The Decision to Flee Came Suddenly

Or maybe not. Maybe I had planned it all along…

It all started on Wednesday, March 18th. I came home from class to find my roommate looking worried. “Ian’s in jail,” he said. Ian was his good friend. The Friday before, Ian had mentioned getting a letter from the foreign police. He said that he had talked to the woman that is in charge of the visa stuff for our company (Ian and I worked at the same language school), and she had told him not to worry, and that they would go on Wednesday morning to get it sorted out. Now, it was Wednesday, and, apparently, it hadn’t been sorted, because Ian was sitting in a jail cell.

After being held for 12 hours without food or water, they released him – but not before giving him 14 days to leave the Schengen zone (continental Europe) and putting a stamp in his passport expelling him for a year therefrom. Turns out, Ian’s offense was overstaying his 90 day tourist visa. They knew this because he had applied for a work visa.

Upon hearing this, I immediately thought, “Uh oh… This applies to me… I may be leaving sooner than I had anticipated…”

A quick word about the visa process for Americans here:

It’s very complicated…

Americans generally come to Europe on 90 day tourist visas. If you intend to study or work, you need a student or work visa. When I came here, I intended to both study and work. If someone had asked me about this at customs, I would have had to lie: “No, I’m just a tourist.” Otherwise, they wouldn’t let me in without the appropriate visa. Technically, this whole adventure has been illegal.

In order to get the work visa, you need an employer to sponsor you. You also need to have housing lined up. The above-board process is to get a job and housing while outside the country, apply for a visa, wait about 3 months, get the visa, come here, and start working. No one does this. It’s impossible. Instead, people come here, find a job and housing, and then apply for their visas – from outside the country. I went to Germany. This makes it look like you’re not actually living and working in the country in which you are illegally living and working. This trick has always worked, and has always been overlooked by the authorities – until, apparently, about a month and a half ago.

When I started working for my company, I immediately got in touch with the woman who handles visas for them. I gave her all my visa paperwork about a month before my tourist visa was set to expire. I told her that I didn’t want to be illegal, and I wanted to apply before I was. She said she couldn’t do the application in time, and that it didn’t matter if I was over my tourist visa. No one had ever been denied a visa coming from our company. Ever.

Back to the story… The night Ian was let out of jail, I heard from someone else who had been waiting for a visa. He had been denied – along with 25 other people from our company. Some people were denied because they had overstayed their tourist visas. Others were denied for seemingly no reason at all.

Trying to gather as much information as I could, I found out that, because of the financial crisis, starting in March, the EU began cracking down on illegals. They’re going after people who come from the east (Ukraine, Russia, Mongolia, Thailand, etc), work here illegally, and then send the money they make back to their home country – taking it out of the local economy. Because of this, the authorities have become very strict about who they issue visas to, and have started looking very carefully at visa applications. I think the woman who was doing all our visas was very loosey-goosey about the applications. Because they had been so relaxed in the past, she would let things slip. But now, because of the crackdown, everything must be done exactly by the book, and all her applications are being scrutinized. She doesn’t work there anymore.

Well, well, well… Well, what about my visa? The people who had been denied had all applied before me. I still needed to wait to hear. So, I waited, anticipating bad news. I finally heard about two weeks ago. One of the women from my company went to the foreign police office to inquire about the status of my visa on my behalf. After pulling some strings, she was able to talk to someone very high up, who told her that I had been denied. And that I would probably be getting a letter in the mail – one that says to come on down to the foreign police office for a little chat.

As great a story as it would be to get arrested, interrogated, and expelled from the country, I think I’d prefer to take my chances with voluntary escape. Hopefully I won’t have any problems at the airport…

This post certainly makes the whole thing sound more dramatic than it actually is. For the most part, I’m actually fine with the situation. The two bad things about it:

1. Prague was just warming up and getting beautiful (and overrun with tourists…). Luckily I got to experience some of this before going.

2. Despite my leaving before they get a chance to interrogate me, the Czech foreign police may still decide to expel me from the Schengen zone for a year or so. This would screw up any trips I would plan to take to… well… Europe. And, if I decide to go to Spain in the fall, I might have trouble getting a visa/entering the country. Not much I can do about this though… I know they’ll expel me for sure if I go talk to them… Seems safer to just leave before they have the opportunity…

So… that’s that. My flight’s tomorrow. Nashledanou, Praha…

See y’all soon.

Obama! Here?!

Today, Obama came to Prague. There were a bunch of people there. He talked about nuclear non-proliferation. Here are some pictures:

No More Plays, Please

Ugh… On Wednesday, we went to see another play. This one was Shakespeare – Anthony and Cleopatra – a Charles University production. Big mistake… I cannot emphasize enough how bad the plays are here. I blame Jamie. It was his idea to go. His defense is that he saw “a professional looking poster” in a book shop. I don’t buy it. He should have known better.

Before the play started, we joked that it might be in Czech (but we decided that would be unlikely). We also joked that they might speak with Czech accents. Be careful what you joke about… The first line of the play was incomprehensible. Is this Czech? No… wait… its English… with a (you guessed it) thick Czech accent. Crap… Within minutes, Ruth had literally run out of the theater, unable to suffer through another second of it. People performing Shakespeare with Czech accents suck. It also didn’t help that virtually the entire ensemble could not act – not to save their lives. Horrifying… Many of them seemed to be confused about the meaning of the lines they were speaking – not sure where to put the inflection, and clueless about how they should feel about them. Which word should I emphasize? I’ll go with “the”. That sounds about right. How does my character feel about this line? How about happy? Sure. When should I smile? I guess now’s as good a time as any…

And the hairdos – oh, the hairdos… Were mullets popular in Roman times? And the blocking – oh, the blocking… It never looks good when the actors bump into one another. Why did you decide to stand there? You have no lines. Get out of the way. It’s bad enough that everyone is struggling desperately to remember what they’re supposed to say next. We don’t need you distracting them by idling in the middle of the scene.

We bolted at the act break – ran from the theater and didn’t look back.

Kafka

You know, Kafka lived here in Prague.

Sometimes I feel like this:


Prague's Franz Kafka International Named World's Most Alienating Airport

Gotta love The Onion...

No Jews Here

So, the other day, I went to the old Jewish Quarter (which is, like, down the street from my apartment). There are a bunch of beautiful old synagogues there. Each one has been converted into a museum. Some of the museums are focused on the history of the Jews in Prague and (what is now) The Czech Republic. Others detail what medieval Jewish life was like. Still others talk about the Holocaust and, specifically, the concentration camp Terezin (which is nearby). Most strangely, a couple talk about Judaism in general - what it was, how it was practiced, what the rituals were, etc... Everything is written in the past tense. It's very surreal.


Up until the war, Prague (and the Czech Republic) supported one of the most thriving and storied Jewish communities in Europe. Now, there are no Jews here. In the entire country there are (something like) a few thousand, and their average age is (something like) 75. The synagogues are now mausoleums to a people that have vanished from the country. As far as the museums are concerned, Jews may very well no longer exist. It's weird reading about yourself in the past tense.




Side note: Now that spring is slowly approaching (very slowly...) there are tourists all over Prague. Most of them seem to be Italian. I hear more Italian than Czech these days. Many of the Italians are student groups - from high school, I think. They must be on (the equivalent of) senior trip. They're everywhere. You can't walk ten steps without getting swept up in another tour filled with (largely disinterested) Italian kids. Oh, there are also French groups, and Spanish groups (haven't seen any Germans yet...). Western Europe must be conspiring to send all their youth to Prague for some reason. Maybe so that they develop a better appreciation of their own cuisine... and learn a little something about these "Jews" they keep hearing about while they're at it...

Gypsy Girls Fighting

I apologize for this. Normally, I wouldn't do this. But, one of my student sent me this video (he sends me all sorts of stuff). I feel like I have to post it. The subject line, in his email, was "gypsy girls fighting". Here it is.


Sorry for that... I'm not sure they're actually "gypsies".

Gold Class

So, last night, Ruth and I decide to go see the movie “Duel: Frost/Nixon” (yes, they added the word “duel” to the title – I have no idea why). At this point, it’s only playing at one cinema in Prague – at one time. We go to the cinema, and ask for tickets. Now, its worth mentioning that I noticed, on the board of “now-playing” movies, that there was a “GC” next to the time for our movie, and only our movie. At the time I didn’t think anything of it. Oops.

We order tickets. They end up costing the equivalent of $16. For a movie ticket?! That’s crazy. Usually, a ticket costs half that amount! The guy at the counter tells us the movie is expensive because its “gold class”. We have no idea what this means, but we figure we’ve come this far, we might as well just watch the damn thing. He asks us where we want to sit, and shows us a screen with a theater layout. The theater has three columns of seat pairs that are each four rows deep. That’s 24 seats. Small theater, right? That’s what I think. We select two seats on the right side of the theater. After handing us our tickets, the ticket guy tells us not to buy food at the concession stand, but rather to buy it “upstairs”. Ok…

Our theater is not listed on the regular directory. Instead, a separate sign points the way. “Gold Class: This Way” We go up a separate escalator and wind up in a very upscale bar. The ticket-taker woman rips our tickets, and then hands us a menu. What do you want? Cocktail? Ice-cream? Cake? Sushi? An entire meal? These can be yours. Hang your coat up in the coat-closet, the movie’s about to start.

The woman leads us to our seats in the theater. The theater, by the way, is not small at all. It’s a regular sized theater – only, it has 24 seats. It’s the seats that are large. They’re gigantic recliners. In between each pair of seats is a table. This is where you would put your sushi, had you ordered some. “I wonder if these seats recline…” I feel around for a… there it is – a switch. And, yes, they recline. And, yes, there’s a leg rest that comes up if you recline far enough. This is comfy…

The movie: good, but not earth shattering. The seats: amazing. Was it worth $16? Yes.

Dogs!

People love their dogs here. They bring them everywhere. On the subway, on the trams, into shops, into restaurants, everywhere. You rarely see a “no dogs allowed” sign. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one…

So, the dogs poop everywhere. And their owners don’t bother to clean it up. The sidewalks are littered with poop. People step in it all the time. There’s always someone dragging one of their feet across the cobblestones. They're not disabled – they just have some poop on their shoe.

Yesterday, in class, I had my students debate whether or not dog owners should be fined if they’re caught leaving their dog’s droppings on the sidewalk. Clearly, no such law exists at the moment. It was a very lively and spirited debate – about poop. We didn’t use the word “poop” though. *wink, wink* (This blog has been rated PG. Hiding the children won't be necessary.)

On Thursday, I went to a little bar with some friends. The owner of the bar had three miniature dachshunds. They were cute, until one of them started barking incessantly at the people at the table next to us for no discernible reason. Then, we noticed the poo – directly under our table. And the other, messier, poo – about a meter away. Mind the ground – even indoors. Poo is everywhere.

Um...

There are some crazy people in Prague. I was sitting on the tram the other day, and I took notice of a man sitting at the front of the car when he coughed up something on the tram floor, and then rubbed it in with his foot. Taking a look at this man, I saw that he was scratching something on his ankle. And it was bleeding. The blood was running down his leg. His socks were black, so I couldn’t see if they were blood soaked, but they must have been, because the blood was running out of his sock and down his shoe. After a few stops, he got up and left.

Another day, I saw a man (sitting on the tram) having an intense conversation with a man sitting across the isle. Looking closer, I noticed that the man who was talking (very animatedly, by the way) was crazy, and the guy he was talking to was not actually talking, or listening, but was, in fact, a stranger who was staring straight ahead, trying not to attract the crazy man’s attention. It wasn’t working. When his conversation buddy got up to leave, the crazy man shook his hand and thanked him for the conversation. My friend said, "That guy's a heroin addict."

And, yet another time, I was waiting at a tram stop with some friends (why do these stories always involve the trams, I wonder…) and a drunk, crazy, and possibly Italian guy came up to us and started cursing, in English, at inanimate objects. He took our nervous laughter as a sign of friendship, and when we got on our tram, he got on too. The tram ride was short, and our new friend spent most of the ride talking to himself rather than us. When we got off, we said goodbye, and he followed us. As soon as the tram drove away, he started peeing in the street. We took the opportunity to disappear into a restaurant. In the restaurant, as we’re getting ready to sit down, I see our buddy walk by the window. Oh no… Slowly count down. 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… And in he comes. He opens the door, yells, “My friends!” to the frightened waitress while gesturing toward us, and then leaves. We never saw him again.

What’s with the people in this town?

Carnival?

On Saturday, something strange happened in Old Town Square. There was some sort of carnival type thing going on. There was a circle of spectators, and people on stilts, and a costume contest. I’m not sure what else to say… The whole thing seemed a little half-assed. Here are some pictures.


The Carnival MC and his Vesper Gang.


Creepy stilt people.


One of these spectators is not like the others...


A leaping, goat-person.


I think Radagast and his red-nosed military officer won the costume contest?

Lean Your Head Back Please

So, my private student was sick last week, so we didn’t have our next lesson until this past Thursday. I come in at our scheduled time, and the receptionist sits me down to wait for my student. She’s cutting someone’s hair, and doesn’t acknowledge that I’m there. Time passes. She’s still cutting hair. Doesn’t bother greeting me. Eventually, after twenty minutes, she walks to the register, takes some money out, and brusquely puts it in my hand. She still isn’t feeling well, so she’s going to have to cancel the lesson. Oh, and she forgot about it. Then, she realizes how she can use me… She has an employee whose English is crap. She knows nothing. She wants me to work with this girl and help her memorize/pronounce a bunch of English phrases that will be useful at the salon. So, for twenty minutes or so, we drill things like: “Do you want your hair straight, or layered?” “I will put a towel on your shoulders.” and “lean your head back please.”

Yeah…

Don Juan

I just came back from a play at the Estate Theater (a beautiful old theater, where Mozart, ironically, premiered, and personally conducted his opera, Don Giovanni). Ruth and I went to see Don Juan. We had originally gone to get tickets to Swan Lake, but, as we went at the last minute, it was sold out. So we got tickets to this instead. Oops.

First of all, the play was (not surprisingly) entirely in Czech. “That’s ok,” we thought. “It’s a famous story. We’ll just read a synopsis beforehand and we’ll be able to figure out what’s going on through the action.” Wrong. This play made entirely no sense – in any language.

First of all, Don Juan is a story about a ladies man. He seduces many women. That’s what the whole thing is about. In this version, Don Juan seduces no women. In fact, there are barely any women in the play. Instead, Don Juan spends his time standing around in abstract spaces, talking to old men – while wearing ridiculous outfits. Casanova he is not.

Secondly, what is this cavalcade of weirdos? The guy in the diaper? The old, shirtless man wearing a tie? The woman in white with the crazy platinum hair? And the wrestler, whose muscles are drawn onto his torso with magic marker, and who winds up being tased by one of the old men? Why are there sporadic, solo musical numbers? These actors can’t sing. Someone make them stop.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, the second act begins with a multimedia segment. On the back wall of the stage, a video is projected. In the video, a man in a luchador mask is in a men’s room with a woman. After relieving himself into one of the urinals, he hands the woman a gun. She shoots herself. Then, he leaves. Yeah…

As we left the theater, we decided that, from now on, we won’t be going to any more plays.

They Come From Communism

As you can infer from previous posts, the Czech people are not the friendliest. My students are all great. They’re warm and friendly and open. But the general attitude on the street is icy.

The people living in our apartment building are also… less than friendly… Especially the people living directly below us. I haven’t been here for this, but, three times in the last month and a half, my roommates have been yelled at for making too much noise. Granted, once was a party, but another time, they were playing charades. Charades! That’s a silent game. And the women came up and started screaming at my roommate in Czech.

So, my one roommate, Ruth, has been yelled at by this woman on three separate occasions. But, if Ruth is ever coming up to the front door to the apartment, and the lady that lives below us happens to be leaving the building, and Ruth grabs the open door and walks in, the lady will flip out, and yell at her, asking Ruth if she lives here. “I’m sorry. Remember me? You’ve certainly yelled in my face enough. I live above you…”

Everyone just seems to be a little on edge and suspicious of others. Which prompted us to ask the question, “Where do these people come from?”

Ruth’s reply: They come from Communism.

Haircut!

I recently got a private student. I actually came recommended to her from the TEFL school I went to. I guess it sometimes pays to be the biggest wiseass in the room…

Yesterday I met up with her for our first lesson. We were supposed to meet in Old Town Square, by the big statue. When I arrived, I got a call from her. “I’m in my car.” I look around and see her waving her arm from the window of a brand-new BMW. I get in. She says that she couldn’t find a jacket, so she had to take the car. She then drives 200 yards around the corner to where we’re having our lesson – the hair salon she owns. She finds a parking spot about 200 yards from the salon.

She tells me that she just went running with a friend, so she needs to have her hair washed. She sits down at the washing sink and calls one of her employees over to wash her hair. Then, she tells me to sit down next to her and start the lesson. "Um… While your head is tilted back, getting your hair washed?" I don’t say this, but rather imply it. She doesn’t care. On with the lesson!

After her hair is washed, we move into a quieter, private, facial(?) room. We sit across a large dentist-office style chair covered in towels (you know, for facials). As soon as we begin the lesson again, another employee enters with a hairdryer. The next half hour of lesson is conducted while screaming over the noise of the hairdryer. Great stuff… I think she learned a lot…

When the lesson was finished, I asked her how much a haircut costs. “550 kc” she says. “For a men’s haircut?” I ask. “That’s a lot.” She tells me that, if I don’t mind being a model for a stylist in training, she’ll give me a haircut for free. Free haircut? Why not? I get penciled in for later in the day.

So, I come back later in the afternoon. While I’m waiting, my student comes up to me and says “behind you, in the chair by the window, is the former President’s wife. Don’t look now.”

“Wow… She must have some high profile clientele,” I think. “This is going to be a great haircut.” Yeah… Don’t get ahead of yourself, Seth…

The girl who cut my hair seemed to have no idea of what she was doing. She refused to just grab a chunk and cut it (despite its length). She even dropped the scissors at one point. When she stopped for me to look at it, it was a shapeless mess. Spikes of hair were going every which way. My ears were still covered. I looked ridiculous. I don’t think she’d ever cut a man’s hair before…

After another unsuccessful attempt at cutting, the owner (my student) jumped in to salvage the job. The end result turned out to be ok. But, man, was I nervous for a while there…

Danone Factory!

On Mondays, I have classes in a town about a 45-minute bus-ride from Prague called Benesov.

In Europe, the yoghurt brand that Americans call “Dannon”, is actually spelled (and pronounced) “Danone”. The company has one factory in the Czech Republic. It is in Bensov. This is where I teach English on Mondays.

One of my students is the head of packaging. Last Monday, he gave me a tour of the factory. I even got to wear this cool outfit:


[Why am I in my apartment in this picture? Because I stuffed my paper lab-coat into my bag when no one was looking, that’s why. Hey! It was a gift. They’re not reusing those things…]

Fun facts about the Benesov Danone factory:

1. They supply 99% of the Czech Republics Danone products.
2. The above figure is only 60% of their output.
3. The rest is exported all over Europe.

Wanna hear more?

1. There are only 50 Danone factories in the world.
2. About half of them are in Europe.
3. North America has only 3 Dannon factories. 3! And they produce the entire supply.

And I learned all about how Danone yoghurt is made! Wanna hear? No? Ok. I didn’t feel like telling you anyway…

Obama!

Everyone loves Obama. Its crazy. Even in Japan, the primary with Hilary Clinton was followed extremely closely, and even the people in my middle-of-nowhere town would talk to me about it and know a decent amount – about the primary.

Now that he’s been elected (and actually serving as president by the time you read this) people all over Europe are talking about him. In France, dinner conversation would almost always steer toward Obama, the election, and what a big change this was for America. From what I’ve seen, the French are totally into America again.

Just last night, some friends and I were in a little convenient store, and the little Vietnamese owner raised his arms above his head and yelled “Obama!” when he figured out we were American.

People dig the man…

Corporate Life

I recently signed up to teach for one of the language schools in Prague. To protect the innocent, I’m not going to mention which one. But I will say that it is very corporate…

Teaching for a language school in Prague is entirely different from what I was doing in Japan. The language schools’ clients are businesses. The businesses say that they need X amount of English classes or private lessons, and the language schools find teachers to teach those classes. I don’t work in a “school”. I go all over the city to teach my lessons. And I don’t get paid a salary. I get paid per lesson. The school gradually fills their new teachers’ schedules. So, since I haven’t even been there a week. I only have 7 hours of classes so far. I’m making no money. Hopefully, in the next couple weeks, they’ll have filled out my schedule to something closer to 20 hours a week.

On Friday, I went into the school for a new teachers workshop. I figured they’d tell us a few things about teaching, a few things about how things worked, and we’d get out of there. Oh boy… So, we started off by breaking into four teams, and in our teams, we had to “draw” the departmental structure of the company – complete with the four major departments, some of their subdivisions, and the names of some of the people who work in those departments… That activity was then followed up by an even better one: a quiz game. Each group takes turns answering questions. The questions go like this: “if you want to take an extended holiday, who do you talk to?” The teams get one point for the person’s name, and another point for their job title. Mind you, when they hire you, they give you a sheet with all this information. As useful as it might be, there’s no need to memorize it. It’s all on the sheet. Have a problem? See the sheet. Talk to the appropriate person. Why are we playing this horrible game?

And the “workshop” didn’t end there. Oh, no, no, no… It went on for another three hours… About all types of things that can be found in the information packet we all got – complete with asinine questions from the peanut gallery. Yes, tell the group every detail of the class that you are having a problem with. This is a good way to spend everyone’s time.

I got so antsy… The window started looking like a reasonable escape route. I can’t wait for next Friday’s workshop…

Prague in Winter

It's really cold here. Highs consistently in the low twenties. Here are some pictures.

The view from our apartment



Old Town Square



Statues in Old Town Square



A building...

Worst Customer Service...

This place has the worst customer service… ever. Especially compared to the absurdly polite and thorough help in Japan.

There’s multiple incidents of this in the previous post… There’s the waitresses that ignore you forever until finally, begrudgingly coming over to take your order… And there’s the people at Tesco, who, granted, were doing something (seemingly unimportant) at the time, but when I went up to them to ask them a question, deliberately ignored me. Just pretended like I wasn’t there. Do I need to shove you against the vacuum cleaners and yell my question into your face? Pay attention to me! I wanna buy things from your store… damn…

Operation Package Retrieval

The other day, I ventured down to the international post office to pick up a package for a friend. Oh boy… Czech people are not nearly as helpful as Japanese people – or any other people, for that matter. In fact, they are decidedly unhelpful.

So, I actually find the post office (a good first step) – a disgusting commie-style building. Inside, its even worse – a labyrinth of neon-lit, uniform, tattered hallways that lead to abandoned offices, and… a cafeteria(?!).

I find an employee, show her my slip, give her a confused look that says, “where do I go to pick this up.” She has no idea. None at all. The guy standing next to her (another employee) also has no idea. Do you people even work here? Where did you get those badges?

So, I go to the main area, where there are several tellers behind thick glass. I stand there confused. See a guy pushing a button on a machine. A number pops out. I do the same... 573. This is going to be a long wait…

When I finally get to the teller, I hand her the slip. She tells me to go upstairs. “First floor,” she says (in English, by the way – she was very proud of herself).

I go to the first floor. There seems to be no package-pickup place. Just a dingy cooridor. I listen… Hear talking. Find the door. Knock. Open it. And find two guys in postal worker uniforms sitting at desks. They ignore me. I say “excuse me,” and give my patented “bewildered look” while extending the slip. The guys stare at me. Don’t say anything. I walk toward one with my slip. He takes a look at it for a second and then raises a finger into the air. Up.

I go up another floor. Which way to go? Right or left? I choose right. Walk through the doors. This could be the place… Tellers sit behind glass. People are picking up packages. Things look good. I approach the nearest teller. She ignores me. I say “excuse me” and give her my slip. She looks at it, staples something to it, and tells me to go to the next window. I go to the next window. The woman there knows I’m standing in front of her. Her coworker just told me, in Czech, to go to her. I say “excuse me” and extend my slip. She ignores me. She’s busy with something. She takes her time with it. Doesn’t look up. Only when she finishes does she acknowledge my presence. She takes the slip. Says, “passport.” Uh oh… I am not the person on the slip… Luckily, I, and my cohorts at the TEFL school, had the foresight to forge a letter saying that I have permission to handle all of my friend's business while she is away (complete with forged signature).

Mission: Retrieve Package

Agent: Sooky

Objective: Retrieve package from the clutches of Czech bureaucracy.

Status: Complete

Outcome: Success. Package in Agent’s care.

Notes: Appropriate documents forged. Agent willing to break laws. Justice is on his side.

Dublin

I went to Dublin last weekend to visit Dave and Charlotte! Fun was had. Here are some pictures:

Trinity College



The Spire above the shops off O'Connell Street.



St Stephen's Green.



Howth - it was really windy and rainy.



Us on the cliffs of Howth. Note the rainbow in the background. *wink, wink* (insert your favorite leprechaun/pot of gold joke here)

No, I'm Not From Here

People say I don’t “look American” (I’m not sure what that means, what do Americans look like?). It’s weird, but I blend in in Europe. I’m not used to passing unnoticed in a foreign country… The funny thing is, both in Prague and in France, the natives try to talk to me.

Yesterday, a goofy, disheveled looking Czech guy came up to me and asked me for directions – I shrugged and walked away. It’s not even the first time that’s happened…

In France, the same thing would happen. My friend, who speaks fluently (but, I guess, looks “American”), would initiate conversation with someone, and then the person she was speaking to would turn to me, as if I was the French one.

I must look European or something.

During the TEFL class, we had a conversation about what nationality people resembled. Someone said, “I think you look Jewish.”

“You might be on to something…”

Nantes

Nantes is a city southwest of Paris – about an hour’s drive from the ocean.

It’s advisable that you come here with someone who knows the locals. Maybe, someone who lived here for a year, and lived with three different host families, and has friends. Said host families and friends will be happy to invite you to dinner… and lunch… and dinner again… Eating is the main priority here. Menus will be shared.

You will plan to spend a few days here, but you will end up staying for over a week. So much for plans…

Upon arrival, the people you meet decide to call you “Roger” because “Seth” is too hard to pronounce. You tell them that “Set,” “Ses,” even “Sef” are ok. But they like “Roger.” Oh well…


You will be invited to Christmas Eve at the Amieux residence. The family will be extremely warm and hospitable. But first – Christmas mass – at an amazing old church. The service will not be long. You will not understand much of it. You will be distracted by the architecture and frescos surrounding you. They don’t build houses of worship like they used to…

The main event, however, will be dinner. The menu:

Appetizers: sandwiches, chips, cheese, bruchetta, champagne
First Course: faux grois with bread and fig jam, sweet white wine
Main Course: venison in current sauce, mashed potatoes, salad, red wine
Cheese Course – brie, stinky camembert, bread, more red wine
Dessert: cake
After Dinner… Course(?): coffee and chocolates

Wow… A guy could get used to this…

On Christmas day, Nantes will become a ghost town. No long lines outside of movie theaters. No packed Chinese food restaurants. In fact, the Chinese restaurant will be closed. Closed! Who doesn’t celebrate Christmas around here… Arabs! Today, you will feast on kebobs. Twice. Don’t look so sad. This is Christmas.

The next day: a lunch invitation at Sandrine’s! The menu:

First Course – tomatoes and onions, bread with butter, white wine
Main Course – rabbit, green beans, red wine
Cheese Course – brie, camembert, chevre, butter, more red wine
Dessert – King’s cake

After lunch, take a drive to the coast, where it will be freezing, but scenic.


Dinner at Fabienne’s! The menu:

Appetizers: chips and guacamole, sweet white wine
Main Course: raclette (absurdly heavy), red wine
Dessert: ice cream cake

Seafood lunch at the Amieux’s: But first, an oyster opening class. Opening oysters is harder than it looks. The first thing you’ll need is the obligatory oyster-opening wine (sweet white). You can’t open oysters without it. The next things you’ll need are a knife and a mitt. Hold the knife in you strong hand, and put the mitt on your weak hand.

Step 1: Hold an oyster in the mitt, and jab the knife into the back of the oyster. It won’t go in.
Step 2: Shimmy it, twist, and struggle for a while. It won’t go in.
Step 3: Take a sip of oyster-opening wine.
Step 4: Repeat steps 2 and 3 until the oyster opens.
Step 5: Feel a sense of accomplishment.


You will get six opened while your mentors open, like, twenty. After struggling to open each oyster, you will look up to find the plate with 6 newly opened oysters on it.


The meal will start with (of course) oysters (and white wine – different from oyster-opening wine), then move on to shrimp, crab, and little booger black shell things – bread and butter throughout. When the meal is over, you will think, “Oh good, a light meal…” But then, the table will be cleared, and you will be told to stay put. “What’s happening now?” “Now we have turkey.” Tricked! The whole thing was only the first course…

Second course: turkey (in a cream sauce), potatoes (both boiled and mashed), salad, more bread and butter
Dessert: buttery sugary pastry and clementines
After Lunch… Course(?): coffee and chocolate

People say the French like to eat. This is inaccurate. Everyone likes to eat. The French like to eat well. This difference is very important.

Having not received a proper invitation to attend a New Years dinner party, you will decide to go with your second option: an invite from someone you don’t know to attend a get together in the middle of nowhere, France. There will be three big dogs (people will get scratched) and a salad bowl that may or may not contain salad. To ring in the New Year, you will take the dogs for a walk in the pitch black countryside, passing a champagne bottle amongst you. It will be weird. The next morning, you will be told that you had a conversation about existentialism and extra-terrestrials with someone who speaks no English. You will not remember this. Everyone else you know will also be told this story.

After many goodbyes, hop a plane back to Prague.

Paris

Paris is a beautiful city. You will not realize this immediately. The airport is a hellish mess, and the train ride into downtown will be less than scenic.

When you arrive downtown, you will not have a place to stay. Schlep your bags all over the city. This is the best idea. But, avoid stairs at all costs. They will be trying to kill you.

You will eventually arrive at a cheap hostel. You will not want to stay here. No one should want to stay here. Use their internet to find a better place.

You will find an amazing place. This is their website.

Buy the cheap fare. It buys the same room as the regular fare, only cheaper. Capsules in Tokyo cost more than this…

For the next three days, you will walk around the city. Some things will be closed. Other things will be crowded. This is what they look like:












Leave all the talking to the French speaker. When people look at you for confirmation (you are French, after all) nod knowingly. When you do open your mouth to place an order, you will get laughed at for saying “chocolate croissant” instead of “pan au chocolate.” This innocuous mistake is apparently hilarious and needs to be repeated to every French person you see for the next several days. You are a moron, and everyone must know it.

France

What’s everyone doing for the Christmas holiday? Oh… people go visit family and stuff on Christmas… Will anyone be in Prague? No? Ok…

“Come to France with me.”

Sure. What the hell.

“Oh, you speak fluent French and have people we can stay with? Sounds like a plan.”

Arrive in Paris:

“There is no plan. No one knows we’re coming. But they’ll invite us to Christmas anyway. And give us lodging. They like me. Things will be fine. You’ll see.”

You will see: having big, blue eyes and speaking French will solve all problems.