The Phenomenon of the Peeing Man

I'm originally from a very rural part of the US where, if I saw a car pulled over to the side of the road, I tended to look carefully to see if the person needed help. (Because God knows when another car will be passing by.)

You guys ok there?

In England, if I saw a car on the side of the road, I generally looked closely because, well, when the road is so narrow that you can't squeeze past, what else are you supposed to do?

I am now trying to teach myself that if I see a car parked by the side of the road in the Czech Republic, the new reaction should be to look away, goddamnit, woman, look away!

To not look away means that 9 times out of 10 you end up gawking at some stranger's dick.

(A little crude, I know - apologies, parents - but on the list of things I like to see on my morning commute, surprisingly, strangers' penises are not included).

This phenomenon of the roadside peeing man is unusually pervasive. All makes of cars, from rusted Skodas to freshly-waxed BMWs seem to have the potentiality to carry a roadside pee-er. What's more, most of them-what-pee-along-the-road seem to think that peeing towards the road is a necessary part of the procedure.

Toddlers are included in the culturally acceptable peeing group and their rights seem to extend pretty much everywhere. When we first moved to the Czech Republic, I was bemused during a visit to the Zoo to come around a corner and find a collection of ten toddlers merrily peeing on the grass while watching the hippopotamuses.

However, interestingly, women don't seem to be included in the societal acceptability of roadside relief. And it's possible that this is due to a misconception about basic reproductive biology.

I had a student last year demand that I let him leave the room during a big exam because he needed to pee. I explained that if he did that, he wouldn't be able to finish the test because my policy was that students can't leave the room during an exam.

This was an egregious assault on his basic human rights, he told me.

Furthermore, he said, vibrating with indignation, 'You have no idea what it's like because you're a WOMAN.'


Notes to self: stop looking at cars parked along the side of the road, you overly helpful fool. And try not to laugh mirthlessly at the things students say - this is quite possibly another human rights violation. 

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.

Touring via pubs: Helfenburk u Bavorova

The Guardian reported somewhat breathlessly about a self-service beer kiosk in a Czech village just last week. But, I would submit that an automated beer-dispensing machine pales in comparison to a rustic pub hut in the middle of a ruined castle.

Pub to the left

Helfenburk u Bavorova is the remains of a castle in the south of the Czech Republic near the historic, beautiful and very touristy Český Krumlov. 

Touristy is not exactly the right way to describe Helfenburk.

Though presumably there are more than fifteen people there when the weather is slightly less wet.

To get there: aim for České Budějovice. The parking lot for the ruins are just off the 142 road near Krajníčko. From the parking area, it's a gentle 1 km stroll up hill through the forest to the castle.

The pub:

Inside:

The man serving the beer had the most impressive beard and a beautiful boomingly gentle, 'Dobrý den.'

Not the bartender

A few more shots of the castle:

This is the website of the society that works to preserve the ruins and runs the pub (it seems). 

And remember:

"Don't leave hungry and thirsty! Ya don't have to!"

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. 

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....'