Painting, Secret Trams, & Giving Czechs a bad name

One evening a week, I go to a painting class in Prague. The class takes place in the top floor of a lovely building just up the hill from Prague Castle, and it's a weekly reminder that Prague is a really lovely city.

Our teacher is a friend of L's mother, which is how I found out about the class. She doesn't speak much English, so I'd like to think it's a bit of a Czech class, too. Just this past week, I learned the phrase, 'Ho malovala jsi jako duch. Více barev! To je velmi tmavý...' (You painted him like a ghost. More colour! It's very dark...).

Did I mention my teacher is also an illustrator for children's books?

Since she is a friend of L's mother, they often meet for coffee, and it seems like these conversations occasionally turn into parent-teacher meetings.

'She says you are a good student,' L's mother will inform me. 'But she wishes you would talk more. Remember, it's also a social class and a chance to improve your Czech.'

Most of the time, L needs the car, so I take the bus back to our village. The bus leaves from the main bus stop for buses outside of the Prague Integrated Transport System near the metro stop Dejvická. I used to take the tram from the painting atelier, walk 500 metres, and then catch a bus to Dejvická. This was ok, but a bit of a pain and a lot of waiting on a cold, dark evening.

But then I found the secret tram. This tram has the normal number, but not the normal route. There are lots of secret trams snaking their way through Prague, delivering their passengers to unexpected places. Some stops list them on the timetable with a demarcation that they are abnormal, but some stops leave them off from the timetable completely.


You know you are on an abnormal tram if it has a piece of card slid in front of the information about the normal route. Or if your tram unexpectedly turns left where it usually goes right.

This abnormal tram of mine takes me from the stop by the atelier straight to the metro station. No walking, no extra waiting on a chilly night. It's lovely and I feel a certain comradery with my fellow abnormal passengers, smug in the knowledge that we have found a better route home. All expect for the ones who look panic stricken when the tram turns the corner and hop out at the next stop.

And now we get to the part where I join the fellowship of Unhelpful Czechs.

After smugly getting off the tram at Dejvická, I then have a 15 minute wait for my bus to the village. (I really do appreciate it when L doesn't need the car). The area is busy with other passengers and people coming and going, but still feels a little dodgey, so I try to be quite aware of my belongings and surroundings while I wait.

So, when a man came up to me and asked if I spoke English, I pulled my coat a little closer and mumbled, 'Omlouvám se, ne.' (I'm sorry, no.)

He approached another woman who was also waiting for her bus. Like me, she shook her head and stared more intently at her mobile phone.

'Please,' he wailed to the world in general, 'I just want to know if this is the place for the bus that goes to Lány.' 

Oh gods, the guilt. 

'Yes,' I said. 'It's the yellow one and should come in about 5 minutes.'

'Can I buy the ticket on board?'

'I'm sorry, I don't know.' I said.

'Yes, no problem to buy from driver,' the other woman said, looking up from her mobile. And she helped him buy his ticket when the bus came.

Offending strangers, Czech style

I was riding the bus a few months ago and a middle-aged man got on. He was moving a bit slowly and clearly favouring one of his legs. The bus pulled away from the stop and the next stop was announced. A woman noticed that he was standing awkwardly and offered him her seat.

'What? Am I such an idiot? I just got on,' the man barked (in Czech).
'Do you think I am so selfish I would sit in my seat when perhaps you need it?' she barked back.

And then, to get all Buzzfeedy about it, something interesting happened.

'Oh,' the man laughed, 'You wanted to give me your seat? I thought you asked if I wanted the next stop. I am stupid.'

The woman laughed too and said something about how she was getting off soon anyway and they chatted amiably until she got off.

I found the whole interaction fascinating, and I am sure that there is a clue in there about Czech norms.

I can't imagine the interaction going the same way in either the US or the UK. Such effrontery at the beginning, followed so quickly by so much good will and humour? Strange.

If I were in the place of the woman in that interaction, my cultural training would have me quietly, ragingly offended for the rest of the bus ride. My instinct when confronted with angry strangers is to be unfailing polite and (to my internal shame) often excessively good humoured. I've had far too many encounters with shopkeepers and government officials where I notice midway through I'm smiling nervously and nodding apologetically.

More swagger is definitely required for living in the Czech Republic. 

Ježíšek, Santa Claus and the difficulties of disorganised cross-cultural Christmas celebrations

This was the first year that L and I properly had to think about the Christmas magic and whatnot for Smalls. 

And it had some complications that we'll probably need to iron out before next year. Primarily: 

Thing 1: Who brings the gifts? 

In the Czech Republic, Ježíšek instead of Santa Claus brings gifts. 

Ježíšek is 'baby Jesus' - the Martin Luther-approved replacement for St. Nicholas. I haven't seen many pictures of him, so he seems to be something of a spirit-like being who magically appears on Christmas Eve, sets up the tree with many lovely ornaments and (for the true traditionalists and fire-enthusiasts) lit candles, then deposits presents, and finally, rings a little bell to let all the good little children know he has been.

According to the WIN-Gallup International Global Index of of Religiosity and Atheism 2012 the nations with the most 'convinced atheists' are, in order: China, Japan, and the Czech Republic. 

And yet the practically-secular Santa Claus has not caught on in the Czech Republic. 

A very scientific poll of my students revealed that none of them had had Santa Claus as children and thought the very notion of Czechs adopting the fat man in red was preposterous and would surely be a sign of the end times. 

I have several theories about this, but my favourite is: given the choice between an obese older man in velvet with a logically-flawed present delivery system and a complex network of toy-making slaves and a completely magical baby (incidentally, the baby whose birthday we are theoretically celebrating) who comes quickly and without all this 'naughty or nice' business....well, the winner is pretty obvious, no? 

Also, parents don't have to deal with early-waking children since Ježíšek comes right after dinner on the 24th. 

So, that decision was relatively easy.

Thing 2: What to do with Santa Claus?

I toyed with the idea of letting there be a Santa Claus who would bring a small present for Smalls on Christmas morning, you know, to help him keep his American roots. Also, he saw an episode of Peppa Pig with 'Father Christmas' and seemed impressed.

There are a couple of problems with this. Firstly, my formerly-fundamentalist Christian parents used to believe that 'tricking' us into believing in Santa Claus would cause us to mistrust everything else they had told us about God, Jesus, and the church. And so, I grew up without the belief in Jolly Old St. Nick.

Come to think of it, perhaps this explains the high levels of atheism in the Czech Republic.

Parent: Darling, there is no Baby Jesus. 

Christmas figure and religious beliefs knocked down in one fell swoop.

So, in short, I don't have any fond memories of really believing in Santa Claus, so it isn't something that I strongly felt the need to pass on.

Additionally, there were some cultural complications. While Ježíšek doesn't seem to keep some list of the naughty deeds of Czech children, there is someone who does. 

Mikuláš (aka St. Nicholas) comes on December 5th to give small gifts and impart judgement on Czech children. He is joined by an angel and a devil and the trio visit homes and weigh up the goodness of those within. 

I find the concept a little strange and L shared the trauma of the year he received a potato for being bad, so I wasn't too desperate to celebrate this tradition.

But then J came home from his nursery singing about Mik Mik Mikulááááááááš and talked excitedly about him bringing presents, and it seemed too mean to not celebrate Mikuláš with him.

On the other hand,  Mikuláš, Ježíšek, and Santa Claus all bringing presents seems like an awful lot of gifts for one December. Also an awful lot of shattered beliefs in years to come. So, Santa Claus was out.

Thing 3: What to do about Peppa Pig's Santa Claus Indoctrination?

This is still to be decided.

Thing 4: What to do about our neighbour?

This is a tricky situation, which is made slightly less tricky since we decided not to embrace Santa Claus. 

Our next door neighbour, a staunch defender of Ježíšek (though not of pacifism and childhood wonder) has an effigy of dear old Santa Claus, bedraggled, hanging from his roof, and shot full of arrows.

'That is Father Christmas,' Smalls confidently told me. 'Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas.' (Oh, the power of Peppa). 'He should be up.'

'Oh, it's just a decoration,' I said, pushing him quickly into the house. 'But it does sort of look like Father Christmas, doesn't it?' (In a cheery voice, while considering kicking the neighbour).

The bedraggledness of Santa suggests he is an annual presence.

Best way to approach neighbour still to be decided. Probably best way to approach Smalls should also be considered.

Thing 5: What to do about us?

Now that Smalls is getting older and more aware, L and I will have to up our game. It's all well and good for me to bitch about our neighbour, but this year L and I had two major incidents.

The first one was with Mikuláš. We told Smalls that everything his teachers had told him was true, he would meet Mikuláš on the 5th. Some friends in the village had arranged a visitation at our local church (which seems much less scary than inviting the devil et al to our home).

So, Czech friends were polled about what sorts of presents Mikuláš brings (a few sweets and very small treats, with possibly a potato as a warning), these presents were dutifully wrapped, and Smalls was informed. Excitement levels were high. 

So high in fact that there was a rather large collapse as we were trying to quickly leave the house and by the time we were all in our coats and out the door, we were already 15 minutes late.

'Don't worry,' I said. 'It's a children's programme. They'll be running late.'

'Už skončil!' [It's already finished!] One of our neighbours informed me as I was trotting to catch up with Smalls and L after locking up the house. She was heading back to her house with her very-pleased grandson who must have been very good. And also blessed with a grandmother who can get him out of the door in time.

Sorry, Smalls.

The second incident happened after we deposited Smalls with his grandmother so we could secretly buy a toy crane that he had been coveting. Unfortunately, a small corner of the box slipped out from under the blanket we had thrown over it.

'Huray!!!! There is crane!!!!' Smalls yelled as soon as he got in the car for the ride home.

'Oh, no,' I said. 'You must be mistaken.'

'No, it is crane!' Smalls said. 'To je crane.' (Helpfully translated into Czech in case that would aid my understanding).

I snuck it inside under my coat and hid it, but Smalls knew what he'd seen and spent the rest of the day intermittently calling for the crane ('Craaaaaane! Where are you?') to crying on the stairs because the crane was gone.

In desperation (and guilt), I explained that Ježíšek would bring it back when it was Christmas time. 

And so three weeks later when the bell rang, Smalls screamed out, 'Ježíšek!!!!! Bring crane!!!!'

Only 11 more months to improve our organization and stealth. At least we have Smalls's birthday without the additional complication of mythical gift-giving figures for practice. 

Offending, Expat-style

The first time my (very lovely and also very American) Dad visited me in the UK, he generously offered to buy the round of beers, walked up to the crowded bar in the slightly rough pub and ordered two beers.

There are many conventional ways to make a 'two' with your fingers in order to make yourself understood in, say, a noisy environment. Czechs tend to make an 'L' with their fingers. Brits tend to make a 'V-sign' with the palm facing out. Americans tend to make a 'V-sign' with their palm facing in.

Now, let us compare the American 'two' with the British equivalent of the American offensive 'middle finger'.

And that is how you get your daughter and son-in-law to buy all of the drinks for the rest of the trip.

While we're being vulgar, it struck me the other day that American offensiveness is very, erm, penis-centric. Perhaps times have changed since I lived there, but I can't remember ever seeing the female-equivalent of the lovingly-detailed male-bits that (male?) graffiti artists seem to feel should adorn every bus stop, school building and blank garage door.

However, ladies, no need to feel left out here in the Czech Republic. Czech (male?) graffiti artists draw female bits, too! I'm tempted to put an illustration here for the non-Czechs, but I'm not sure exactly how offensive it would be.

What I do know is that should you have a blackboard that a Czech friend decided would benefit from having a bit of female-bits graffiti added to it and you have 20 minutes before L's parents arrive, L will choose to spend 20 minutes thoroughly scrubbing off every last trace of the graffiti instead of vacuuming the living room.

So, I will just say that should you be having a competition in one of your classes, and should you be in a goofy mood and you draw a star like this on the board:

And then Team 1 wins the competition, so you want to make your star into something like this:

(You know, to emphasise that Team 1 did well), and so add an American-style '1' to it, like this:

Even the nice, mild-mannered girls who sit in the front of the class will start giggling. 

Fancy grabbing a beer with me, Dad?

It's not better or worse...

A colleague has a brand new lovely baby. He told me this with the freakishly calm enthusiasm that comes from waking every three hours.

Oh gods, I thought as the memories of Smalls's first few months came, er, screaming back. As it were.

'Don't worry,' I said. 'It really does get better.'

And at that moment, I really believed it.

Then, I spied the dried snot-and-yogurt smear on my shoulder that I hadn't quite managed to get out. It was the biproduct of the morning stand-off regarding the necessity of wearing a shirt (any shirt, dear child!) to skolka, which had been quickly followed by big, heaving sobs after I pushed the button to alarm the house instead of letting him. Which was followed by monster-screams when his plan of him driving and me sitting in his car seat was cruelly vetoed.

It's not better or worse, it's just different.

This is what they drummed into us, the brave, foolish, study abroad students from my very rural undergraduate university. They must have done a good job because it comes floating back to me often, particularly when I find myself comparing countries.

I spent a lot of time with this phrase bouncing around in my head this past week when I spent four glorious (and wet) days back in the UK.

It's not better or worse, it's just different.

This is of course both true and not true. (Ha, see what I did there?)

Is Prague better than the UK? In terms of the price of a pint, indubitably.

Is the UK better than Prague? The English seaside wins hands down over the Czech coast.

Other things, though, are a toss up.

The plane from Prague was delayed by a grand three hours due to a bird strike, and I was giddy with delight at hearing my fellow passengers moaning in English. We swapped information about ETAs and food voucher availability and nattered about how inconvenient it all was.

'Ah,' I thought to myself, 'This is the English and Englishness that I've been missing.'

'FIIIISHY CLIIIIIIIT,' a 14-year-old girl screamed to her friend across the very crowded bus the next day.
'If you don't wear your sodding hat, I'll pull it over your sodding head and tape it there,' a mother barked at her small son.
The pair of older women across from me had to raise their voices too, so they could tut about the younger generation and the unfair pricing in Tesco.
'FIIIIISHY CLIIIIIT,' the friend screamed back before they both started guffawing loudly.

In Prague,  my thoughts screamed to each other over all of the voices, I would have been able to read on the bus.

And whispering in the back of my mind, further adding to the noises, was a Northwestern American accent saying calmly:

It's not better or worse, it's just different. 

But that's only true on the macro scale, isn't it? The UK isn't necessarily superior to the Czech Republic (or visa versa) - which I presume was a nugget of cultural relativism that the Study Abroad Office was keenly aware that we needed to embrace.

But in the personal realm, the fishy-clit girls are probably better off in England. The Czech woman who moaned about foreigners and their pathetic attempts to speak Czech is probably better off in the Czech Republic.

And for me, personally, there are things that I prefer from all of the places I've lived. And things that I hated. And times when I was happier living one place rather than another. And times, as the posts from this time last year show, that I really wished I were living somewhere else.

But I was glad when the plane touched down in the Czech Republic, which thankfully now mostly feels like home.

And as for Smalls, he was a beautiful baby with gorgeous, tiny baby hands and toes, and the sweetest little frog-baby to ever snuggle in and give a happy, milky burp.

However, I'd take Toddler Smalls with his giggles and hugs and monster impersonations and, yes, even his yogurt-snot any day.

And not just because I'm finally getting a blessed full night's sleep. 

Touring via pubs: Zastávka Nižbor

Let's say you are sitting at home on a rather cloudy day and the whole family is feeling itchy and like an adventure (and beer!...or juice). Let's also assume you have a train-obsessed toddler and a love of strange pubs.

Do I have the trip for you, my friend.

It goes like this:

The Beginning

Find your way to the charming little village of Zbečno and buy a ticket from the tiny train station. 

You could, of course, also take the train from the larger and more-accessible city of Beroun, but then you would miss out on the historical Zbečno train station.

Fascinating, no?

Next, hop on the train. Train times available from here. 

Enjoy a scenic 11 minute ride with a very pleasant conductor and a thrilled toddler. You can also take the lead of some of the other passengers and pop open your own beer. 

Hop (and I do mean hop) off the train at Nižbor.

The most important bit

Walk a few metres and find yourself at the very charming station-storage-turned-cool-restaurant, 

Zastávka Nižbor. 

 

Eat delicious and very reasonably-priced food.

Even the boring-sounding 'cream of vegetable soup' was fantastic.

Wash it down with a delicious beer and prepare for the journey ahead.

Other things to do in Nižbor

There are a few things to see in Nižbor, namely: a glass factory and a château.

This is the château...

 so if you over-indulged in lunch, the glass factory is a better place to start.

The glass factory is just across the tracks from the restaurant and offers tours (though we were too late - they are primarily in the morning) and a shop that sells their products (which were lovely, but not really to my taste). More details from their website: RÜCKL CRYSTAL. 

And now pat your bellies apologetically and climb up.

And up.

And up.

To the top.

The château is being reconstructed and it's possible to take tours (if I understood the sign correctly) and visit the Centre for Celtic Culture, but sadly not on Tuesdays, which are reserved for school trips.

And then down, down, down to grab a quick coffee before hopping back on the train to Zbečno.

The end.

Cats, kittens, and neighbours

The Czech Republic seems to be a nation of dog lovers. Most of our neighbours have at least one. Many of our Czech friends have a dog or two. Dogs happily use public transport. Dogs go camping. Dogs sit next to their little old lady owners who are sunning themselves in the park.

Cats, on the other hand, have less of a privileged life.



I think that a Czech cat must have told this to the two cats that we brought with us from England. In England, they often proudly brought home old hair bands and broken zip ties; however, a few weeks after moving to the Czech Republic, we started to get more usual presents of half dead mice. My theory is that they, worried by reports that Czech cats must earn their keep, decided to prove their usefulness.

Having cleaned up my third 'usefulness' of the day, I really wish they would go back to hair bands.


A few weeks ago, our lovely Lily disappeared. We walked through the whole village, we called vets, we put up posters, we talked to neighbours, but sadly, it seems she is gone. I'd like to think she has found a nice home somewhere else. Probably some place without a toddler.

In my desperation, I talked to many of the people in the village. This included a group of older women, who were momentarily confused by my poor efforts to explain that I was looking for our missing cat.

Finally, realisation dawned. One turned to her companion and said, 'To je žena, která nemluví česky.' [This is the lady who doesn't speak Czech]

'Jo jo, pan Rákos mi o ni řekl,' [Oh yes, Mr. Rakos told me about her] the other said, smiling indulgently at me.

So, in other words, I'm famous.

Or at least my bad Czech is.

Once they readjusted their expectations, they seemed to understand me ok, and one even stopped by our house a few days later with news of a possible sighting of Lily.


With Lily gone, I felt the need to encourage good cat karma, and so when a pregnant stray started to hang about, I couldn't bring myself to chase her away.

'If you don't close up the shed, that cat will have her kittens here,' L said.

I didn't.

She did.

And so one night when I went to get something from the shed, I discovered that we did not, in fact, have a mouse infestation.



I was thrilled, L shook his head, and Smalls immediately announced that the mother was My Big Cat (bigger is better, apparently).

I've been trying to find homes for the five wee things, and so have been talking to the neighbours again.

One neighbour told us that another neighbour would quickly drowned any kittens she found if they were small enough, or, if they were too big, would walk around dropping them one by one into other people's gardens. Plop, plop, plop, like some kind of crazy, kitten-distributing Easter Bunny.

Apparently, my grandma, when she heard about the kittens, announced, 'What Expatová needs to do is get a big box and find a pond...', so I suppose I've stumbled upon a cultural similarity.

One morning, I went out to feed the kittens and they were gone. No sign of them anywhere. Not in the loft of the shed, not under the shed. Poof.

And so, I talked to any and all of the neighbours again.

And then, remembering the story of the crazed cat distributor, I made little pamphlets and Smalls and I stuffed them into our neighbours' mail boxes.

The next night, My Big Cat returned without the kittens. Fresh out of the bath and still in my bathrobe, I stalked the poor thing through our garden and down the street until she disappeared into the shadows.

A few mornings later, all of the kittens reappeared, hungry, happy and as though nothing had happened. Even L breathed a sigh of relief.

And so I am back to asking the neighbours if they know anyone who would like a very sweet kitten.


And that, my friends, is how you stop being known in the village as the lady who doesn't speak Czech.