The in-between worlds and the worst part of being an expat

When I first moved overseas, I often got asked about my family.
'What does your mother think of you living here?' People (almost certainly middle aged women) would ask.
'Oh,' my ten-year-younger self would laugh, 'I have three siblings, so there are plenty of spares.'

There are many downsides to living abroad, of course. Strange languages, confusing cultures, inappropriately-sweet pickles. As I've gotten older, the hardest ones by far are the ones to do with family and friends, from family dinners missed to logistically unworkable weddings to babies born a continent away.

A few days after I got out of the hospital for my miscarriage, we got unexpectedly bad news about my dad. Well, unexpected to me. Apparently, he self-diagnosed himself with a brain tumour years ago.

So I unpacked my hospital bag and packed a suitcase.

And while my heart was otherwise preoccupied, my body spent lots and lots of time on planes half-sleeping and in airports trawling distractedly through the duty free shops.

Airports are such strange, liminal spaces, neither here nor there, but trying so hard to be with their 'local colour' artwork and sterile souvenir shops staffed by women chatting to each other in Hindi.

During one of my four layovers (two there, two back), I ended up in the Minneapolis airport late in the evening, when there was a gap in flights. The lounge cleared until it was just me, the other two people who had volunteered to change off our overbooked flight, a few small clusters of laughing off-duty security personnel, and one surprisingly bold (and astonishing fast) mouse.

Neither here nor there, in that gaping lounge with the artificial lights glowing gently on some energy-saving setting, surrounded by rows of empty seats, and with the muffled laughter of those who were on only a short break from their normal working lives - it seemed to my foggy brain like an apt metaphor for how I was feeling at the time, in some in-between world of sadness and uncertain schedules.

Sometimes you spend two extra hours watching a mouse nibble discarded pizza crusts while waiting for a plane to London when you thought you'd be sleeping on a plane to Amsterdam. Or something pithy like that.

The good news was that by taking the flight to London, I ended up arriving to Prague a few hours earlier than anticipated (I was supposed to have a 9 - yes, nine - hour layover in Amsterdam) and with a voucher that pretty much covers the original cost of my ticket.

I'm really hoping that is also a metaphor.

So, in conclusion, it's been a shitty few weeks, but not entirely unpleasant. It was really good to hug my US family and so very, very good to see my dad smile after his surgery.

The word-of-the-day for my students this past week was jet lag. Personified and occasionally nearly dropping off during student presentations, as it turned out.

I'm trying to adjust to the next destination not being the one I had hoped, and L is keeping me afloat. Or rather, aloft, since we're talking planes.

And finally, Dad (and Mom), I love you. And middle aged women, you had a point.

A post about miscarrying in the Czech Republic

While I was suffering terribly from morning sickness the past few months, I cheered myself with thoughts of a lovely post in a few months which would helpfully detail what it's like to give birth in a Czech hospital. 

But it seems that a very much wanted pregnancy was not to be, and so I am writing now instead about what it's like to miscarry in a Czech hospital. 

Why write this? Maybe it's to do with the solace I've been getting from hearing that we're not alone. Or maybe I'm hoping to dilute some of my pain by passing little bits of it on to anyone who gets close enough (sorry).

And finally, as nearly everyone has been telling us, miscarriage is terribly, horribly common and it seems not right for there to be lots of guides for expats here about successful pregnancies and none (that I could find) about when things go wrong. 

My pregnancy care in the Czech Republic has been much more technologically advanced than with my first pregnancy in the UK. While in the UK, my pregnancy with Smalls was managed by midwives in the GP practice, here I have a gynaecologist with a state-of-the-art office.

I had an early bleed in the UK and had to wait 4 days for a scan at the Early Pregnancy Unit at the hospital.With my bleed this time, I called my gynaecologist and was scanned 4 hours later. Two hours after that, I was at the hospital for a second scan and getting booked for a D&C. I am in great awe of the NHS and the service it provides to so many, but if something must go wrong, I'd prefer to have the Czech experience. 

So let's talk about steps. My gynaecologist stressed that if anything seemed wrong, especially if there was bleeding, I should see him straight away. 

When it turned out there was a problem, he said he would refer me for surgical management. There wasn't any discussion about other options, such as waiting to see if I would naturally miscarry, which I believe is preferred in the UK - possibly because I was at the end of the first trimester.

A hellish tram ride later and I was at Nemocnice Motol with a referral letter to give to the nurses. I met with the doctor, who did another scan, and then was given instructions for where to go for the next day's procedure. 

The procedure itself was under general anesthetic and seemingly without complications.  Some of the doctors and nurses spoke English (at least a few words) and the main doctor had beautiful English. 'So, Mrs. Expatova,' he said before he discharged me, 'Could you detail for me the exact nature of your condition this morning?'  

As for me, I was surprised as I was waking up from the anesthetic to find myself speaking in Czech, and (trust me on this one) very good Czech at that. 

Anesthetic-improved perceptions of speaking Czech aside, it was a huge relief to be able to rely on L to translate for me, especially on the first day. I would definitely recommend bringing a Czech-speaking friend or partner if at all possible. 

All of the staff were professional and one nurse was especially kind to me. Nemocnice Motol is a Soviet-era medical behemoth, but the rooms were nice, the equipment up to date, and the food surprisingly palatable. Lunch even came with a soup starter, which was the yang to the yin of what can only be described as plastický sýr a chléb (plastic cheese on bread) for dinner.

I shared a room with two other women. One offered to bring me something from the shop in the lobby. Food? Juice? Coffee? And when I politely declined, offered me some chocolate. Here, on my nightstand.  You should have some. It is here if you change your mind. But wouldn't you like some juice? I'll just get you some juice. We watched a terrible Czech soap opera together in the evening. The camaraderie was nice. The snoring, not as much. 

I'm doing....ok. L and Smalls are taking very good care of me. I'm currently wanting to cuddle all of the pink screaming newborn babies who have managed the seemingly unimaginable miracle of being born.  I also have a strong desire to steal all of the newborn babies and make them MINE, so I think keeping to lanky, sticky cuddles from Smalls is probably better for now. 

Dear friends: Please warn any of our common acquaintances that any comments about 'Isn't it time for a sibling for Smalls' would place them in danger of being hit. Repeatedly. Or, more likely, used as a human handkerchief. 

Dear friends and Internet strangers who are pregnant or would like to be: I hope you have better results than me and wish you many pink, screaming babies.

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....' 

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?