Praha 12, or Excerpts from My Homework
Politics and Culture of Central Eastern Europe, 1918-Present
Required reading from:
Crampton, R.J. Eastern Europe in the Twentieth century – And After
“The apocryphal story of the ex-Austrian officer who had to consult his French army manual before telling his ex-Russian infantrymen how to load their ex-English ammunition into their ex-German rifles had more than a grain of reality.”
Jewish History in Central Europe 1000 C.E. – present
Required reading from:
Rabinowitz, L. The Social Life
“Jews were employed as bakers, although the people were not averse to eating non-Jewish bread.”
Hola, L. New Czech Step by Step
“Plavate?” (Do you swim?)
“Ahno, plavu.” (Yes, I swim.)
In a specific aside to relevant family members, Trudi called today. She said she’d had my number down incorrectly for awhile. As usual, she asked me lots of questions at once and then let me say about two words before going on. It was good to hear her voice. It reminded me of the last time I was this close to her. I can still hear the way she said, “Café Mozart? Good, I come to find you very soon.” And how even though she probably hadn’t seen me since I started walking, her face lit up and she cried, “Danichka! You look just like your mother!”
She even caught me when I slipped in a Czech word or two, and cried that I would be an excellent speaker by the end of my trip.
1/30/2007
1/29/2007
Praha 11, or I Swear, This Is The Last One Today
(written 1/28/07)
First: good news. I just got the message that my luggage has been found! Hopefully I’ll get it by tomorrow. That’s about 10 days for anyone who was counting.
Now…
There’s a Sesame Street special that my parents taped when I was a kid. In it, I think all the characters went to Japan, but I could be mixing it up with the one where they all get locked in a museum overnight. Anyway, in one of those episodes, Big Bird sings a song about being homesick. I don’t remember any of the lyrics, just ol’ Big Bird in his yellow feathers resting his chin in his hand and singing “homesick…homesick…”
That moment of Sesame Street has never left me. I’ve remembered it many times, mostly at summer camp. You see, I’ve never been homesick before, not really. I was always that camper who mamaleh’d the other kids when they were crying into their sleeping bags. My second summer at Glen Spey Girl Scout camp, I was eight or nine years old, and one girl would just not stop crying. It was probably about ten o’clock at night, long after our lights-out, and she was just sniffling and gasping like her dog had died. I snuck out of my cot and went over to her, sitting on the hard tent floor.
“Hey,” I said. “Did you ever see that episode of Sesame Street where Big Bird sings that song?” Of course, I knew exactly what I was talking about, but it took a little while to get the message across to her clearly enough. Once we were on the same page, however, we started a whole conversation about different episodes of Sesame Street, and before I knew it I was sneaking back to my sleeping bag and she was snoring instead of sniffling.
I’ve talked about Sesame Street to many campers since that first time – many of them don’t know the particular episode, but most kids around my generation have seen enough Sesame Street to have a favorite episode, or at least a favorite character. Somehow, the childhood familiarity does a lot to ease the loneliness of homesickness in hard moments. Even when I had thirteen year old campers two summers ago, there were some kids who had a rough time adjusting to camp, and I spent many long goodnights rubbing a kid’s back and chatting about Sesame Street.
I’ve never felt homesickness like this before. It hits me the most in the evening, right when everyone’s out at the bars, or before I go to bed. It hits me like an unexpected punch in the nose, the kind that makes your eyes water. All I have to do is think of someone I love back home – a friend, my partner, even my grandma – and suddenly, it’s all I can do to stop crying.
I have a few theories about why this is. The first is that I’m not quite focused yet. Every camp counselor knows that the first thing you can do to help a homesick kid is keep them as busy as possible. I haven’t been busy. I’ve been luxuriously free to do whatever I want, and I’ve definitely had some fun, but it also leaves me way too much time to think. However, classes start tomorrow, and I have classes nonstop from 9am-4pm. That should be a good distraction.
The second is that some of my coping mechanisms have been compromised. Singing always – always – gives me that kind of strength. In some situations, I’ve managed to not be homesick solely on the power of my own voice. But this damn echo chamber of an apartment is so loud, I can’t sing at all. People keep asking me to be quiet, no matter what time of day it is. I’ve only been able to sing on the street – and I’ve been warned against that too – and when my apartment is empty. Another one of my coping mechanisms is to have clean laundry and clean sheets, always. This has worked somewhat, as I’m learning to drape my clothes over the heaters to dry, and how to work the washing machine so that it washes cold when I want it to. But it’s far from comfortable.
And the last two things I learned from camp – write letters, and never ever call home, not until the homesickness has passed. At first, I thought this policy was fail-safe, but I’ve been writing letters and blog essays of epic proportion, and I’m still homesick. So I broke my own rules and called Hopkins Kitchen tonight. It was agonizingly perfect – exactly what I needed, and exactly what I didn’t. It seemed like all my friends had just happened to gather in the kitchen, and the phone just happened to be working that day, and everyone had such nice things to say, and I could practically smell dinner cooking in the background….
I’ve become that kid I could never understand, but could always comfort. Angela told me to wrap my arms around myself and pretend she’s hugging me. Countless people told me to write, to vent, if I needed anything, anything at all…
So yes, I need something. I need you to talk to me about Sesame Street. Tell me about your favorite episode, tell me about your favorite characters. Tell me what you thought of the Muppet cast and whether or not they belonged there. Tell me how you hated it when Elmo became more of a star than Big Bird, or if you were alive when Luis and Maria got married, or when Mr. Hooper died.
Talk to me about Sesame Street, and I’ll talk to you about Oscar secretly being my favorite character because he was green. And how I thought Kermit was kind of a sap, but I totally understood his relationship with Miss Piggy. And how I loved the 20th anniversary episode that Bill Cosby hosted with Cookie Monster, or the museum episode where Cookie Monster was so good he didn’t eat a single painting in the Met, but then ate the entire hot dog cart outside of it. And how Big Bird sings another song called “What A Bird” that contains the lyrics “and though I’m big and tall / on this you can depend / I’ll scrunch down small / cuz you’re my most important friend.”
I’ll close with the lyrics I wish I could belt out my window onto the quiet midnight of Vinoradska Street:
Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing all you can with me
Sing, sing a song
Make it simple
To last your whole life long
Don’t worry that it’s not good enough
For anyone else to hear
Sing…sing a song
La la la la la…
(written 1/28/07)
First: good news. I just got the message that my luggage has been found! Hopefully I’ll get it by tomorrow. That’s about 10 days for anyone who was counting.
Now…
There’s a Sesame Street special that my parents taped when I was a kid. In it, I think all the characters went to Japan, but I could be mixing it up with the one where they all get locked in a museum overnight. Anyway, in one of those episodes, Big Bird sings a song about being homesick. I don’t remember any of the lyrics, just ol’ Big Bird in his yellow feathers resting his chin in his hand and singing “homesick…homesick…”
That moment of Sesame Street has never left me. I’ve remembered it many times, mostly at summer camp. You see, I’ve never been homesick before, not really. I was always that camper who mamaleh’d the other kids when they were crying into their sleeping bags. My second summer at Glen Spey Girl Scout camp, I was eight or nine years old, and one girl would just not stop crying. It was probably about ten o’clock at night, long after our lights-out, and she was just sniffling and gasping like her dog had died. I snuck out of my cot and went over to her, sitting on the hard tent floor.
“Hey,” I said. “Did you ever see that episode of Sesame Street where Big Bird sings that song?” Of course, I knew exactly what I was talking about, but it took a little while to get the message across to her clearly enough. Once we were on the same page, however, we started a whole conversation about different episodes of Sesame Street, and before I knew it I was sneaking back to my sleeping bag and she was snoring instead of sniffling.
I’ve talked about Sesame Street to many campers since that first time – many of them don’t know the particular episode, but most kids around my generation have seen enough Sesame Street to have a favorite episode, or at least a favorite character. Somehow, the childhood familiarity does a lot to ease the loneliness of homesickness in hard moments. Even when I had thirteen year old campers two summers ago, there were some kids who had a rough time adjusting to camp, and I spent many long goodnights rubbing a kid’s back and chatting about Sesame Street.
I’ve never felt homesickness like this before. It hits me the most in the evening, right when everyone’s out at the bars, or before I go to bed. It hits me like an unexpected punch in the nose, the kind that makes your eyes water. All I have to do is think of someone I love back home – a friend, my partner, even my grandma – and suddenly, it’s all I can do to stop crying.
I have a few theories about why this is. The first is that I’m not quite focused yet. Every camp counselor knows that the first thing you can do to help a homesick kid is keep them as busy as possible. I haven’t been busy. I’ve been luxuriously free to do whatever I want, and I’ve definitely had some fun, but it also leaves me way too much time to think. However, classes start tomorrow, and I have classes nonstop from 9am-4pm. That should be a good distraction.
The second is that some of my coping mechanisms have been compromised. Singing always – always – gives me that kind of strength. In some situations, I’ve managed to not be homesick solely on the power of my own voice. But this damn echo chamber of an apartment is so loud, I can’t sing at all. People keep asking me to be quiet, no matter what time of day it is. I’ve only been able to sing on the street – and I’ve been warned against that too – and when my apartment is empty. Another one of my coping mechanisms is to have clean laundry and clean sheets, always. This has worked somewhat, as I’m learning to drape my clothes over the heaters to dry, and how to work the washing machine so that it washes cold when I want it to. But it’s far from comfortable.
And the last two things I learned from camp – write letters, and never ever call home, not until the homesickness has passed. At first, I thought this policy was fail-safe, but I’ve been writing letters and blog essays of epic proportion, and I’m still homesick. So I broke my own rules and called Hopkins Kitchen tonight. It was agonizingly perfect – exactly what I needed, and exactly what I didn’t. It seemed like all my friends had just happened to gather in the kitchen, and the phone just happened to be working that day, and everyone had such nice things to say, and I could practically smell dinner cooking in the background….
I’ve become that kid I could never understand, but could always comfort. Angela told me to wrap my arms around myself and pretend she’s hugging me. Countless people told me to write, to vent, if I needed anything, anything at all…
So yes, I need something. I need you to talk to me about Sesame Street. Tell me about your favorite episode, tell me about your favorite characters. Tell me what you thought of the Muppet cast and whether or not they belonged there. Tell me how you hated it when Elmo became more of a star than Big Bird, or if you were alive when Luis and Maria got married, or when Mr. Hooper died.
Talk to me about Sesame Street, and I’ll talk to you about Oscar secretly being my favorite character because he was green. And how I thought Kermit was kind of a sap, but I totally understood his relationship with Miss Piggy. And how I loved the 20th anniversary episode that Bill Cosby hosted with Cookie Monster, or the museum episode where Cookie Monster was so good he didn’t eat a single painting in the Met, but then ate the entire hot dog cart outside of it. And how Big Bird sings another song called “What A Bird” that contains the lyrics “and though I’m big and tall / on this you can depend / I’ll scrunch down small / cuz you’re my most important friend.”
I’ll close with the lyrics I wish I could belt out my window onto the quiet midnight of Vinoradska Street:
Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing all you can with me
Sing, sing a song
Make it simple
To last your whole life long
Don’t worry that it’s not good enough
For anyone else to hear
Sing…sing a song
La la la la la…
1/28/2007
Praha 10, or First Picture post! Don't let it overwhelm you
Hope this works - I've been trying to post pictures here forever. This is one I took on my very first tour of the Jewish Quarter. The statue of Franz Kafka, one of Prague's most famous writers, stands exactly on the border of the Jewish quarter and the goyim part of town. The reason for this is because the Jews wanted to claim him as one of them, but the goyim protested that Kafka never hung out with Jews, and all his friends were not Jewish. So they compromised, and made him the border.
The statue shows a likeness of Kafka sitting on a ghostly figure that's meant to represent the abstract world that Kafka seemed to live in - a world of fragmented sorrow, of ghosts, of depression and anxiety. Hopefully, I can post more pictures soon!
Hope this works - I've been trying to post pictures here forever. This is one I took on my very first tour of the Jewish Quarter. The statue of Franz Kafka, one of Prague's most famous writers, stands exactly on the border of the Jewish quarter and the goyim part of town. The reason for this is because the Jews wanted to claim him as one of them, but the goyim protested that Kafka never hung out with Jews, and all his friends were not Jewish. So they compromised, and made him the border.
The statue shows a likeness of Kafka sitting on a ghostly figure that's meant to represent the abstract world that Kafka seemed to live in - a world of fragmented sorrow, of ghosts, of depression and anxiety. Hopefully, I can post more pictures soon!
Praha 9, or Aurally Fixated
(written 1/28/07)
Today, Ellen and I had planned to take a day trip to the nearby town of Kitna Hora (sounds like Kinahora, the Yiddish expression but with a t), which contains many fascinating things, but we planned badly, and arrived at the train station far too late to make it worth it. Instead, we invited our friend Jill to come explore the St. Vitus Cathedral, which is at the top of a giant hill, and gives a stunning view of the city – even on such a cold and gray day as today.
There are many other buildings at the top of the hill besides the cathedral, but we decided that we didn’t have the energy for a long tour. Instead, we picked up student tickets to get us inside St. Vitus’, attractively priced at 50kc, or just over $2.
Inside the cathedral was beautiful enough, but so much like so many other giant Catholic churches, at first. Since the construction of the cathedral started in 1344 (when Prague was officially promoted to an archbishopric, as opposed to just a bishopric – it’s a Catholic hierarchy thing) and ended in just 1929, there was quite a vast spectrum of art to behold, particularly in the stained glass windows. The first few windows were clearly of an earlier time – the colors were blended much more beautifully, making the windows look more painted than stained. The newer ones were more mosaic-like, more like the ones we see today. The rose window, or the circular window at the back of every cathedral, was probably the newest, but I couldn’t see well enough to tell.
Ellen was being a bit cynical through the whole thing, and for the first bit, I agreed completely. “Can’t you imagine that the people who built this were overcompensating for something?” she asked, smirking. The church was gigantic, with ceilings that were probably well over 200 feet high, and the distinctive pointed Gothic arches. It took me about ten minutes to walk at a slow pace to get from one end of the church to the other. The many tombs were decorated with ornate sculptures in all media – stone, wood, metal – and even the paintings seemed over-the-top.
I tried to remember why I love churches so much. The last time I was in Europe, it was on a concert tour with a choir. We sang in so many churches, and it made them seem so beautiful – that was it! St. Vitus Cathedral was completely silent, except for the sound of feet on stone. It felt like a monastery, or a tomb. I quickly pulled my ipod out of my inside coat pocket and played a piece that Caitlin gave me some time ago – a Kyrie by Josquin de Prez. Just four singers, each on one part, singing this piece of liturgy.
As the singers began, I took a breath. While I was aware that I was the only one who could hear the music, it felt as though a concert had started. Turning on the music was like watching the sun come in through the stained glass windows – I watched the music fill the church, settling into the pointed arches, behind the tombs, sweeping the aisles between the pews. The music slipped into the space like a good smell, making everything seem more beautiful. The first song ended, and I followed it with an Ave Maria by Holst that I sang my first year in college. This piece wasn’t as well suited to the church – it was a little too modern, and it was odd to hear women’s voices in a place so obviously dedicated to men. But the final bars of the piece, the gentle, overlapping choruses of “amen”, nearly brought me to my knees as I watched the fading sun through the rose window.
Some of my Jewish friends and I have talked about what it means to be singers who sing Christian music – sometimes holy Christian music – and like it, even love it. There is something incredibly transcendent about finding a beautiful, even spiritual experience in music that isn’t your own. Someone, somewhere, in some time, wrote this beautiful thing in the hopes of being worthy of his own spirituality. And if that’s true, then maybe Ellen and I were wrong to be so cynical – because many people, in many times, in this one place, built this beautiful thing in hopes of being worthy of their god. And sure, Catholicism isn’t something I find that beautiful. But other people’s love – that’s a spiritual thing.
Besides, the music would’ve never sounded so good without all that echo space.
(written 1/28/07)
Today, Ellen and I had planned to take a day trip to the nearby town of Kitna Hora (sounds like Kinahora, the Yiddish expression but with a t), which contains many fascinating things, but we planned badly, and arrived at the train station far too late to make it worth it. Instead, we invited our friend Jill to come explore the St. Vitus Cathedral, which is at the top of a giant hill, and gives a stunning view of the city – even on such a cold and gray day as today.
There are many other buildings at the top of the hill besides the cathedral, but we decided that we didn’t have the energy for a long tour. Instead, we picked up student tickets to get us inside St. Vitus’, attractively priced at 50kc, or just over $2.
Inside the cathedral was beautiful enough, but so much like so many other giant Catholic churches, at first. Since the construction of the cathedral started in 1344 (when Prague was officially promoted to an archbishopric, as opposed to just a bishopric – it’s a Catholic hierarchy thing) and ended in just 1929, there was quite a vast spectrum of art to behold, particularly in the stained glass windows. The first few windows were clearly of an earlier time – the colors were blended much more beautifully, making the windows look more painted than stained. The newer ones were more mosaic-like, more like the ones we see today. The rose window, or the circular window at the back of every cathedral, was probably the newest, but I couldn’t see well enough to tell.
Ellen was being a bit cynical through the whole thing, and for the first bit, I agreed completely. “Can’t you imagine that the people who built this were overcompensating for something?” she asked, smirking. The church was gigantic, with ceilings that were probably well over 200 feet high, and the distinctive pointed Gothic arches. It took me about ten minutes to walk at a slow pace to get from one end of the church to the other. The many tombs were decorated with ornate sculptures in all media – stone, wood, metal – and even the paintings seemed over-the-top.
I tried to remember why I love churches so much. The last time I was in Europe, it was on a concert tour with a choir. We sang in so many churches, and it made them seem so beautiful – that was it! St. Vitus Cathedral was completely silent, except for the sound of feet on stone. It felt like a monastery, or a tomb. I quickly pulled my ipod out of my inside coat pocket and played a piece that Caitlin gave me some time ago – a Kyrie by Josquin de Prez. Just four singers, each on one part, singing this piece of liturgy.
As the singers began, I took a breath. While I was aware that I was the only one who could hear the music, it felt as though a concert had started. Turning on the music was like watching the sun come in through the stained glass windows – I watched the music fill the church, settling into the pointed arches, behind the tombs, sweeping the aisles between the pews. The music slipped into the space like a good smell, making everything seem more beautiful. The first song ended, and I followed it with an Ave Maria by Holst that I sang my first year in college. This piece wasn’t as well suited to the church – it was a little too modern, and it was odd to hear women’s voices in a place so obviously dedicated to men. But the final bars of the piece, the gentle, overlapping choruses of “amen”, nearly brought me to my knees as I watched the fading sun through the rose window.
Some of my Jewish friends and I have talked about what it means to be singers who sing Christian music – sometimes holy Christian music – and like it, even love it. There is something incredibly transcendent about finding a beautiful, even spiritual experience in music that isn’t your own. Someone, somewhere, in some time, wrote this beautiful thing in the hopes of being worthy of his own spirituality. And if that’s true, then maybe Ellen and I were wrong to be so cynical – because many people, in many times, in this one place, built this beautiful thing in hopes of being worthy of their god. And sure, Catholicism isn’t something I find that beautiful. But other people’s love – that’s a spiritual thing.
Besides, the music would’ve never sounded so good without all that echo space.
Praha 8, or Up Shit Street Without a Map
(written 1/27/07)
I thought I had the perfect Shabbat planned: sleep in, late breakfast, and then going to one of the most famous English bookstores in Prague – the Globe Bookstore. There, I would pass the time with some kava from their attached café, find a new book to read (as I’ve already read through all of my housemates’ books), and spend some valuable time on their free wireless internet. I thought I would have a restful, peaceful Shabbes.
I thought wrong.
I knew that the bookstore wasn’t very close to the metro stop, but I figured it couldn’t be that difficult to find. I must’ve walked around the neighborhood for an hour and a half, occasionally ducking into some secluded doorway or shop for a look at my inconveniently gigantic road map. I had just one problem – my map seemed to disagree with my perception of my location! None of the street names around that metro stop seemed even vaguely familiar, and the one tram that could take me within a block of the store – tram 21 – seemed to not exist! I saw trams 20, 22, 24, and 23, but no 21.
I even asked a few people for directions. One was a British tourist who was as lost as I was, and looking for something completely different. One was a student about my age, but I was terrified to follow her directions because they were so complicated I was afraid I’d end up in the middle of the river if I followed them. One was a woman in a bakery who had never heard of the bookstore, and my pronunciation of the street must’ve been so bad that she waved me away like she didn’t want to be bothered.
Defeated, I slumped back to the metro, although I did stop to buy some more socks on the way. The remainder of my luggage, for those keeping count, is still not here. That makes ten days, but I’m still hoping I’ll get it eventually. Nevertheless, I finally started buying clothes – well, one article of clothing. Since I was alone, and I don’t trust my own judgment when buying clothes or shoes, I only bought a zippered sweater that was very similar to one of the ones I already had.
I rode the metro back to familiar territory – the indefatigable Vaclavske Namesti (Vaclav Square). From there, I went to Fuzion, a café that sits across the street from the CET classrooms. Fuzion has bad coffee, but free wireless internet. I found three kids from my program already upstairs. I sat down with them, and fired up my computer.
I think I managed to send one or two e-mails before the internet started slowing to the speed of a drunk turtle. After an hour of pages refusing to load, my battery died, and I sadly trudged up the hill towards home.
This afternoon, I made myself a promise: that I would work hard to learn Czech, at least enough to get by. I’m sick of not being understood, of having a vocabulary limited to “Please” and “Excuse me, I’m an American student. English?” I’m sick of the way shopkeepers rip me off because I can’t count change fast enough, and because even if I did confront them, I wouldn’t have enough words to argue. I’m sick of hearing dumb American (many of them on my program), British, and German tourists being loud on public transportation. I’m sick of eating at places meant for tourists because I know the waiters will at least have patience with my terrible Czech, or speak English. I hate that people can see me coming, can spot me a mile away, that shopkeepers wave off my attempts to speak, and just talk to me in English because it’s faster. I’m sick of being a foreigner.
On a more political note, You know what’s the big hot-button issue that’s making all the front pages here? Star Wars. Yup, Regan’s program is being resurrected, and Bush is planning to build a missile-detecting radar here. And you know what? Some people are absolutely delighted about it, in case Iran should start launching missiles everywhere for no reason. Those who aren’t happy about it sure aren’t getting represented in any of the three papers I can read.
My Czech teacher, Zdenka, says she hopes that the US will build the radar, because it will improve US/Czech relations. It’s not like the relationship is strained in any way, but it might make it easier for Czechs to come to the US (right now, it’s incredibly difficult for young Czechs to get visas to the US – even tourist visas). As far as my opinion goes – resurrecting Star Wars? Shouldn’t someone have killed that project for good? At least ten years ago?
And finally, I think I have found a good friend. I’ll call her Diana on this blog, and she comes from Virginia, and attends UVA. She’s a member of a fundamentalist Baptist church, but college, she says, has expanded her mind considerably. We get along remarkably well, and she’s the perfect mix of naiveté, optimism, and insecurity to my more cynical, insecure brand of optimism. Did I mention she’s also a Jewish Studies major?
Diana came over last night and I made us curried lentils with plenty of cheap red wine, and sautéed leeks for dinner. Dessert was dark chocolate and delicious conversation for a couple hours, curled up on the ridiculously un-padded and uncomfortable fake leather couch. I even read her some of my poetry, which she applauded, stroking my ego. We talked about our partners, feeling like strangers in a strange land, singing (she’s a choir geek too!), opera, transracial adoption…it was so good.
(written 1/27/07)
I thought I had the perfect Shabbat planned: sleep in, late breakfast, and then going to one of the most famous English bookstores in Prague – the Globe Bookstore. There, I would pass the time with some kava from their attached café, find a new book to read (as I’ve already read through all of my housemates’ books), and spend some valuable time on their free wireless internet. I thought I would have a restful, peaceful Shabbes.
I thought wrong.
I knew that the bookstore wasn’t very close to the metro stop, but I figured it couldn’t be that difficult to find. I must’ve walked around the neighborhood for an hour and a half, occasionally ducking into some secluded doorway or shop for a look at my inconveniently gigantic road map. I had just one problem – my map seemed to disagree with my perception of my location! None of the street names around that metro stop seemed even vaguely familiar, and the one tram that could take me within a block of the store – tram 21 – seemed to not exist! I saw trams 20, 22, 24, and 23, but no 21.
I even asked a few people for directions. One was a British tourist who was as lost as I was, and looking for something completely different. One was a student about my age, but I was terrified to follow her directions because they were so complicated I was afraid I’d end up in the middle of the river if I followed them. One was a woman in a bakery who had never heard of the bookstore, and my pronunciation of the street must’ve been so bad that she waved me away like she didn’t want to be bothered.
Defeated, I slumped back to the metro, although I did stop to buy some more socks on the way. The remainder of my luggage, for those keeping count, is still not here. That makes ten days, but I’m still hoping I’ll get it eventually. Nevertheless, I finally started buying clothes – well, one article of clothing. Since I was alone, and I don’t trust my own judgment when buying clothes or shoes, I only bought a zippered sweater that was very similar to one of the ones I already had.
I rode the metro back to familiar territory – the indefatigable Vaclavske Namesti (Vaclav Square). From there, I went to Fuzion, a café that sits across the street from the CET classrooms. Fuzion has bad coffee, but free wireless internet. I found three kids from my program already upstairs. I sat down with them, and fired up my computer.
I think I managed to send one or two e-mails before the internet started slowing to the speed of a drunk turtle. After an hour of pages refusing to load, my battery died, and I sadly trudged up the hill towards home.
This afternoon, I made myself a promise: that I would work hard to learn Czech, at least enough to get by. I’m sick of not being understood, of having a vocabulary limited to “Please” and “Excuse me, I’m an American student. English?” I’m sick of the way shopkeepers rip me off because I can’t count change fast enough, and because even if I did confront them, I wouldn’t have enough words to argue. I’m sick of hearing dumb American (many of them on my program), British, and German tourists being loud on public transportation. I’m sick of eating at places meant for tourists because I know the waiters will at least have patience with my terrible Czech, or speak English. I hate that people can see me coming, can spot me a mile away, that shopkeepers wave off my attempts to speak, and just talk to me in English because it’s faster. I’m sick of being a foreigner.
On a more political note, You know what’s the big hot-button issue that’s making all the front pages here? Star Wars. Yup, Regan’s program is being resurrected, and Bush is planning to build a missile-detecting radar here. And you know what? Some people are absolutely delighted about it, in case Iran should start launching missiles everywhere for no reason. Those who aren’t happy about it sure aren’t getting represented in any of the three papers I can read.
My Czech teacher, Zdenka, says she hopes that the US will build the radar, because it will improve US/Czech relations. It’s not like the relationship is strained in any way, but it might make it easier for Czechs to come to the US (right now, it’s incredibly difficult for young Czechs to get visas to the US – even tourist visas). As far as my opinion goes – resurrecting Star Wars? Shouldn’t someone have killed that project for good? At least ten years ago?
And finally, I think I have found a good friend. I’ll call her Diana on this blog, and she comes from Virginia, and attends UVA. She’s a member of a fundamentalist Baptist church, but college, she says, has expanded her mind considerably. We get along remarkably well, and she’s the perfect mix of naiveté, optimism, and insecurity to my more cynical, insecure brand of optimism. Did I mention she’s also a Jewish Studies major?
Diana came over last night and I made us curried lentils with plenty of cheap red wine, and sautéed leeks for dinner. Dessert was dark chocolate and delicious conversation for a couple hours, curled up on the ridiculously un-padded and uncomfortable fake leather couch. I even read her some of my poetry, which she applauded, stroking my ego. We talked about our partners, feeling like strangers in a strange land, singing (she’s a choir geek too!), opera, transracial adoption…it was so good.
1/26/2007
Praha 7, or Notes from the Mental Portfolio of an American Student
(1)
Last night, one of my flatmates invited some of her friends over to drink and hang out before hitting the bars. Not just friends from our program, but friends from her US college who are studying on different Prague programs. I was all set to spend the night trying to get my homework done around them and be grumpy, but then something hilarious happened.
A kid locked himself in the bathroom and couldn't get out.
Not your typical American bathroom, mind you. In most of Europe, the toilet is separate from the tub, and has its own little room. Ours comes with a tiny sink in the toilet room as well, for convienence, since the shower/sink part is all the way across the flat. However, the toilet takes up most of the room. If you stick your elbows out, you hit the two side walls. So it was good that he wasn't claustrophobic.
He was in there for over an hour. I know because I became invoved in the rescue team. We tried everything - twisting, jamming, picking, even unscrewing the handle and sliding the bolt out. Nothing worked. The kid started getting a little desparate, and tried to kick the door down, but couldn't get his leg far back enough to get any momentum. Finally, we called our program director around 11:30pm, after he'd been in there for an hour. Jiri (the director, pronounced YIR-zhee) told us he would call a locksmith, but that it would cost us 1.000kc - about $50. We told him to call anyway, and that we'd pay the expense.
Meanwhile, we had no toilet, and people were starting to get desparate. Some went down the street to the pub, but you had to buy a beer first. For some, this was too long to wait, and I think people might have actually relieved themselves out the screen-less back windows into the neighbor's courtyard.
Finally, as everyone was sitting back and waiting for a locksmith, Mickey (one of my flatmates), came rushing to the toilet door, a little drunk. "I've got it!" she yelled. She then proceeded to do what had managed to escape everybody else at the party (by then there were probably 30 of us).
She had him slide the key under the door, and then she unlocked it from the outside.
(2)
Today, my Czech teacher, Zdenka, took us on a field trip to Cafe Slavia, one of the most famous old hangouts in Prague. This is where Franz Kafka and his friends used to hang out, chain-smoking and sipping dark coffee for hours. It's nothing like an American coffee house; you can quite literally sit there all day, nursing a single cup of kava (coffee) and nobody bothers you for the bill, or to leave! Cafe Slavia is right on the Charles River, and offers one of the most beautiful views of Malastrana (the lesser city) across the water. It would be the perfect place to study, except for all the smoke, which gives me headaches. In Prague, there are no smoking bans *anywhere*, so everyone smells like an ashtray once they leave a cafe or pub.
At Cafe Slavia, I ordered one of my favorite childhood treats - palačinka (pa-lah-CHEEN-ka) - which is the Czech version of crepes. Mine were thicker than crepes, but smothered in a blackberry/raspberry sauce with raisins and freshly whipped cream. Delicious!
(3)
Eyore,
If you want to join a sorority, by all means, go for it. Honestly, I think it might be fun for you - new group of people, instant friends (drama included). What sorority is this, by the way? There are several greek life girls on my program who want to know. That said, I appreciate your advice regarding change and transition. Who better to knock me over the head with common sense than my little sister?
Love,
~me
(1)
Last night, one of my flatmates invited some of her friends over to drink and hang out before hitting the bars. Not just friends from our program, but friends from her US college who are studying on different Prague programs. I was all set to spend the night trying to get my homework done around them and be grumpy, but then something hilarious happened.
A kid locked himself in the bathroom and couldn't get out.
Not your typical American bathroom, mind you. In most of Europe, the toilet is separate from the tub, and has its own little room. Ours comes with a tiny sink in the toilet room as well, for convienence, since the shower/sink part is all the way across the flat. However, the toilet takes up most of the room. If you stick your elbows out, you hit the two side walls. So it was good that he wasn't claustrophobic.
He was in there for over an hour. I know because I became invoved in the rescue team. We tried everything - twisting, jamming, picking, even unscrewing the handle and sliding the bolt out. Nothing worked. The kid started getting a little desparate, and tried to kick the door down, but couldn't get his leg far back enough to get any momentum. Finally, we called our program director around 11:30pm, after he'd been in there for an hour. Jiri (the director, pronounced YIR-zhee) told us he would call a locksmith, but that it would cost us 1.000kc - about $50. We told him to call anyway, and that we'd pay the expense.
Meanwhile, we had no toilet, and people were starting to get desparate. Some went down the street to the pub, but you had to buy a beer first. For some, this was too long to wait, and I think people might have actually relieved themselves out the screen-less back windows into the neighbor's courtyard.
Finally, as everyone was sitting back and waiting for a locksmith, Mickey (one of my flatmates), came rushing to the toilet door, a little drunk. "I've got it!" she yelled. She then proceeded to do what had managed to escape everybody else at the party (by then there were probably 30 of us).
She had him slide the key under the door, and then she unlocked it from the outside.
(2)
Today, my Czech teacher, Zdenka, took us on a field trip to Cafe Slavia, one of the most famous old hangouts in Prague. This is where Franz Kafka and his friends used to hang out, chain-smoking and sipping dark coffee for hours. It's nothing like an American coffee house; you can quite literally sit there all day, nursing a single cup of kava (coffee) and nobody bothers you for the bill, or to leave! Cafe Slavia is right on the Charles River, and offers one of the most beautiful views of Malastrana (the lesser city) across the water. It would be the perfect place to study, except for all the smoke, which gives me headaches. In Prague, there are no smoking bans *anywhere*, so everyone smells like an ashtray once they leave a cafe or pub.
At Cafe Slavia, I ordered one of my favorite childhood treats - palačinka (pa-lah-CHEEN-ka) - which is the Czech version of crepes. Mine were thicker than crepes, but smothered in a blackberry/raspberry sauce with raisins and freshly whipped cream. Delicious!
(3)
Eyore,
If you want to join a sorority, by all means, go for it. Honestly, I think it might be fun for you - new group of people, instant friends (drama included). What sorority is this, by the way? There are several greek life girls on my program who want to know. That said, I appreciate your advice regarding change and transition. Who better to knock me over the head with common sense than my little sister?
Love,
~me
1/24/2007
Praha 6, or Snow Falling on Cobblestones
Snow! Snow has finally reached Prague, in a quiet, if slightly windy shower. There's about an inch of it on the ground, which is turning the already-slippery sidewalks and streets into a veritable death trap. I took the metro to school for the first time this morning - it's only a 10-12 minute walk from my apartment normally, but today I would've broken my neck trying to walk down the square.
Aida last night was wonderful. I snoozed through some of it, but most of it was exquisitely sung and performed. Even the typically reserved European audience was moved - I heard one man shout "Brava!" in the instant before the applause began after Aida's screeching aria. And the Prague Opera is an incredible building, with such intricate molding and paintings on the ceiling that it's just as much fun to watch as the stage. I put my hand over my mouth and sang along with the Triumphal March, marveling at the number of men - I counted well over sixty! That Priest's Chorus is unbelievable.
In the end, five of us went to the opera together. I was delighted - several of them had never been to an opera before, and they said it was beautiful, if a bit boring at times. We left with a copy of the season schedule, pointing and deciding which performances we want to see over the rest of the semester. I voted for The Magic Flute, of course, and Candide, and a few wanted to go see a ballet version of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I think I may have found some friends!
Snow! Snow has finally reached Prague, in a quiet, if slightly windy shower. There's about an inch of it on the ground, which is turning the already-slippery sidewalks and streets into a veritable death trap. I took the metro to school for the first time this morning - it's only a 10-12 minute walk from my apartment normally, but today I would've broken my neck trying to walk down the square.
Aida last night was wonderful. I snoozed through some of it, but most of it was exquisitely sung and performed. Even the typically reserved European audience was moved - I heard one man shout "Brava!" in the instant before the applause began after Aida's screeching aria. And the Prague Opera is an incredible building, with such intricate molding and paintings on the ceiling that it's just as much fun to watch as the stage. I put my hand over my mouth and sang along with the Triumphal March, marveling at the number of men - I counted well over sixty! That Priest's Chorus is unbelievable.
In the end, five of us went to the opera together. I was delighted - several of them had never been to an opera before, and they said it was beautiful, if a bit boring at times. We left with a copy of the season schedule, pointing and deciding which performances we want to see over the rest of the semester. I voted for The Magic Flute, of course, and Candide, and a few wanted to go see a ballet version of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I think I may have found some friends!
1/23/2007
Praha 5, or, A List of Good Things
(written 1/23/07)
1) The housemate that went out for Indian food last night (from now on shall be called Ellen) has offered to go to the opera with me tonight. She says with confidence that she is sure some other students will want to go with us if we announce it in class today. We think Verdi’s Aida is playing – an opera I’ve sung a couple of pieces from.
2) I slept completely through the night!
3) My bedroom is at the back of the apartment, so I only hear the very loudest street noises, like sirens, and it gets none of the 24 hr. light that my other housemates’ rooms do.
4) That said, I love to wake up before the sun, and watch the street come to life from the living room.
5) This city is more like a French Boston than like New York – it’s not claustrophobic, or full of incredibly tall buildings. Rather, we’re talking narrow, windy cobblestone streets.
6) I will never, ever have to drive here.
7) The word prosim (PRO-sim, or PRO-shim) is an excellent word, and I can pronounce it well enough to use it frequently. It technically means “please”, but it can be used all these ways:
a. In a store: Prosim, I would like to buy something.
b. On the street or a bus or a train, Prosim, I didn’t mean to bump you.
c. If someone thanks you, Prosim is an acceptable “you’re welcome.”
d. If you’re trying to get past somebody, Prosim works like “Excuse me.”
e. If you need directions, you can get someone’s attention on the street by saying Prosim!
f. Repeating it over and over and over again, will give the clear message that you do not speak Czech, and that you are a tourist who is trying not to be a total idiot. Particularly when paired with words like Anglike? (AHN-gli-kee), or “English?”
Luggage Update: Still missing. 4 ½ days.
(written 1/23/07)
1) The housemate that went out for Indian food last night (from now on shall be called Ellen) has offered to go to the opera with me tonight. She says with confidence that she is sure some other students will want to go with us if we announce it in class today. We think Verdi’s Aida is playing – an opera I’ve sung a couple of pieces from.
2) I slept completely through the night!
3) My bedroom is at the back of the apartment, so I only hear the very loudest street noises, like sirens, and it gets none of the 24 hr. light that my other housemates’ rooms do.
4) That said, I love to wake up before the sun, and watch the street come to life from the living room.
5) This city is more like a French Boston than like New York – it’s not claustrophobic, or full of incredibly tall buildings. Rather, we’re talking narrow, windy cobblestone streets.
6) I will never, ever have to drive here.
7) The word prosim (PRO-sim, or PRO-shim) is an excellent word, and I can pronounce it well enough to use it frequently. It technically means “please”, but it can be used all these ways:
a. In a store: Prosim, I would like to buy something.
b. On the street or a bus or a train, Prosim, I didn’t mean to bump you.
c. If someone thanks you, Prosim is an acceptable “you’re welcome.”
d. If you’re trying to get past somebody, Prosim works like “Excuse me.”
e. If you need directions, you can get someone’s attention on the street by saying Prosim!
f. Repeating it over and over and over again, will give the clear message that you do not speak Czech, and that you are a tourist who is trying not to be a total idiot. Particularly when paired with words like Anglike? (AHN-gli-kee), or “English?”
Luggage Update: Still missing. 4 ½ days.
Praha 4, or A Pot of Complaints
(Written on 1/22/07)
I’ve been pretty much alone tonight – I cooked for myself while my roommates went out to dinner. I’ve eaten nearly every meal outside of my apartment since I got here, and this strikes me as incredibly stupid. I’m a totally competent cook, with a Vietnamese-run (here, an influx of Vietnamese immigrants have set up a bunch of very reputable veggie stores – known for good quality and good prices) vegetable stand up the street. Why, exactly, am I eating in restaurants? I know it’s a good way to get to know local culture and everything, but at this point, I don’t have enough Czech to eat in a restaurant that other Czechs eat in – only in places where they have menus catered to tourists. And the food is mediocre in those places – lots of pastas and pizza, and things they think Americans want to eat. So I made a giant pasta dish with beans and leeks and garlic and mushrooms. And ate it by myself.
I can’t wait to make friends. Some of the kids here are nice – actually, nobody is mean, just nobody is very friendly in my direction. I’ve become incredibly quiet – Smith/Northampton crew, you guys would absolutely not recognize me. When I ate dinner with the whole group, I was appalled at the way the boys at my table dominated the entire conversation (and talked about football most of the time), but was equally angry with myself for not speaking up. Yet something is keeping me silent. I think I’m scared.
My mom called while I was making dinner, and we got to talk for a few minutes before one of her clients showed up. When I hung up, I started crying. Crying like I rarely do, with lots of tears and noise. It didn’t last very long, but it startled me. I never get homesick, even when I’m in unfamiliar places. I was a really good camper that way, a good traveler.
I tried to wash my clothes tonight. The washing machine (there is no dryer) in our apartment is so small; I filled it with just three shirts, a sweatshirt, and a few pairs of socks. None of it is priceless clothing, but when I took it out of the machine, it was discouraging to find everything hot (when I thought I’d read the machine correctly and done a cold wash), wrinkled, and covered in lint. It didn’t look like it had been cleaned at all. If it hadn’t been for the sick-sweet smell of detergent (milk-almond, says the bottle. It’s for babies; I bought it so it wouldn’t have tons of chemicals), I would’ve guessed something had gone wrong – pieces of my clothes were still dry, as if the water had never reached them. They’re drying on a makeshift rack over the bathtub. At least the previous tenants left their iron in the closet.
The incident with the laundry didn’t make me cry, but I wanted to. I’m trying to breathe, to keep my priorities straight, to remember that this is part of being in a foreign country…
I signed up for an economics class today. Can you believe it? I was all set to take the Jewish-only courses, but suddenly they opened up some of the secular ones for us. I opted out of Holocaust History and instead went for this class about how the Czech Republic is in transition from a communist economy to a capitalist one. The professor is kind of what sold me on it – her syllabus includes an independent project that consists of interviewing people who work for NGOs in Prague, and writing a research paper about an economic problem as a result of the transition. It actually sounds exciting, and she sounds like the opposite of traditional Czech professors. Her class seems like it will be more discussion than lecture, with lots of critical thinking.
My roommates just came back, and the echo-y apartment is flooded with voices. They all have red balloons with them. The balloons say TGI Friday’s. One of my roommates is not with them – she went off and had Indian food instead. It seems like they’ve had fun. They’re pretty tipsy, anyway.
I still want to cry, but at least it’s less lonely.
(Written on 1/22/07)
I’ve been pretty much alone tonight – I cooked for myself while my roommates went out to dinner. I’ve eaten nearly every meal outside of my apartment since I got here, and this strikes me as incredibly stupid. I’m a totally competent cook, with a Vietnamese-run (here, an influx of Vietnamese immigrants have set up a bunch of very reputable veggie stores – known for good quality and good prices) vegetable stand up the street. Why, exactly, am I eating in restaurants? I know it’s a good way to get to know local culture and everything, but at this point, I don’t have enough Czech to eat in a restaurant that other Czechs eat in – only in places where they have menus catered to tourists. And the food is mediocre in those places – lots of pastas and pizza, and things they think Americans want to eat. So I made a giant pasta dish with beans and leeks and garlic and mushrooms. And ate it by myself.
I can’t wait to make friends. Some of the kids here are nice – actually, nobody is mean, just nobody is very friendly in my direction. I’ve become incredibly quiet – Smith/Northampton crew, you guys would absolutely not recognize me. When I ate dinner with the whole group, I was appalled at the way the boys at my table dominated the entire conversation (and talked about football most of the time), but was equally angry with myself for not speaking up. Yet something is keeping me silent. I think I’m scared.
My mom called while I was making dinner, and we got to talk for a few minutes before one of her clients showed up. When I hung up, I started crying. Crying like I rarely do, with lots of tears and noise. It didn’t last very long, but it startled me. I never get homesick, even when I’m in unfamiliar places. I was a really good camper that way, a good traveler.
I tried to wash my clothes tonight. The washing machine (there is no dryer) in our apartment is so small; I filled it with just three shirts, a sweatshirt, and a few pairs of socks. None of it is priceless clothing, but when I took it out of the machine, it was discouraging to find everything hot (when I thought I’d read the machine correctly and done a cold wash), wrinkled, and covered in lint. It didn’t look like it had been cleaned at all. If it hadn’t been for the sick-sweet smell of detergent (milk-almond, says the bottle. It’s for babies; I bought it so it wouldn’t have tons of chemicals), I would’ve guessed something had gone wrong – pieces of my clothes were still dry, as if the water had never reached them. They’re drying on a makeshift rack over the bathtub. At least the previous tenants left their iron in the closet.
The incident with the laundry didn’t make me cry, but I wanted to. I’m trying to breathe, to keep my priorities straight, to remember that this is part of being in a foreign country…
I signed up for an economics class today. Can you believe it? I was all set to take the Jewish-only courses, but suddenly they opened up some of the secular ones for us. I opted out of Holocaust History and instead went for this class about how the Czech Republic is in transition from a communist economy to a capitalist one. The professor is kind of what sold me on it – her syllabus includes an independent project that consists of interviewing people who work for NGOs in Prague, and writing a research paper about an economic problem as a result of the transition. It actually sounds exciting, and she sounds like the opposite of traditional Czech professors. Her class seems like it will be more discussion than lecture, with lots of critical thinking.
My roommates just came back, and the echo-y apartment is flooded with voices. They all have red balloons with them. The balloons say TGI Friday’s. One of my roommates is not with them – she went off and had Indian food instead. It seems like they’ve had fun. They’re pretty tipsy, anyway.
I still want to cry, but at least it’s less lonely.
1/21/2007
Praha 3, or Follow the Cobblestone Road
(Written 1/2/107)
Today was the last day of orientation proper – tomorrow, we start intense Czech lessons, with supplementary orientation stuff. To “celebrate”, the directors split us into groups of six, and sent us out into the city with six postcards and a list of scavenger hunt items. The objective: to find the site of every postcard (mine was a picture of the church I love so much in Old Town Square), and photograph a member of your group. In addition, there were things like figuring out what movies were playing, a stamped metro ticket from a certain stop, and a copy of the Prague Post, a paper that comes in English and lists local events. The final “item” is to meet at a restaurant for dinner – the first Czech restaurant I’ll actually get to eat in.
My group got along surprisingly well, for being assigned to this incredibly hokey exercise. Other groups, we found out, didn’t fare nearly so well. Our hunt took us all over the city, mostly on foot. Only for the very last stretch did we hop on the tram and the metro – my feet are killing me!
I’m glad I have sneakers for these streets – anything else would have me tripping over the cobblestones. They warned us about the dangers of wearing heels, saying “Not only will everyone stare at you and know you’re a foreigner, you’ll trip and fall, and then they’ll laugh.” Also, the rain we’ve had has alerted me to the fact that cobblestones – some of them with centuries of wear – are amazingly slippery when wet. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost fallen.
I have a mailing address! If you want to send me things, leave your email address in the comments and I will send you my address (immediate family/significant other need not reply – I’ll send it to you).
Still missing luggage, by the way. Count: 3 ½ days.
(Written 1/2/107)
Today was the last day of orientation proper – tomorrow, we start intense Czech lessons, with supplementary orientation stuff. To “celebrate”, the directors split us into groups of six, and sent us out into the city with six postcards and a list of scavenger hunt items. The objective: to find the site of every postcard (mine was a picture of the church I love so much in Old Town Square), and photograph a member of your group. In addition, there were things like figuring out what movies were playing, a stamped metro ticket from a certain stop, and a copy of the Prague Post, a paper that comes in English and lists local events. The final “item” is to meet at a restaurant for dinner – the first Czech restaurant I’ll actually get to eat in.
My group got along surprisingly well, for being assigned to this incredibly hokey exercise. Other groups, we found out, didn’t fare nearly so well. Our hunt took us all over the city, mostly on foot. Only for the very last stretch did we hop on the tram and the metro – my feet are killing me!
I’m glad I have sneakers for these streets – anything else would have me tripping over the cobblestones. They warned us about the dangers of wearing heels, saying “Not only will everyone stare at you and know you’re a foreigner, you’ll trip and fall, and then they’ll laugh.” Also, the rain we’ve had has alerted me to the fact that cobblestones – some of them with centuries of wear – are amazingly slippery when wet. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost fallen.
I have a mailing address! If you want to send me things, leave your email address in the comments and I will send you my address (immediate family/significant other need not reply – I’ll send it to you).
Still missing luggage, by the way. Count: 3 ½ days.
Praha 2, or Sweeter than Wine and Cheaper than Water
(written 1/19/07)
It’s officially true – in some parts of Prague, beer is the cheapest beverage available.
While I’ve spent most of today trying to recover from jet lag, I did get to see some things that absolutely took my breath away. I’m not often reduced to such a state of admiration by architecture, but there is a certain castle/church in the Old Square, near Vaclavske Namesti (Wenceslas Square) that has two black towers with multiple cone-shaped spires reaching for the clouds. I first saw it last night, and I swear the spires looked like organ pipes. At least, when I looked at it, I heard something majestic chord from deep within my head.
And tonight, I went to services. Because we’re the Jewish Studies program, attendance at Shabbat services is mandatory for the first few weeks. The good news is, we attend a different service every week. Tonight, we were in Bejt Praha (English transliteration: Beit Prague, or House of Prague, translated), which is also called the Spanish synagogue, for Masorti (Conservative) services. When I stepped in, I gasped for the second time. First, because the “synagogue” looked like a church – upstairs gallery, a hugely spacious bimah, and hard wooden pews in the bottom. This wouldn’t be particularly churchy, except for the ornate columns that held everything up. The second thing that caught my attention was the decoration in the synagogue; it was beautiful, intricate, and…Moroccan.
The primary colors were turquoise and maroon, with sea green, black and gold leaf accentuating every six-pointed star (of which there were thousands). It looked like painted wallpaper, and there were many different kinds, all over the walls and circular ceilings of the synagogue. The rabbi, a good enough sort of guy who spoke some English, welcomed us all in, and I sat down with my photocopied siddur, and had some fun reading the Czech transliterations of the Hebrew. For the first time, it was actually easier to read the Hebrew! I even recognized the font…and hey, was that a familiar page number in the corner of the photocopy?
This shul used the very same siddur from which I learned to lead services! Unfortunately, it was a book I grew to hate, with its sexist, stuffy, inaccurate and ineloquent translations, and inclusion of songs like “G-d Bless America” in the hymn section. Yet, as I held the book, halfway around from the world from where I’d last held it, I gazed at it with a sort of fondness. It was as if we were once friends who had an argument, and upon reunion, realized we didn’t remember what we were so angry about. Then I opened it and read through some of the prayers and got annoyed all over again.
Towards the end of the service, the rabbi asked if anyone had a particular tune in mind for Adon Olam. Without thinking, I started humming the first notes of the Smith Hillel tune, very very quietly. However, a woman in front of me picked up on it, and said “Ah!” and started singing it full blast. Apparently, it’s a regular tune with that group, except they sing a slightly different tune that works as a perfect harmony with the tune I learned from Hillel! The woman who started the song found me afterwards and told me she’d always known there was a descant to that song, but had never heard it. She invited me to come back, whenever. And then the rabbi asked me to lead Kiddush.
(Hillelians, I know what you’re thinking, and I swear on the heads of my nonexistent children that I had no intention of leading anything! I swear!)
There was one other thing about this synagogue that I found meaningful. The rabbi explained to us that the specific spot on which the synagogue stands has been a Jewish worship place since the 14th century. It is also the synagogue that was supposed to be a part of Hitler’s Museum of an Extinct People. It’s connected to the building that was supposed to house the rest of the museum. And to sing in this synagogue was perhaps one of the most beautiful gifts I have ever been given – to add my voice to the many echoing melodies that have survived, generation after generation.
Tomorrow is a day off from orientation, and my goal is to catch a 7:00 performance of Die Zaberflote at the opera! Sunday is Bernstein’s Candide, and in February, Verdi’s Aida is playing…and rumor has it that balcony tickets are only 100kc, which amounts to less than five dollars!
Some of my housemates are getting ready to go hit a bar or five with the boys from the other program (secular Central European Studies – we do a lot of things with them, like trips and cultural events), but I’ve probably walked five or six miles today, and I can hardly keep my eyes open!
(written 1/19/07)
It’s officially true – in some parts of Prague, beer is the cheapest beverage available.
While I’ve spent most of today trying to recover from jet lag, I did get to see some things that absolutely took my breath away. I’m not often reduced to such a state of admiration by architecture, but there is a certain castle/church in the Old Square, near Vaclavske Namesti (Wenceslas Square) that has two black towers with multiple cone-shaped spires reaching for the clouds. I first saw it last night, and I swear the spires looked like organ pipes. At least, when I looked at it, I heard something majestic chord from deep within my head.
And tonight, I went to services. Because we’re the Jewish Studies program, attendance at Shabbat services is mandatory for the first few weeks. The good news is, we attend a different service every week. Tonight, we were in Bejt Praha (English transliteration: Beit Prague, or House of Prague, translated), which is also called the Spanish synagogue, for Masorti (Conservative) services. When I stepped in, I gasped for the second time. First, because the “synagogue” looked like a church – upstairs gallery, a hugely spacious bimah, and hard wooden pews in the bottom. This wouldn’t be particularly churchy, except for the ornate columns that held everything up. The second thing that caught my attention was the decoration in the synagogue; it was beautiful, intricate, and…Moroccan.
The primary colors were turquoise and maroon, with sea green, black and gold leaf accentuating every six-pointed star (of which there were thousands). It looked like painted wallpaper, and there were many different kinds, all over the walls and circular ceilings of the synagogue. The rabbi, a good enough sort of guy who spoke some English, welcomed us all in, and I sat down with my photocopied siddur, and had some fun reading the Czech transliterations of the Hebrew. For the first time, it was actually easier to read the Hebrew! I even recognized the font…and hey, was that a familiar page number in the corner of the photocopy?
This shul used the very same siddur from which I learned to lead services! Unfortunately, it was a book I grew to hate, with its sexist, stuffy, inaccurate and ineloquent translations, and inclusion of songs like “G-d Bless America” in the hymn section. Yet, as I held the book, halfway around from the world from where I’d last held it, I gazed at it with a sort of fondness. It was as if we were once friends who had an argument, and upon reunion, realized we didn’t remember what we were so angry about. Then I opened it and read through some of the prayers and got annoyed all over again.
Towards the end of the service, the rabbi asked if anyone had a particular tune in mind for Adon Olam. Without thinking, I started humming the first notes of the Smith Hillel tune, very very quietly. However, a woman in front of me picked up on it, and said “Ah!” and started singing it full blast. Apparently, it’s a regular tune with that group, except they sing a slightly different tune that works as a perfect harmony with the tune I learned from Hillel! The woman who started the song found me afterwards and told me she’d always known there was a descant to that song, but had never heard it. She invited me to come back, whenever. And then the rabbi asked me to lead Kiddush.
(Hillelians, I know what you’re thinking, and I swear on the heads of my nonexistent children that I had no intention of leading anything! I swear!)
There was one other thing about this synagogue that I found meaningful. The rabbi explained to us that the specific spot on which the synagogue stands has been a Jewish worship place since the 14th century. It is also the synagogue that was supposed to be a part of Hitler’s Museum of an Extinct People. It’s connected to the building that was supposed to house the rest of the museum. And to sing in this synagogue was perhaps one of the most beautiful gifts I have ever been given – to add my voice to the many echoing melodies that have survived, generation after generation.
Tomorrow is a day off from orientation, and my goal is to catch a 7:00 performance of Die Zaberflote at the opera! Sunday is Bernstein’s Candide, and in February, Verdi’s Aida is playing…and rumor has it that balcony tickets are only 100kc, which amounts to less than five dollars!
Some of my housemates are getting ready to go hit a bar or five with the boys from the other program (secular Central European Studies – we do a lot of things with them, like trips and cultural events), but I’ve probably walked five or six miles today, and I can hardly keep my eyes open!
1/18/2007
Praha 1, or Wherever Your Final Destination May Be
I'm here! I'm more discombobulated than a drunken elephant, but I made it. My luggage wasn't so fortunate - one of my two bags are still floating around Heathrow Airport somewhere. They promised to send it in on the next flight to Praha, but we're having a huge wind/rain storm here that's preventing any flights from coming in. The same winds that pushed my two planes in half an hour early are now stopping all the flights.
That said, I'm doing okay. I got to my apartment without mishap, and found four of my five roomates already there and sleeping off the jet lag. I joined them fairly soon after, but first needed to collect myself and explore my new space.
The apartment is very large, for only six people. Two single bedrooms, and two doubles that easily rival the size of the biggest Smith doubles. The kitchen has plenty of pots and pans, and the bathroom even has a standing shower as well as a tub! My only complaint would be that the building is old enough to be very drafty, and the high winds have been making our windows slam and clatter since we arrived.
"We" is what my dad would call "a buncha girrrrrrrrrrls." No crunchy Jewish queers in this group, but I did have a fascinating conversation with a kid from Wellesley about reclaiming body modification (tattoos in particular) in the name of Jewish political identity.
Dinner was with the head of our program at an italian/pizza place with surprisingly delicious thin-crust brick oven pizza. The director, Kim, said jet lag plus a huge storm plus a new city plus moving in plus plunging into Czech food would be a little much for one day.
And I found this internet in a shop up the road from my apartment. I do have to buy an orange juice or a coffee in order to get the free wi-fi, but it's worth it to be able to write to you all.
And apparently, the man who lives downstairs speaks fluent Hebrew. Go figure.
I'm here! I'm more discombobulated than a drunken elephant, but I made it. My luggage wasn't so fortunate - one of my two bags are still floating around Heathrow Airport somewhere. They promised to send it in on the next flight to Praha, but we're having a huge wind/rain storm here that's preventing any flights from coming in. The same winds that pushed my two planes in half an hour early are now stopping all the flights.
That said, I'm doing okay. I got to my apartment without mishap, and found four of my five roomates already there and sleeping off the jet lag. I joined them fairly soon after, but first needed to collect myself and explore my new space.
The apartment is very large, for only six people. Two single bedrooms, and two doubles that easily rival the size of the biggest Smith doubles. The kitchen has plenty of pots and pans, and the bathroom even has a standing shower as well as a tub! My only complaint would be that the building is old enough to be very drafty, and the high winds have been making our windows slam and clatter since we arrived.
"We" is what my dad would call "a buncha girrrrrrrrrrls." No crunchy Jewish queers in this group, but I did have a fascinating conversation with a kid from Wellesley about reclaiming body modification (tattoos in particular) in the name of Jewish political identity.
Dinner was with the head of our program at an italian/pizza place with surprisingly delicious thin-crust brick oven pizza. The director, Kim, said jet lag plus a huge storm plus a new city plus moving in plus plunging into Czech food would be a little much for one day.
And I found this internet in a shop up the road from my apartment. I do have to buy an orange juice or a coffee in order to get the free wi-fi, but it's worth it to be able to write to you all.
And apparently, the man who lives downstairs speaks fluent Hebrew. Go figure.
1/17/2007
Pre-Departure V, or All My Bags Are...
...nearly packed. This is the last thing I get to do before shutting down my laptop. The next time it wakes up, I'll be in Praha!
Much love to everybody! I'll try to make the "I-arrived-safetly" post as soon as I can, so keep your eye out for it.
I promise, the rest of my entries after the next one will be more thoughtful/worth reading.
...nearly packed. This is the last thing I get to do before shutting down my laptop. The next time it wakes up, I'll be in Praha!
Much love to everybody! I'll try to make the "I-arrived-safetly" post as soon as I can, so keep your eye out for it.
I promise, the rest of my entries after the next one will be more thoughtful/worth reading.
1/11/2007
Pre-Departure IV - Negotiating Customs
Thanks to the wonderfully express services of the private mail system, I got my passport back today, along with my birth certificate, and two guidebooks about the Czech Republic!
Did you notice something missing in that sentence? I didn't, until I opened my passport to find...nothing. No visa stamp. My passport, issued two years ago, was more pure and unmarked than fresh snow on a soccer field. As I contemplated this puzzling turn of events, I noticed another piece of paper in the envelope. Here is an excerpt:
Oh, fabulous. My first-entry prediction is almost becoming terribly true! While I'm not too panicked, my parents have already sent a letter to the president of Smith College, demanding a refund on tuition for the semester should I, for any reason, be barred entrance to Prague or my study program.
(When Smith students travel abroad, they still pay Smith's tuition to the college, not the program directly. Smith then uses the regular tuition to pay the program, and all the financial dealings occur between the two schools. However, even though my program is roughly $10,000 cheaper than Smith tuition, we still have to pay full Smith tuition. So it's already something of a ripoff - and now this. In the absolute worst case scenerio, I wouldn't get any credits towards my degree, and also lose that tuition money!)
In other news, I took a trip to Massachuetts this week to say goodbye to my partner, Chris, and some of my other friends. I did my best not to cry, although I got choked up as I watched Chris frantically fingerspelling (using American Sign Language) through the window of the bus as I pulled away. "D-o-n-t t-a-k-e a-n-y w-o-o-d-e-n n-i-c-k-e-l-s" he spelled, one letter at a time, as I made the sign for "I love you" and bit my lip. I made promises to write, to stay out of trouble, to get into lots of trouble, and to keep posting on this blog. I visited Hopkins, my wonderful on-campus house, and said au revoir to the kitchen table, my room, and the free-box under the stairs. I scolded myself for being so sentimental, but I love the Pioneer Valley and so many people in it. Leaving them is almost harder than leaving home.
And then there's the issue of saying goodbye to someone, and then calling them several hours later. What do you say? You've already had a lengthy goodbye, but you still want to talk to them while you have a chance. It's hard to negotiate what's proper. Hmm.
Well, it's time to head over to dinner at my grandparents' house. Last Thursday dinner for a long time - I hope Mammy's made something special. But I know if I ask her what's for dinner, she'll just tell me, "Food." I like that in a person.
Thanks to the wonderfully express services of the private mail system, I got my passport back today, along with my birth certificate, and two guidebooks about the Czech Republic!
Did you notice something missing in that sentence? I didn't, until I opened my passport to find...nothing. No visa stamp. My passport, issued two years ago, was more pure and unmarked than fresh snow on a soccer field. As I contemplated this puzzling turn of events, I noticed another piece of paper in the envelope. Here is an excerpt:
Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances beyond our control, most visas were not processed by the Czech Consulate in time for your departure...Those of you without student visas will enter the country on a tourist visa. You may be questioned at the airport, probably in the USA, as to why your return plane ticket from Prague is scheduled for after the expiration of your 90-day [tourist] visa. While this is extremely unlikely, it is always best to be prepared. Please carry with you a copy of this e-mail along with the attached letter and calendar.
Oh, fabulous. My first-entry prediction is almost becoming terribly true! While I'm not too panicked, my parents have already sent a letter to the president of Smith College, demanding a refund on tuition for the semester should I, for any reason, be barred entrance to Prague or my study program.
(When Smith students travel abroad, they still pay Smith's tuition to the college, not the program directly. Smith then uses the regular tuition to pay the program, and all the financial dealings occur between the two schools. However, even though my program is roughly $10,000 cheaper than Smith tuition, we still have to pay full Smith tuition. So it's already something of a ripoff - and now this. In the absolute worst case scenerio, I wouldn't get any credits towards my degree, and also lose that tuition money!)
In other news, I took a trip to Massachuetts this week to say goodbye to my partner, Chris, and some of my other friends. I did my best not to cry, although I got choked up as I watched Chris frantically fingerspelling (using American Sign Language) through the window of the bus as I pulled away. "D-o-n-t t-a-k-e a-n-y w-o-o-d-e-n n-i-c-k-e-l-s" he spelled, one letter at a time, as I made the sign for "I love you" and bit my lip. I made promises to write, to stay out of trouble, to get into lots of trouble, and to keep posting on this blog. I visited Hopkins, my wonderful on-campus house, and said au revoir to the kitchen table, my room, and the free-box under the stairs. I scolded myself for being so sentimental, but I love the Pioneer Valley and so many people in it. Leaving them is almost harder than leaving home.
And then there's the issue of saying goodbye to someone, and then calling them several hours later. What do you say? You've already had a lengthy goodbye, but you still want to talk to them while you have a chance. It's hard to negotiate what's proper. Hmm.
Well, it's time to head over to dinner at my grandparents' house. Last Thursday dinner for a long time - I hope Mammy's made something special. But I know if I ask her what's for dinner, she'll just tell me, "Food." I like that in a person.
1/03/2007
Pre-Departure III - Go Ahead, Drink the Water
All that information I was waiting for in the last post? It finally came, around midnight. Well, not all of it. I still don't know where I'm living, but I do know it'll be within a 5-15 minute metro-riding range of where I'm studying - unless I take a taxi, and get scammed by a driver who will drive me in circles for half an hour, call it traffic, and charge me enough money to pay for brain surgery.
I've been warned about at least sixteen different "typical" ways I might get ripped off, pickpocketed or robbed. I know that the "biggest test of my cultural sensitivity" might entail waiting to be seen for ten hours in a Czech hospital (although, really, I don't see that as much of an improvement over US care.) They estimate that I should bring several thousand extra dollars with me, with which to buy things like winter coats, which "might be wise to leave at home, to conserve luggage space."
They will provide me with a cell phone, but the connections will be bad, and the price for minutes will be sky-high. Internet access will be scarce, and I'll usually have to pay for it. They assure me that if I bring more toiletries than a toothbrush, I will regret it (luggage space again). It is absolutely possible to eat Kosher in Prague, but only if I don't mind skipping vegetables. It is absolutely possible to eat vegetarian in Prague, if picking the meat out of the stew isn't a problem.
Oh! They'll also issue me two guidebooks upon arrival, as well as give me a three-day crash orientation while I adjust to the time difference. However, it is not reccomended that I sleep through orientation, lest I skip the lecture on scams, theft and pickpockets. Following orientation, I will have a week of intensive Czech, followed by a semester's worth of the following courses:
Of course, I have yet to find out if I got the internship I applied for. However, I do know that I can attend four different kinds of Orthodox services on Shabbat, one Masorti (Conservative), and one marked "Progressive/Liberal (maybe English translation)." Not bad!
Finally, the water is safe to drink. Unless I'm on the nine-day death camp tour of Poland.
All that information I was waiting for in the last post? It finally came, around midnight. Well, not all of it. I still don't know where I'm living, but I do know it'll be within a 5-15 minute metro-riding range of where I'm studying - unless I take a taxi, and get scammed by a driver who will drive me in circles for half an hour, call it traffic, and charge me enough money to pay for brain surgery.
I've been warned about at least sixteen different "typical" ways I might get ripped off, pickpocketed or robbed. I know that the "biggest test of my cultural sensitivity" might entail waiting to be seen for ten hours in a Czech hospital (although, really, I don't see that as much of an improvement over US care.) They estimate that I should bring several thousand extra dollars with me, with which to buy things like winter coats, which "might be wise to leave at home, to conserve luggage space."
They will provide me with a cell phone, but the connections will be bad, and the price for minutes will be sky-high. Internet access will be scarce, and I'll usually have to pay for it. They assure me that if I bring more toiletries than a toothbrush, I will regret it (luggage space again). It is absolutely possible to eat Kosher in Prague, but only if I don't mind skipping vegetables. It is absolutely possible to eat vegetarian in Prague, if picking the meat out of the stew isn't a problem.
Oh! They'll also issue me two guidebooks upon arrival, as well as give me a three-day crash orientation while I adjust to the time difference. However, it is not reccomended that I sleep through orientation, lest I skip the lecture on scams, theft and pickpockets. Following orientation, I will have a week of intensive Czech, followed by a semester's worth of the following courses:
Beginner Czech
The History of Jews in East Central Europe
The Culture and Politics of East Central Europe, 1918-present
Jewish East Central European Literature
The Destruction of Central European Jewry (and this is different from the first course how?)
Of course, I have yet to find out if I got the internship I applied for. However, I do know that I can attend four different kinds of Orthodox services on Shabbat, one Masorti (Conservative), and one marked "Progressive/Liberal (maybe English translation)." Not bad!
Finally, the water is safe to drink. Unless I'm on the nine-day death camp tour of Poland.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)