Speaking Czech in the maternity ward

My plans for my pre-baby maternity leave consisted of:

1. Organise the house.

2. Vastly improve my Czech so that I could calmly chat with the midwives whilst giving birth.

The Czech textbooks (yes, all three of them) were dutifully located and dusted off, but I spent about as much studying as I did organising, which was significantly dwarfed by the time spent wobbling from the sofa to the toilet, faffing with my collection of pillows, and eating antacids like (very subpar) bonbons.

I wasn't so concerned about actually giving birth. First of all, L was almost certainly going to be there. And secondly, the baby was coming out one way or another, regardless of my language skills. As it turned out (as mentioned in the previous post), the amount of vocabulary necessary to actually give birth was pretty much limited to some heart-felt moans and ‘HE’S COMING!’ from me.

However, my big concern was how comfortable it would be with my Czech for the pretty much mandated post-birth hospital stay. One big difference between the UK and Czech approaches to maternity care is that while the UK system is very eager to turf out new mothers at the earliest opportunity (or, even better! Just stay in your living room – we’ll come to you!), the Czech system is pretty insistent that one shouldn’t even consider leaving the confines of the hospital for at least three nights. 

Since I have a very bouncy four-year-old and a half-organised house, I decided a few days of having my meals delivered to my bedside wasn’t such a bad idea.

Not only did I survive on my sloppy Czech, my time in the hospital noticeably improved my language skills. In the postpartum 'I am amazing, look what I did!' haze, I lost nearly all of my shyness about appearing foreign. While previously, I would see if I could ‘pass’ as Czech through well-timed head nodding and stringent reliance on the words I know how to pronounce properly, in the hospital, I found myself cheerily telling all-and-sundry, ‘Mluvím anglicky a trochu česky.’ [I speak English and a little Czech].

I cheerily butchered sentence after sentence about newborn care and the state of my delicate bits. I learned a few new vocabulary words, including the delightful pupeční šňůra (umbilical cord). I tried to listen in on my roommate’s late night telephone conversations (which, if I understood correctly, detailed the process of her giving birth in the hospital car park!).

The first nurse I talked with following the birth set my expectations for the rest of the stay rather low when she turned to my roommate and tutted that it was so terrible with these women who don’t speak Czech. I thought this was a little unfair considering I had understood and responded appropriately to all of her instructions about caring for the baby, myself, the room, the bed and had only stumbled on filling in a form regarding permissions for a variety of procedures.

However, most of the other staff were lovely and patient. A student doctor and a very nice paediatrician both spoke very good English and helpfully translated whenever I was unsure about what people wanted to do to me or my baby.

Things were going so well that I even decided to ask for help with breastfeeding my sleepy newborn, and confessed to the paediatric nurse on her rounds that I wasn’t sure what to do since he didn’t seem to want to feed. The nurse told me I was clever, patted my shoulder reassuringly, checked my latched, told me not to worry – he was probably just sleepy – and to try again later. As she was finishing up her paperwork, she gave me another pep talk about my cleverness and more reassuring pats.

I was a little befuddled as to why she was being so terribly nice when I realised that instead of saying he didn’t want to feed (nechce kojit), I had said that I didn’t want to feed (nechci kojit).

So, bonus points to Nemocnice Hořovice for being breastfeeding-friendly.

My new plan for maternity leave post baby is to vastly improve my simple verb conjugations.

Speaking Czech with Czechs

I was on the bus a few months ago with Smalls. We were sitting next to each other, with a pair of middle age Czech women directly across from us. One of the women had been eyeing me up at the bus stop when Smalls and I were chatting. She turned to her friend and said (in Czech):

'It's terrible, all these foreigners here. It's even worse when they try to speak Czech. I heard this American woman trying to order some soup. It was so horrible.'

(Still staring right at me, and apparently attempting an American accent)

'"Chtěla bych polévku." It was awful.'

I understood most of their conversation and was sorely tempted to make some cutting remark. But then realised I would be speaking Czech with this horrible foreigner accent.

Also, I couldn't think of something suitably withering.

Fortunately, this was on the far end of my experiences so far as a foreigner muddling my way through this rather challenging language.

On the other end of the spectrum, I had to take Smalls to a dermatologist a few weeks ago. I apologised immediately that I didn't speak much Czech.

'Nevadí!' [No worries!] she cheerily replied.

I walked out of the appointment convinced I'd made huge progress because I understood nearly everything for the whole 15 minutes. I would like to claim this is completely down to me, but in reality, she was a master of Speaking Czech to Foreigners. She used simple words. She mimed occasionally. She spoke slowly and with very precise pronunciation.

Gods, she was lovely. A gem among dermatologists.

It seems to me that it must be quite hard for many Czechs to speak to foreigners, primarily because - unlike most English speakers - many haven't had much experience.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who suspects this. The government-affiliated Centrum pro integraci cizinců (Centre for the Integration of Foreigners) released a few brilliant video shorts in April aimed at helping Czechs better understand some of the difficulties of foreigners trying to speak with Czech native speakers.

The first one is self-explanatory, I think.

This second one has an American speaking Czech with the shocking American accent.

And the final one delves into the difficulties of the dreaded formal and informal variations of Czech - the people coming into the shop are speaking informal Czech, but when the man goes to a government office, he accidentally causes offense by not using 'proper' Czech.

This final video is especially interesting because it touches on some of the racial aspects of Czech-foreigner interactions. But that is a whole other blog post, I suspect.

To end on a slightly mysterious note, a few days ago, I came home from work to find this video cassette of Pinocchio resting on our front fence.


In case you can't tell from the photo, it seems to be French. Also, I feel I should mention again that it is a video cassette.

The best explanation I can think of is that one of our neighbours was cleaning out their attic and thought, 'Ah, this is perfect for our local Foreigners!'

Am I flattered that they believe I can speak French? Or offended that they think I am so backwards that I have a VCR? The jury is still out.

International nose-blowing

Spring and its ubiquitous dusting of pollen is upon us, so it's seems like an appropriate time to address How to Blow Your Nose Properly.

'Oh,' you might be saying to yourself (as I once did), 'The etiquette in this situation is obvious.'

This is presumably what one of my lovely American friends thought when he came to visit us, and politely sniffed his way through a bus ride, rather than offend fellow passengers with an uncouth-but-satisfying honk.

Our fellow passengers, however, reacted in polite horror. The elderly lady in front of us stiffened with every gentle sniff, her hand drifting automatically to the pocket in her purse which presumably held her stash of tissues.

Similarly, I can still remember the deep surprise on the face of one of L's English cricket friends when L, in a similar situation, pulled out his handkerchief and gave a mighty blow.

Basic rule of...er...nose: in the Czech Republic, out is better than in. On the other hand, in the US and UK, out should be done out of sight, but failing that, in.

I can see the health benefits of not sucking in what your body seems to think belongs out, but living in such a society is not without it problems. Last week, I was giving a test to my students where I read the question and they write the answer (I'll claim this is to test their listening skills, but the blastedly annoying photocopier is the main reason I do this). 

'Question number 6,' I said, 'Write the-'

HooooOOOOOnK

'Write the best -' I tried again.

HOOonnnK

'Write - '

HONK.

And so we had a brief nose blowing intermission.

The Czech word for 'pocket' is kapsa or kapesní, and the word for 'handkerchief' is kapesník - literally meaning, L told me in one of our first Czech lessons, that the kapesník is the pocket-friend or the thing that lives in a pocket.

Which makes me feel fondly of both Czech and tissues.

However, the slug of snot sliding out of ones nose is commonly called nudle - literally, 'noodle'. With a toddler, it's very usual to hear grandparents, friends, and strangers urgently point out, 'Máš nudle!' [You have a noodle], so that said noodle can be wiped away. 

Which makes me feel much less fondly of pasta.

Since moving to the Czech Republic, as a sign of my acclimation, I now have my very own an army of pocket-friends.

And I no longer eat spaghetti. 

Studying Czech, the Toddler Method

I read an article the other day that claimed the 'formal' way of learning a language was the least effective. Memorising cases and tenses, they said, was terribly inefficient.

I am inclined to agree and I present to you my case.

Me: 'Learn Czech in 3 Months' (ha!) book in hand, studying for....well, a long time.
Smalls: no grammar tables, learning for 3 years.

Whose Czech is better?

Yes, sadly it's true. I recently tried to say something in Czech to a friend and Smalls turned to me with a puzzled, slightly pitying look and I realised that he knew my Czech wasn't right.

And so I am thinking that I need to a) find more time to study my Czech and b) adopt more of Smalls's approach to language acquisition.

While any sentence I say goes through a rigorous (though not necessarily very accurate) series of experts in my head who cross-check my proposed sentence with everything they know of pronunciation, grammar, and intonation, Smalls throws out sounds that maybe sound like a word he once heard.

If it doesn't seem to hit the intended target, he tries again. Sometimes patiently, sometimes with tears, but always with the understanding that he knows what he's trying to say and we should too.

It's so perfect, so simple, so humiliating if you're not three. So, more practicing, less thinking. I will speak Czech one day. I will.

On the other hand, I am finding it rather advantageous to be the main English speaker in Smalls's life. He came home from školka recently and started using a lot of ' Já chci! Já chci!' (I want! I want!). 

'Oh,' I said, 'You need to say that in English to me. In English, we say, 'I would like'.'

And so while L. gets commands like 'I want milk! I want chocolate!', I get the much more refined, 'Mama, I would like chocolate.'

Clearly the next step is to teach him to say, 'Would you please be so kind to get me some chocolate.'

Although if he asked so beautifully, I'm not sure I would be able to say no. Perhaps it's best to leave it as it is.

He's also seemed to have picked up 'tatínek' (daddy) and 'maminka' (mommy) from skolka.

'Tatinku,' he says, 'já chci čokoládový dort.' And then, with a sly look and an even sweeter tone, 'Tatinku' again for good measure.

L. confessed to me that this actually does soften the corners of his heart and make him feel a little warm and gooey inside and predisposed to handing out said chocolate cake.

Me, on the other hand, impervious.

'Maminko,' Smalls says sweetly, stroking my hand, 'I would like chocolate cake, mamiko. Chocolate and strawberries.'

And I feel....nothing. No softening of resolve. No warm glowing feeling. I have no soft and fuzzy childhood memories of some beloved 'maminka'. Maminko-ing has no power over me.

And then, Smalls with his persistent method of trial-and-error discovered my kryptonite.

'Mommy,' he says, looking at me with his most earnest eyes, brimming with love and needs. 'Mommy....'

God help us if he learns to combine it with 'would you please....' 

Lower Brain and confusing Czech bastardised words

I have come to the conclusion that many of my achievements and other noteworthy examples of intelligence have all been the work of what I call my Upper Brain.

My Lower Brain, on the other hand, is - bless it - responsible for the following.

Like English, Czech borrows words from other languages, most notably English. And like with English, Czech often bastardises the foreign words it decides to take under its multi-conjugational wing.

One example of this effect is: (English) sweater becomes (Czech) svetr.

This is very confusing for my poor Lower Brain. These words look so foreign, and yet are so very familiar.

And so I found myself at a tram stop, and while waiting for the next tram, Lower Brain idly was reading a poster advertising 'Jazz a Rokenrol Koncert'.

Lower Brain - bless it - is slowly cottoning on to some of the oddness of the foreign-words-that-are-strangely-familiar, and so Koncert elicited only a brief blip in understanding.

However, Rokenrol provided at least a few minutes entertainment while Lower Brain considered what kind of strange musical genre this might be...until Upper Brain suggested Lower Brain should try to sound it out.

(It sounds remarkably similar to 'Rock-n-Roll' for any other Lower Brains out there)

Similarly, a few days ago, I was once again on the tram and Lower Brain was industriously trying to read a poster about some events happening around Prague.

English, as you probably know, colloquially often adds -y to words to turn them into 'baby English'. Dog becomes doggy. Pig becomes piggy. Biscuit becomes the unbearable British bicky. And so on.

And so, when Lower Brain spied the poster advertising workshopy, it helpfully added another 'p' and then then cooed over what must be a little baby-waby workshop.

...until Upper Brain broke from its undoubtedly-deep contemplations, took Lower Brain kindly by the shoulders and pointed out that Czech often adds -y  to some masculine words to make them plural.

Not cute a little baby workshop, dear Lower Brain, just a plural occurrence of probably standard, fully-mature workshops. Foiled again by these borrowed and then broken words.

For the record, while Upper Brain is the slightly more advanced of the two, both Upper Brain and Lower Brain giggle whenever they see a dour line of passengers preparing to board a 'SAD TOURIST' bus. (Not, I presume, a word borrowed from English).

Not, perhaps, well-suited for the English-speaking market

I just Googled 'SAD TOURIST', by the way, which revealed to me that their official website is sadbus.cz. And so my day has gotten even brighter.