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.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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?
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…
Yeah…
Thursday, February 12, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
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…
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…
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