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. 

Easter Beating

I prefer the peaceful Easter bunny

We spent Easter in pretty much the most traditional Czech way possible: at a chalupa (cottage) in the woods.

The weather was lovely and aside from a medical issue with L's grandfather, it was a magical weekend.

Additionally, I experienced for the second time the mysterious Czech Easter custom of pomlazky.

As I understand it, the tradition goes like this: Czech menfolk gather willow branches and braid them into whips. Meanwhile, the womenfolk spend ages making beautifully-decorated eggs.

When the time is right, the menfolk chase the womenfolk around whilst reciting a poem and whacking the womenfolk with the willow whips. Somehow, this transfers the energy of spring into the womenfolk, who gratefully give the menfolk the beautifully-decorated eggs.

Sometimes, the womenfolk return the favour and transfer spring energy into the menfolk by dosing them with cold water, but unfortunately, this was not part of our family's celebrations.

I can kind of see what is in this tradition for Czech men, but I'm mystified as to how the women are benefited.

L. and my students tried to help me see the niceness of this tradition, but I'm afraid I just can't get past the women-beating-ness of it all.

Smalls, for his part, was also confused about the tradition.

'Hit your mama with it and she'll give you an egg,' the family urged.

'But just during Easter,' I hastily added.

In the end, he decided the best course of action was to be an equal-opportunities wielder of pomlaska, and transferred the energy of spring to both his táta and I. 

Which was sweet....I think.

Kolik přesně?

I am worried about L.

When I first met him, I thought he was a proper Prague Boy. But it seems the fresh country air of our little village has turned him into an irrefutable Village Boy.

Case in point: we bought a wood burning stove (kamna) a few months ago. It is really lovely to lounge in front of it with a glass of wine after a long day of work. I am a fan of the stove.

L is....more than a fan. I would even venture to say he has turned into a kamna enthusiast.

I hadn't realised how enthusiastic he was until this past week. He told me a village friend had a contact who could provide a nice pile of wood at a good price. Would I mind if he got some wood from said contact?

'No problem, dear,' I said.

Those with more experience in these matters than me will probably see what is coming next, because, as they will no doubt have noticed, I neglected to ask a key question: just how much wood is in a 'nice pile'?

My suspicions were piqued when L started to talk enthusiastically to Smalls about a big truck that would be coming soon.

It was indeed a very big truck, and it left a very considerable pile of wood.

Which has now been divided into two considerable piles of wood.

In the garage....

...and in the cellar

Considering that we use the kamna purely recreationally, at a rate of four or five logs per week, I'm am relatively confident we should survive the winter.

On the positive side, now we really don't have room for the chickens and/or pigs that L has been talking about.

Ježíš Maria! (Or yet more about my driving license)

Having passed my Czech driving license test (did I mention I passed my Czech driving test?), it was time for me to submit the papers to the relevant government office.

This proved to be its own unique challenge.

Not unlike fitting and SUV through a tree

I am normally obsessive about making sure I have all the relevant advice on submitting official documents. In the UK, I would spend hours searching through buried webpages and obscure forums to make sure I had all of the best information about, for instance, paying Council Tax.

Due to my limited Czech, this wasn't really an option this time around. So, instead of wasting hours of my employer's time, my search consisted of an unsatisfactory attempt with Google Translate. In despair, I begged and bullied L into trawling the Internet for me. I suspect he looked only at one page.

And so, with a stack of papers and two photos, I went to the relevant Městský úřad.

It....could have gone better.

I proudly handed over the stack. The lady tutted and kept saying something about 'autoškola' [driving school]. 

I, confident in the belief that I had the correct documents plus the paper from the autoškola saying I had passed the test (did I mention I passed the test?), grinned nervously and said, 'Jo, jo, autoškola'.

This was not the correct answer, apparently, and she sent me away with a list of further documents I would need and instructions to talk to my husband.

L, who was working at the time and thus unable to visit the office with me, first calmed me down and then called the office. It seems the internet was not in full possession of the facts, and neither, it seems, was my autoškola. 

Note for other obsessive official documents researchers: it seems that the Czech government now wants non-EU foreigners to prove that they are legitimately here and have 'ties' to the Czech Republic before issuing a driving license. For me, this took the form of my marriage certificate, výpis z katastru (a document stating who owns the place where I am living), and a letter from L stating that he was happy for me to continue to live with him. 

I'll just pour myself a glass of wine and calm down again.

So, a few days later, with even more documents, I went yet again to the relevant Městský úřad. 

I can't say I fully blame the lady, who, when faced yet again with my smiling visage, turned to her colleague in despair and uttered, 'Ježíš Maria! To je pani...' (Mother of God! It's the woman...)

This time, now that the scales of the rightness of the internet had fully been removed from my eyes, things went better. My Czech was better, both the lady and her colleague made better attempts to understand, and by the end, we were all politely joking about the pile of photocopies that were stapled firmly to my application. 

They even took down L's number in case they needed more documents. 

A little under twenty business days later, and my license was ready to collect.

The office lady took one look at my identification, and recognition slowly spread across her face.

'Pamatuji si vás,' [I remember you] she said. Possibly with some degree of fondness. 

Getting a Czech driving license the honest way

The very interesting Corruption Perceptions Index ranks the Czech Republic as one of the most corrupt in central and western Europe.

So, when it became clear that I would need a Czech drivers' license, I did a bit of internet research to see if buying the license was possible.

Smalls helpfully demonstrating the '10 and 2' position

Number one rule of corruption in Europe: if you have to ask the internet about how to do bribery and corruption, you're doing it wrong. So, it was off to proper driving lessons for me so that I could fulfil the required 28 hours of driving before taking the test.

'I know very good translator,' said my driver instructor when it came time for me to take the theory test. 'Very good. Maybe you have problem. Maybe he help.'

Aha, I thought. Here is my chance to make use of the 118th most corrupt system in the world.

Alas, the Very Good Translator fell ill the day before my test and the replacement (after a flurry of desperate phone calls) turned out to be a Very Proper Translator, who sent me a very direct email stating that he would only translate. Answering the questions for me would be not only wrong, but also illegal.

After a tense night of memorising the Czech highway code, I passed with only two small errors.

I don't mean to brag, but I would like to point out that this was in spite of having a translator who kept using the phrase 'making known your intentions' instead of the more usual 'signalling' or 'using your blinker' on some of the key questions.

So, then it was on to the practical test, which went swimmingly (more or less) up until the very end when I was instructed to parallel park. It did not go well, and involved both my driving instructor and the invigilator tutting in unison and finally inspired the invigilator to sigh, in English, 'Pani, not on the grass.'

Somehow, I passed, and my driving instructor seemed as surprised as me, so I think that rules out him slipping the invigilator a small incentive.

Which brings us to the other students who were also taking the practical test. One informed me that many of the foreigners he knew had merely paid a little extra and had received their Czech licenses without even having to leave their living rooms. ('Oh really? They should put this information on the internet!')

Another Egyptian student failed his drive, so he patiently waited for three hours until the invigilator had finished with all the examinations and then went to have a chat with him. The whole driving school full of test-takers and instructors waited. The Egyptian student exited the invigilator's room and rescheduled his practical test for the next month.

Which brings us back to the issue of corruption in the Czech Republic. I have no doubt that it does exist here, but I have to say I certainly haven't been benefiting from it.

Improvements: Kitchen edition

We bought the house knowing we would need to do a lot of work. Take, for instance, the original kitchen:

However, I had a vision.

Much work later....

And the vision has been realised!

Masopust: upping our village credentials

Over the past two weeks, we attended not one, but two masopust parades. [Google helpfully translates 'Masopust' as 'Mardi Gras', which isn't a terrible translation.]

The first Masopust was last weekend in the lovely district of Suchdol. [Bing helpfully translates 'Suchdol' as 'San Diego', which is a truly terrible translation.] 

What Suchdol lacks in palm trees, it made up for in horns, accordions, people on stilts, cleverly home-made costumes, and sheer otherworldliness. There were also a surprisingly large number of English speakers attending, and L. laughingly commented that Suchdolsky Masopust would surely be featured in at least five 'My First Year in Prague: Aren't the Czechs Peculiar?'-style blogs. 

As a result, I have avoided writing about it.

However, yesterday, was our village's very own masopust, and I cannot not mention it because, you see, the village came to our very own house. 

It went like this: the strange collection of musicians, be-costumed people, on-lookers, and TV crew started off at the local pub.

The parade wound its way through the village, holding up cars along the way (literally - with plastic guns) and demanding donations. Donations of food and drink were also proffered at various houses along the way in exchange for a song or two from the band.

'I wonder,' L. mused idly as we strolled along, 'how one goes about getting selected to be visited by the parade?' 

We decided there must be a pre-arranged list - and there probably is. However, I can also attest that the masopust parade will also stop at your house if you come flying out of your house with a few bottles of slivovice and a shot glass.

This might be what my dear husband did. I might have been excitedly snapping photos as the drums thumped, the horns tooted and the accordion wheezed melodiously right outside our very house.

I don't mean to brag, but, well....