European Appliances

This is my European refridgerator.

It reminds me of something my father would have had in the pool house for beer. That and the metal clothes rack are the only pieces of furniture that came in this apartment when I moved in.  We since have purchased a washing machine (they don't do dryers here), but for some reason, have gone frugal on the fridge.

One reason is that eating out is our luxury. I'm embarrassed to say that we eat out about 4 times a week. When we are busy, that number rises to 5-6. Dining out is incredibly cheap here, and there are an endless array of eating establishments. I think about our lives in Spokane and how my dinner preparations began at 3pm. I would walk to Huckleberry's Market with a list of obscure ingredients (Galangal ginger! Tempeh! Rice wine vinegar! Sunchokes!) that probably cost much more than dining out at Spokane's finenst. I'd set up the ingredients and appliances (the counter space!) put on a good movie on the lap top, and set to work. By the time John got home from work (kisses at the door like a good TV wife) the pots and pans would be clean, dinner ready to be served. It was eaten in an exhausted 20 minutes on the living room table, second helpings, always welcome, an additional 5 minutes. John Stewart, Colbert, the Office, and then bed. It seems so rote now, but I really did enjoy the ritual.

Now we eat at restaurants, take longer to enjoy conversation. We've started to cook a little more. Like this roast chicken, or this to-die for mushroom soup. I'm not gonna lie, there are quite a few frozen pizza nights here in the Preston-Toman household. But when we do get up to cooking, it's a mutual effort, John often taking the lead. It's an abrupt turn-around.

I keep saying that on some occaision, some milestone, we'll upgrade to a bigger fridge. One where I don't have to get on my knees to find the mustard. But this one seems to be fine for now. Besides, it's summer. No one eats at home in Prague during the summer.

The beginnings of Spring

Today, I went outside for the first time in five months without my thigh-length, fur-trimmed down parka.  55 Degrees, sunny, beautiful. There are buds on the trees, boats on the river. With a little luck, I'll be down to a t-shirt in no time.

On the other side of the river, I followed a labrynth of "WC" signs into a walled park, around a bush, and walked smack into a muster of peacocks and peahens. 

Chamonix Mont Blanc!

John, Alexandra & I popped over the Chamonix to visit Camilla and get a taste of the apres ski. (Never thought I'd be in a "popping over to France" situation, but that's life for you!) It was a little more "apres" than "ski", but that was just fine by us.  

We hit the epic mountain on the second day, but the first day we spent walking around the town. We snagged the window seats at Elevation 1904, and as the day dimmed and the dog-tired off-pist skiiers made there way to the pubs, I captured many a sun-tanned face. There is something wonderful about the exhausted body after a day of truly great skiiing. I love happy-people watching.

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On the street, in the cold

The first sound I heard this morning was Gunner moaning from...where exactly was it? Is he under the bed, is he sick?  Wait, no, maybe it's not Gunner, maybe it's Alexandra's on a Skype call in her bedroom. Is she crying? What could be the matter? Should I go in there and check on her? No, it sounds further outside.  Is it someone talking on a bullhorn in Namesit Miru, the church square half a block down the corridor from our flat? What are they saying? How are they posssibly holding a political rally at this time of the morning on a Saturday and in this cold?  I get out of bed and make some coffee, sit on the couch and open my laptop. And then I hear it again, rolling past me on the street below.  It's the tram! I can make out the faint sound through my double-pained windows. The cold has actually changed the sound of the tram wheels grinding on their frozen metal tracks. It sounds like the tram is crying as it passes. It's that cold.

10F degrees actually. I thought that once the thermometer went below 32F it pretty much all felt the same. It turns out there is a big difference between 32F and 10F and it makes a huge difference in how long you can be outside without losing feeling in your nose.

We were eating lunch at a pizza restaurant the other day and there was heavy and consistent traffic outside the window. Three men, one woman with a baby in a stroller and one small boy, I'm guessing 3-4, stood in a loose group between our window and the street. The men were 30-ish, mullet-ed, pony-tailed. They had squeegies and spray bottles and alternated moving in and out of the traffic, trying to make a few crowns washing people's frozen windshields. The woman stayed on the side with the children, stepping side to side under her long cotton skirt, chain smoking over the stroller, watching the men, while the young boy stood still with his hands in his tiny courdoroy pockets, looking into the stroller at the baby. They were there for at least the 45 minutes that we were at the restuarant, but by the time we left the restaurant, they had moved to a perhaps more promising corner. Are they Gypsies? I keep hearing derogatory things about Gypsies from my Czech students and friends. Things that make my California-grown-politically-correct ears hum and make me uncomfortable in my seat. The Czechs are blatantly discriminatory against Gypsies in what, from my distant positition seems like a chicken and an egg problem: Discrimination...can't get jobs...don't work...make money from begging...maybe to a little stealing.....why work?...discrimination....and around again. But like I said, I'm a bit of an armchair philosopher on this one. The Czech (and Slovaks, and Russians) have no sympathies in their hearts for the Gypsies. 

Maybe this is what they do as a family, on a Friday afternoon, go out and watch dad squeegee cars in the shocking cold. I found myself too shy and embarrassed to run out of the restaurant and give them money. I considered buying them a pizza. But, what if I misunderstood the situation? Would it be insulting? There's no way they spoke English. How could I explain myself? To be honest, I found myself actually quite mad at the mother. Is there no place, other than this cold corner, that you can take your children? No homeless shelter is going to turn out a mother and babies in this cold, if in fact, they don't have a place to live. It seemed to me that it was her choice to keep her children standing there all day while she watched her husband/boyfriend/brother (who by the way spent most the time joking with his friends, not comforting the woman, not picking up the 3 year old and squeezing the cold out of him). Reading this, I sound like an ignorant, arrogant middle-class jerk. How dare they be poor, how dare they let their children stand out in the cold. In India, I saw them force their children to roll in dirt wander through traffic begging for money. In Vietnam, their children work the cash register at the family store at 1:00am. In Cambodia, they dress their children up with three coats of make-up and costumes and send them into the strobe-lit tourist nightclubs to beg for money. And here the poor children keep their mother company while she keeps her boyfriend company in the bitter cold while he tries to score a few crowns. Can I judge what a family makes their children do for money? If the mullet-ed boyfriend uses the crowns he earned for cigarettes, can I despise them all and join my Czech friends in their judgment? If he gives the crowns to the woman and she uses the crowns to buy milk and bread for the children can I forgive that they both made a baby and a 3-year old stand in the freezing cold for hours?

I can go 'round and 'round, but I guess the only truth I can come to is that there's no real place for my judgment in this scenario. It's just the way the world is.

Oh that's so American of you...

Certain things betray one as American, just as I'm sure certain things betray one was Austrian (never crossing on a red) Japanese (a penchant for dashboard-scapes of small collectable plush toys) Indian (a strong, persistent and unabashed stare at any foreigner) Italian (the need to walk in inpenetrable 30-person tourist-packs, tight jeans, puffy fur jackets on men, hightop sneakers, really awful haircuts, need I go on?).

So, what are the things that give away one's Americaness? According to our Czech friend Karel, asking someone "How are you?" upon meeting them is very American. So American, that Czechs quite literally don't know how to respond - it often befuddles them. I should have gathered as much, as I've never gotten a satisfactory answer to this rhetorical question. I used to ask my Czech students, as they filed in the classroom door, "How are you, Honza? And Hana, how are you?" and the questions would literally stop them in their single file tracks, backing up a line of disgruntled students out the door. After each had spent a moment or two considering my question, I'd usually get a response detailing a mixture of physical ailments, dwindling job prospects, and an overall feeling of malaise. I know the Czechs are a complaining people - they openly and proudly admit how much they complain! (It's the Czech pass time! some of them tell me.) I just figured that my question was giving them a platform to complain, and it was my own fault for asking it. 

My landlord is working on remodling the flat below us, and I often see him on my way out the door in the morning. By the looks and sounds of it, he's got a lot to complain about. The first thing I always say to him is "Dobre Den" (Good Day) and then, embarrassed that I don't have the Czech to go much further, I say "Jak si Mate?" (How are you?) This always prompts a fluster of hand movements, hands to head, clenched fists shaken at the ceiling, and then an exasperated wave, motioning me to just go on with my day as his was not worth commenting on.

Karel tells me that "How are you?" is something Czechs would never ask each other, unless it was half way through the converstation when you were truly, genuinely interested in an honest response. They think it's somewhat fake that American's ask this. When you think about it, it's true - we're not looking for a real answer. We're looking for "Fine." "Great!" "Couldn't be better, how about those Dodgers?!" We don't give negative responses to that question, unless we're trying to bring the other person down, and an American would never do that. The Czechs on the other hand....

I've also been told that I was "so American" by another American who has lived here for a few years longer than I (therefore, qualified to judge). What was my transgression? My penchant for fire safety, apparently.  See, most of the building doors here in Prague are locked at night, from both the inside and the outside, but SOME of them are actually locked all day long. In fact, almost every time I leave this friend's apartment, I get to the bottom, realize I don't have a key, and have to walk back up to his floor to get the key, which I then have to keep in my pocket until I remember to give it back to him.  Now, what exactly does one do when that building is aflame?  This door is about 2 inches thick, solid oak, and there is no way I would be able to kick it in, especially with flames lapping at my backside, as some of my manlier friends insist they would do. What is the purpose of a door lock that keeps you IN? Especially in the middle of the day? I don't think it's especially American of me to think that's a dangerous situation, not just for Americans, but for....pretty much all mammals. Maybe that's just the dormant personal injury paralegal in me.

Speaking of safety or lack thereof, take a look at these fantasic skating devices some Czech parents cooked up in their steelyards:

Did you catch that? That was a rusty, metal, home-fashioned ice-skating crutch built for youngin's who have barely learned to walk on sneakers, let alone ice skates. Sharp at it's angles, and about knee high for your average full-grown adult, of which there were about 150 skating on this particular rink on this particular day.

When I first saw it, I thought, wow, what a genius homespun contracption.  And then I saw someone fall and almost lose an eye.  But who am I to judge. That would be cultural imperialism.