stuff we couldn’t or wouldn’t necessarily prioritize. Today we went to Kutna Hora, which at one point was the second largest city in Bohemia after Prague. Now it’s mostly a tourist town, with a stunning Gothic church, a medieval silver mine, and another gothic church that isn’t as big or as pretty, but is decorated almost exclusively with human bones. Check the pictures, they do more justice to all that than I could.

But let me take this opportunity to talk about the people running the program, who provide really the only semblance of structure for me right now. And if you know me, you know I love structure. So there’s Daniella, the program director. Very sweet, very helpful, always smiling, calls us her ISA babies. Then there’s Lucy, who is Daniella’s assistant and the one we go to with silly problems. She’s also very sweet, and sometimes its hard to distinguish where Lucy ends and Daniella begins. I’m sure as I get to know them better they won’t be a single entity in my mind. There’s Tamara, the one from Ukraine, who is (again) very nice and has already given me loads of suggestions for things to do with my spare time. She’s painfully shy, though, and I’m not sure if that’s because Ukrainians play things close to the vest or if she’s a shy person. And then there’s Martin, who is an anomaly both because he is male and because if you were to look at him on the street, you wouldn’t guess he’s 27 and has a Masters already. You would, however, guess he is a big, fat nerd just like me, but with twice the knowledge and half the pretentiousness. As I’m sure you can imagine, I’ve heard a great deal of nerdery in a Czech accent from him, which is like a little slice of home. If I knew any Czech people at home.

I think the only other thing worth mentioning at this point is how much time I spend alone here. I spend a good deal of time alone at home – you probably know that – but it’s in a place I’ve grown up in. Also, how to be comfortable with being alone was a hard learned lesson, but now I really do prefer to be alone. Alone and happy with my own thoughts is better than in a group worrying about what people think of me. And alone and doing what I want is better than in a group doing things I don’t want. Really, I think it makes the time I spend with people more special for me because I’m there because I want to be, not because I’m terrified of being alone. In Prague, that’s translating into a lot of nights at home with my book and a mug of tea because I don’t like going out, and I don’t mind so much when I see my peers hung over the next morning. But sometimes being left out – even if it’s my own doing – stings a little. But even as lonely as I might feel, lonely is not the same as miserable, and I know I would be miserable clubbing and drinking and making a general ass of myself. What I really need to do is find someone in Prague whose idea of a good night is nursing a whiskey on the rocks in a bar and watching Firefly. And then going to an art museum in the morning. That’s an awfully specific set of demands, though, and I’d probably just settle for one of them.

A couple observations:

·      Prague women are stunning, especially the ones my age. Prague men… well.

·      The temptation to get another piercing or tattoo is mounting, as I feel like my eyebrow spike is becoming a little too tame. A sensation that stems directly from how stunning the women are here. If they’re going to be pretty, I might as well be pierced. Another alternative is getting a side cut. I’ve always wanted one, and my hair is long enough on top. Or rather, tall enough, as it’s still doing the anime poof.

·      Food here is so starchy, I have to go out of my way to eat anything fresh and green.

·      I miss Tokyo joes.

Prague 9/2

9/2

It’s my second full day in Prague, and I think I’ve begun to settle. I bought a French press today that’s also a thermos, then bought both coffee and loose leaf earl grey. I had to go to two different markets – there’s a Czech word for the little markets that line our street, starts with a P and I can’t spell it. I’ve yet to find one that has fresh bread. Anyway, two different markets for milk and sugar, then back to the market across from our door to get a lighter for the gas stove, only to come home and realize that the stove will ignite itself. And then to boil water I had to use a pot because the kettle has either rust or lime built into a nice orange crust all over the inside. I might need to just buy a new kettle, but I’ll wait and see if the soak I’ve got right now will get it clean. So after all that I made myself two small cups – or one thermos worth – of earl grey with a little milk and sugar, sat down by the window, and read a little of my book.

But it’s quiet, and nice, and I wanted to write this down while it lasts.

So, living in Prague? Our apartment is nothing special – it could be, if it wasn’t a series of transient, four month homes for American students. If it was lived in, loved, and cared for I’m sure I would love it. It would be beautiful. But no one stays here more than a semester at a time, which is sad in its own way. We’ve got beautifully high ceilings, and there’s even a small chandelier in my bedroom. The kitchen is wonderful, though woefully under equipped, we’ve got gorgeous views, and the whole place speaks of warmth and character. But the furniture isn’t coordinated, neither are the dishes or the flatware. Nothing works especially well since the tenants don't care for the appliances’ longevity. And the worst are the tragically empty walls. I hate empty walls, nothing makes this place feel more transient than nothing on the walls. Maybe I’ll find a couple cheap scarves and tack them to the walls, if only for a little visual warmth.

I do, however, already have a nice little spot to read and write. I’m sure there’s a word for it, but we have one of those windows that stick out from the main wall of the building, making a gently sloped and trapezoidal “u” out of the living room. There’s three window panes, each with gauzy drapes and when they’re propped open for fresh air, the sounds of the street fill the apartment. Mostly it’s the occasional car, as we’re living in a pretty wealthy neighborhood and cars are a luxury whose necessity I can only imagine if you have more than two children and some place outside the city you go commonly. But the thing is, the suburbs where the prolific public transportation system has less of a presence is considered “creepy” and poorer. I found that interesting, as in America it’s the exact opposite. Well, maybe creepy applies to American suburbs, but less in a mafia kind of way and more of a Stepford Wives kind of way. Oh, they also apparently have a taxi mafia here, that will take Americans into the suburbs if they get into their taxi and I suppose extort them. But we only need to use taxis late at night after the metro stops running, and we’ve been given the info for a taxi company that’s trusted and uses fair rates. Other than the occasional car, conversations in Czech, the intermittent dog barking (it seems everyone in the Czech Republic has a dog – it’s making me a little homesick), and a child outside that is singing something are making up my soundtrack right now. It’s pleasant.

I have the place to myself right now, too, since my roommates decided to go play tourist after we hit the Tesco in the bottom of a department store. That’s where I got my French press thermos, in addition to a bedside lamp. I forgot to get a light bulb, though, and the little markets don’t sell them. I don’t want to go all the way back to the Tesco (it’s like a British Safeway) just for a light bulb, so I’ll wait until tomorrow and I’m back on that end of town.

It’s funny what little things are different here, but still feel pretty American. I got fairly familiar with the subway system in New York when I visited over the summer, and the metro here is much easier to use, far less convoluted and trains run more frequently. So using the public transport doesn’t feel strange, even carrying two bags plus my purse back from the Tesco across three stops. The newer parts of the city have a prodigious American influence – shops, especially. Even if the writing is in Czech, which is actually kind of rare, the images and the colors are very bright and look like any given mall on an American street. Until, of course, you look up and there’s an intricately sculpted Madonna or a giant gargoyle. It really isn’t until you start looking at the art and architecture that you realize you’re not in Kansas any more. Every single building here, with the rare exception of the occasional Soviet structural blemish, looks like it belongs in an architecture textbook. If it’s not the gorgeous and intricate buildings like the one I live in, it’s art deco or something even more modern. Nothing, except the odd soviet building, of which there are few, is simply concrete and blocky, like in America. In the malls and shopping districts it’s like someone threw a McDonalds wrapper over a magnificent painting – it almost hurts to look at. But outside of the shopping districts, everything is gorgeous. I think I look up more than I look forward, which is probably dangerous because I’m going to step into the minimal traffic.

The other thing, too, that makes it a little more… real, I suppose, is the street layout. Knowing what I know about Prague’s history, and medieval European history in general, I’m actually surprised that it’s not crazier. But that’s when I’m looking at the map. Certain neighborhoods make sense, they’re on a grid and I have a general idea which way is which. There’s also usually a slope to the street, so I can remember uphill or downhill. But in the older parts of town, it’s like a kid with a crayon drew the map. And there aren’t street signs anywhere, so to figure out what street you’re on, you have to look at the addresses on the buildings, which are in Czech. We took a brief tour of the oldest part of town yesterday, and I want desperately to go back and spend a long time meandering the streets, and especially go look at the churches. Oh, the churches are so pretty it hurts! But in an hour we made a big circle, and to me it felt like going straight because of all the turns we made. I’m kind of scared I’ll get lost, so I hope I can make a Czech friend, preferably an art major, who I can drag around one weekend and let them worry about where we are. The other thing I want to do, other than make a general tourist of myself in the old town, is go to the art museums in the old square. I keep wanting to use Russian words to describe these things, as the English words don’t carry the same gravitas in my head, but a waiter last night chided me for using too much Russian. “There are no Russians here anymore. You must speak Czech,” he told me. But “square” doesn’t feel right, I want to call it the “ploshid.” I can’t wait to learn Czech.

Speaking of Russian, though, I’ve found it’s doing me more good than English. Sure, everyone speaks English, but most shop workers are older, and even though Czechoslovakia always bristled under the USSR, and the Austro-Hungarians before that, I found that ordering coffee or dinner in Russian instead of English garners me more goodwill than my friends ordering in English. In fact, we were at a Czech restaurant – like a real one, with kabobs and beer glasses bigger and thicker than your two fists – and after two girls struggling to order in English because the waiter spoke such little English, that once he got to me and I ordered in Russian, he used me to communicate with the whole table. Which was pretty cool. He seemed pretty pleased I spoke Russian, as his Russian was clearly better than his English. Up until I started speaking Russian, he’d been pretty dour, but once we started gavoritim pa-russki, he was much more pleasant and helpful. This is the same waiter who told me I need to speak Czech instead, and when I explained I don’t know any Czech, he taught us to say “thanks.” I don’t know how proper this is, or if I’m even saying it right, but its “da-koo-yu.” He was pretty tickled to hear a bunch of American girls murmur our chorus of “dakooyu”s every time he swung by our table. It was fun, and after a plate of bacon-wrapped chicken and the saltiest potatoes ever, washed down with two massive mugs of beer, I had my first real moment of “I think I’d like to live here.” The girls I was out with went out again, this time with more enthusiasm and more intent to drink, and we parted at the metro. I think I’ll end up cultivating a reputation as the fuddy-duddy who doesn’t party, but I’m okay with that. It’s who I am in the States, it’ll save me money, and with the instillation of a reading lamp, my little reading corner is going to be a very pleasant place to spend a semester.

Bonus observations:

·      There is a pho place three doors from our building, and not only do I love pho (next time a bit spicier, though), it’s cheap and a big bowl will last me a couple dinners.

·      The best thing, after how pretty the city is, is the quality and abundance of cheap food. I frequently get takeout in our neighborhood for less than 100 Kc, which is about $5, and a sit down meal with a couple beers is often less than 200 Kc. The most expensive thing I’ve bought so far was my ghetto ass cell phone.