I made it to Dublin by the early afternoon. I had a wee bit of trouble renting a car; it turns out they do not accept photo copies of your driver's license, even if it expired while you were abroad and the new one was stuck in America. Put on my most winning smile and ended up with an ugly little Toyota or Nissan. I assured the nice man behind the counter I was quite adept at driving a stick shift. I forgot about the whole "left side of the road" thing.
The stick shift on the left wasn't so bad. However, I was a little uncertain at first if the pedals were also backward. I was confident the brake was in the middle. I guessed wrong about the other two. Nothing quite like revving the engine right before pulling out of a rental agency to get their confidence in your abilities high.
Survived the roundabouts, the interstates, the sheep in the road, and my inclination to pull to the right on a narrow road. Crossing the border into Northern Ireland, I noted signs informing me that the speed limits were now in miles per hour. Too bad my speedometer only reported kilometers per hour. I guesstimated how fast I was going. I guesstimated poorly. I was either being passed or flying by other cars on a regular basis.
Otherwise uneventful drive to Northern Ireland, checked into B&B, showered, went into town for dinner. Met Larry, a dentist, at the pub. Drank and hashed out what was right and wrong with the world. I'm sure we came to some excellent conclusions, but I can't remember any of them.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
What's in a name?
I booked my flight to Ireland out of Frankfurt, Germany. S. was incredibly thoughtful, and booked me a flight from Nuremberg to Frankfurt. She said it would be easier to fly than to catch a train or for her to drive me.
I was looking over the tickets the night before and asked how to get from one Frankfurt terminal to the other. My Dublin flight left out of a Frankfurt 120 km south of the Frankfurt I was flying to from Nuremberg. I was unaware there are three Frankfurts in Germany, all with airports. Are you kidding me? Why on earth would you have three Frankfurts? When someone says they are flying out of Minneapolis, one assumes that it is the twin city, not a small northern suburb of Duluth. Why do they not post that in big flashing letters on websites?
S. was amazing - she scrambled and found me another flight from the second Frankfurt to Dublin. Crisis avoided. She took me to the airport the next morning, checked me in, and talked the attendant into checking my bags through to Dublin.
I had to recheck-in at Frankfurt because I was switching airlines and leaving the country. The new airline didn't open their ticket offices until two hours before boarding, so I waited. I checked in when they opened, but there was a small glitch. Even though I had a confirmation email with the ticket on it, they had no record in their system. I never wanted to speak German more. They told me I could buy another ticket if I wanted, but there was nothing they could do.
I used my last euros to call S. and then Expedia. Expedia told me there was no problem on their end and that the ticket was processed. They reissued me a ticket though in case it was a system glitch. I suspect they forgot to issue the ticket in the first place. Anyway, I went back to the counter in tears and they agreed to let me fly stand-by with my confirmation email. I also suspect they had found the ticket by this point and were covering up.
Still, I made the flight. Auf wiedersehen, Germany. I'll miss you and all your Frankfurters.
I was looking over the tickets the night before and asked how to get from one Frankfurt terminal to the other. My Dublin flight left out of a Frankfurt 120 km south of the Frankfurt I was flying to from Nuremberg. I was unaware there are three Frankfurts in Germany, all with airports. Are you kidding me? Why on earth would you have three Frankfurts? When someone says they are flying out of Minneapolis, one assumes that it is the twin city, not a small northern suburb of Duluth. Why do they not post that in big flashing letters on websites?
S. was amazing - she scrambled and found me another flight from the second Frankfurt to Dublin. Crisis avoided. She took me to the airport the next morning, checked me in, and talked the attendant into checking my bags through to Dublin.
I had to recheck-in at Frankfurt because I was switching airlines and leaving the country. The new airline didn't open their ticket offices until two hours before boarding, so I waited. I checked in when they opened, but there was a small glitch. Even though I had a confirmation email with the ticket on it, they had no record in their system. I never wanted to speak German more. They told me I could buy another ticket if I wanted, but there was nothing they could do.
I used my last euros to call S. and then Expedia. Expedia told me there was no problem on their end and that the ticket was processed. They reissued me a ticket though in case it was a system glitch. I suspect they forgot to issue the ticket in the first place. Anyway, I went back to the counter in tears and they agreed to let me fly stand-by with my confirmation email. I also suspect they had found the ticket by this point and were covering up.
Still, I made the flight. Auf wiedersehen, Germany. I'll miss you and all your Frankfurters.
Yoga
The next day in Germany was fabulously relaxed. S. invited me to her yoga class. I have been doing yoga for about six years now, so I felt pretty confident that I wouldn't embarrass myself. Pride before a fall and all that.
Until this experience, I never realized how much yoga involves focusing on the directions from the instructor. She tells you when to breathe, where to focus your energy, how to balance your weight, and where your strength should be focused. She was a fantastic instructor - beautiful with a very smooth, soothing voice. Unfortunately for me, I still didn't speak German. I felt like such a novice. I had to look around to see where we were in the program. My sun salutations were off, I couldn't center myself, and my breathing exercises were crap. Completely humiliating.
S. made me an appointment with her stylist for later that afternoon. Eight weeks without a trim and my ends were looking a little rough. We stopped at a nursery first to pick up flowers for her garden. For some reason, I had this notion that Germany was cold like the upper Midwest. Nuremberg, however, is not. It has a very mild climate; they can even grow lemon trees and magnolias in the yards! I am so jealous. I miss warm climates. I have been trying (unsuccessfully) to grow a magnolia for the past four years. They have a variety that does better in cold climates, but I'm not interested in tiny pink flowers. I want the huge white blossoms and the dark glossy leaves. Someday. For now I comfort myself with jasmines and gardenias, much to DH's dismay.
We ran to the grocery store, grabbed goodies for a picnic lunch, and then picked up the girls from school. S.'s stylist was a doll. Thomas (or maybe Tomas) was a flamboyant artist with a closely shaven head and uber stylish glasses. His English was terrible but still far better than my German. I let him have free rein - always the best option when you can't tell someone what you want. Just go with it. Halfway through the cut, he started talking rapidly in German then disappeared around the corner. He came back wearing a wig that made him look far more emo and far less hipster. I want to import him to the States.
We went to dinner at an Italian place with a friend of S.'s that evening, an opera singer. She was also lovely. Really, I've been quite lucky in my travels to meet such fascinating, talented, friendly people.
Until this experience, I never realized how much yoga involves focusing on the directions from the instructor. She tells you when to breathe, where to focus your energy, how to balance your weight, and where your strength should be focused. She was a fantastic instructor - beautiful with a very smooth, soothing voice. Unfortunately for me, I still didn't speak German. I felt like such a novice. I had to look around to see where we were in the program. My sun salutations were off, I couldn't center myself, and my breathing exercises were crap. Completely humiliating.
S. made me an appointment with her stylist for later that afternoon. Eight weeks without a trim and my ends were looking a little rough. We stopped at a nursery first to pick up flowers for her garden. For some reason, I had this notion that Germany was cold like the upper Midwest. Nuremberg, however, is not. It has a very mild climate; they can even grow lemon trees and magnolias in the yards! I am so jealous. I miss warm climates. I have been trying (unsuccessfully) to grow a magnolia for the past four years. They have a variety that does better in cold climates, but I'm not interested in tiny pink flowers. I want the huge white blossoms and the dark glossy leaves. Someday. For now I comfort myself with jasmines and gardenias, much to DH's dismay.
We ran to the grocery store, grabbed goodies for a picnic lunch, and then picked up the girls from school. S.'s stylist was a doll. Thomas (or maybe Tomas) was a flamboyant artist with a closely shaven head and uber stylish glasses. His English was terrible but still far better than my German. I let him have free rein - always the best option when you can't tell someone what you want. Just go with it. Halfway through the cut, he started talking rapidly in German then disappeared around the corner. He came back wearing a wig that made him look far more emo and far less hipster. I want to import him to the States.
We went to dinner at an Italian place with a friend of S.'s that evening, an opera singer. She was also lovely. Really, I've been quite lucky in my travels to meet such fascinating, talented, friendly people.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Howdy Neighbor
Woke up at 6:00 this morning (hooray for sleeping in!) to take Pup outside. She did her business promptly, and we came back inside. I padded to the bathroom, and shed my pajama pants on the way in preparation for a nice hot shower.
So there I was at the sink. Barefoot. Tank top and panties. Glasses off - in their case in the bedroom. One contact in when pup starts whining. I close my contact-less eye and squint at her. She makes eye contact and then starts to pee. Crap!!!
I scoop her up and race down the stairs. Shove open the screen door, run outside, and dump her on the grass. She barks happily and finishes doing her thing. I praise her extravagantly, and we head back to the apartment.
It is at this point I note my next-door neighbor standing right outside his door. My male, very conservative, Muslim, interventional neurologist neighbor.
Pup runs to him and wags her tail. I walk by, head high, and say good morning.
We have to move.
So there I was at the sink. Barefoot. Tank top and panties. Glasses off - in their case in the bedroom. One contact in when pup starts whining. I close my contact-less eye and squint at her. She makes eye contact and then starts to pee. Crap!!!
I scoop her up and race down the stairs. Shove open the screen door, run outside, and dump her on the grass. She barks happily and finishes doing her thing. I praise her extravagantly, and we head back to the apartment.
It is at this point I note my next-door neighbor standing right outside his door. My male, very conservative, Muslim, interventional neurologist neighbor.
Pup runs to him and wags her tail. I walk by, head high, and say good morning.
We have to move.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Resilience
*as always, all names and identifying data have been changed to protect the privacy of my patients
Child psych is not the most uplifting of professions. The patients are heartbreaking -abused and abandoned five year olds, ten year olds contemplating suicide, seven year olds with post-traumatic stress disorder. The worst that humanity can do to itself is present in child psychiatry.
I had been warned about him in morning report. He had been in inpatient twice for suicide attempts. He had been kicked out of the halfway house for bad behavior and violence. He had failed residential treatment three times. He was in trouble with the law, with school, and with his doctors. No one would touch him. Dangerous. Gang-banger. Unreachable. Unsalvagable. This was his last chance.
DeShawn was a big guy, a boy trapped in a man's body. An African-American kid who walked with that arrogant swagger particular to those who have survived a rough neighborhood or a rough life. His cornrows braided tight against his skull, a clean white do-rag, an oversized sweatshirt, and baggy jeans gave him a "don't mess with me" air. He took a seat in the front of the room. The other teens eyed him cautiously. The interview began.
He was guarded at first. Slowly, he began to share his story.
"I got stuck in here after I tried to hang myself. Had the rope around my neck, felt it tight. Staff came in before I could get myself down. Then they were trippin' later, sayin' I was gonna drink the bathroom cleaner. I was just jokin' with my home-boy; he didn't think it was funny. Guess I ended up in there 'cause I was at the end. Death is just life man, just a phase, everyone dies, I was just choosin' my time. Felt bad though, real bad. Abandoning my sisters, good girls, can't protect 'em up here."
He told us he was from East St. Louis. Vastly different from St. Louis, Missouri, which he was quick to point out. He was raised by his mother.
"She done gave me up when I was eleven. Terminated all her rights. Didn't matter none to me. She lied. I was about ten when I found out my dad, Derrek, what did I used to call him... daddy. He wasn't my daddy. There was talk, and I heard. Then he'd raise his hand to me, knock me around some, I was like 'you ain't my daddy, why you layin' hands on me?'. So I left when I was ten, was at the courts, started kickin' it with this home-boy. He got me into some business. They were my family."
He went on to tell us that all of his friends had been murdered when he was ten. He had just left the house where the killings were to do a job. The rival gang set the house on fire after the shootings. He threw buckets of water on the fire waiting for firetrucks that never came.
"It was messed up. I lost my family again that night. I went a little wild. That's when she gave me up, my mom. Bounced around foster care awhile. Got in some trouble."
DeShawn went on to talk about his real father, an aberration in the scores of single fathers I had met. His mother lied to his father about his existence - told him that she had a daughter not a son. Swore he would never see his daughter. He had been searching for ten years for his child. He found him in foster care and then fought two states for three years to get custody of DeShawn.
"He's superman, the coolest man I ever met. He tells me to think before I act. Told me to hit Derrek where it hurt. I was gonna kill him. Make him pay for what he did. Then I got to thinkin' about what my dad said. I didn't want to go to penitentiary for him, and then my sisters, you know? Their older brother killed their dad? I can't do that to them. So I'm going to go to school, in the Air Force, gonna be in aeronautical engineering. I'll hit him there. He was wrong about me. I'm gonna be famous, be somebody. I've been working hard, you know? Following all the rules, 'cause I had to get home for my dad's birthday. I did it too. I don't want to disappoint him."
He wrapped up the interview shortly after that.
"I'm stronger now - in my head. I know we die; we all die. I ain't gonna die that way though; I ain't takin' it in my hands. I'm not religious or anything, don't make it to church most Sunday's. There's something though, some reason."
He paused. "I'm done now. Can we finish?"
He sat slumped in the chair across from the interviewer, his eyes downcast, the realization of how much he had shared becoming clear.
Connor, an artistic teen with a flair for the dramatic, spoke first.
"You're so optimistic. You had a terrible experience with your family, and yet you embraced your dad with open arms. You're looking to the future. I'm having some trouble with my family now, but hearing your story makes me want to work harder at getting through that. Thank you so much for sharing."
After a few more comments, the teens were invited to write a note to DeShawn if they desired about what his story had meant to them. Every single one stayed to write. DeShawn spent the next thirty minutes reading the notes, tears in his eyes. He told us that no one had ever asked him about his story. No one had ever listened to him except his dad. The exercise had brought him together with kids that in his mind were his complete opposite and allowed him to see how similar they actually were to him. It had given him support and acceptance for that brief period of time. He asked if he could take the notes home. I pictured him pulling them out and re-reading them when he was having a rough time.
Seeing this child society had labeled unsalvageable so vulnerable was one of the most touching experiences I have had. His story, one of death and rebirth, of a father searching for a lost son against all odds, struck me. It was symbolic to me of God searching for us, of our need to become dead to this world and reborn in Christ. His resilience, his optimism, his determination to succeed against all odds with the help of his loving father were inspiring.
DeShawn has a long way to go. I know the odds are against him, and I don't know how it will turn out for him. I do know that I am in his debt. He helped restore my faith when it was at a low. For that, I am grateful.
Child psych is not the most uplifting of professions. The patients are heartbreaking -abused and abandoned five year olds, ten year olds contemplating suicide, seven year olds with post-traumatic stress disorder. The worst that humanity can do to itself is present in child psychiatry.
I had been warned about him in morning report. He had been in inpatient twice for suicide attempts. He had been kicked out of the halfway house for bad behavior and violence. He had failed residential treatment three times. He was in trouble with the law, with school, and with his doctors. No one would touch him. Dangerous. Gang-banger. Unreachable. Unsalvagable. This was his last chance.
DeShawn was a big guy, a boy trapped in a man's body. An African-American kid who walked with that arrogant swagger particular to those who have survived a rough neighborhood or a rough life. His cornrows braided tight against his skull, a clean white do-rag, an oversized sweatshirt, and baggy jeans gave him a "don't mess with me" air. He took a seat in the front of the room. The other teens eyed him cautiously. The interview began.
He was guarded at first. Slowly, he began to share his story.
"I got stuck in here after I tried to hang myself. Had the rope around my neck, felt it tight. Staff came in before I could get myself down. Then they were trippin' later, sayin' I was gonna drink the bathroom cleaner. I was just jokin' with my home-boy; he didn't think it was funny. Guess I ended up in there 'cause I was at the end. Death is just life man, just a phase, everyone dies, I was just choosin' my time. Felt bad though, real bad. Abandoning my sisters, good girls, can't protect 'em up here."
He told us he was from East St. Louis. Vastly different from St. Louis, Missouri, which he was quick to point out. He was raised by his mother.
"She done gave me up when I was eleven. Terminated all her rights. Didn't matter none to me. She lied. I was about ten when I found out my dad, Derrek, what did I used to call him... daddy. He wasn't my daddy. There was talk, and I heard. Then he'd raise his hand to me, knock me around some, I was like 'you ain't my daddy, why you layin' hands on me?'. So I left when I was ten, was at the courts, started kickin' it with this home-boy. He got me into some business. They were my family."
He went on to tell us that all of his friends had been murdered when he was ten. He had just left the house where the killings were to do a job. The rival gang set the house on fire after the shootings. He threw buckets of water on the fire waiting for firetrucks that never came.
"It was messed up. I lost my family again that night. I went a little wild. That's when she gave me up, my mom. Bounced around foster care awhile. Got in some trouble."
DeShawn went on to talk about his real father, an aberration in the scores of single fathers I had met. His mother lied to his father about his existence - told him that she had a daughter not a son. Swore he would never see his daughter. He had been searching for ten years for his child. He found him in foster care and then fought two states for three years to get custody of DeShawn.
"He's superman, the coolest man I ever met. He tells me to think before I act. Told me to hit Derrek where it hurt. I was gonna kill him. Make him pay for what he did. Then I got to thinkin' about what my dad said. I didn't want to go to penitentiary for him, and then my sisters, you know? Their older brother killed their dad? I can't do that to them. So I'm going to go to school, in the Air Force, gonna be in aeronautical engineering. I'll hit him there. He was wrong about me. I'm gonna be famous, be somebody. I've been working hard, you know? Following all the rules, 'cause I had to get home for my dad's birthday. I did it too. I don't want to disappoint him."
He wrapped up the interview shortly after that.
"I'm stronger now - in my head. I know we die; we all die. I ain't gonna die that way though; I ain't takin' it in my hands. I'm not religious or anything, don't make it to church most Sunday's. There's something though, some reason."
He paused. "I'm done now. Can we finish?"
He sat slumped in the chair across from the interviewer, his eyes downcast, the realization of how much he had shared becoming clear.
Connor, an artistic teen with a flair for the dramatic, spoke first.
"You're so optimistic. You had a terrible experience with your family, and yet you embraced your dad with open arms. You're looking to the future. I'm having some trouble with my family now, but hearing your story makes me want to work harder at getting through that. Thank you so much for sharing."
After a few more comments, the teens were invited to write a note to DeShawn if they desired about what his story had meant to them. Every single one stayed to write. DeShawn spent the next thirty minutes reading the notes, tears in his eyes. He told us that no one had ever asked him about his story. No one had ever listened to him except his dad. The exercise had brought him together with kids that in his mind were his complete opposite and allowed him to see how similar they actually were to him. It had given him support and acceptance for that brief period of time. He asked if he could take the notes home. I pictured him pulling them out and re-reading them when he was having a rough time.
Seeing this child society had labeled unsalvageable so vulnerable was one of the most touching experiences I have had. His story, one of death and rebirth, of a father searching for a lost son against all odds, struck me. It was symbolic to me of God searching for us, of our need to become dead to this world and reborn in Christ. His resilience, his optimism, his determination to succeed against all odds with the help of his loving father were inspiring.
DeShawn has a long way to go. I know the odds are against him, and I don't know how it will turn out for him. I do know that I am in his debt. He helped restore my faith when it was at a low. For that, I am grateful.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Adventures in Puppydom
Our house became a little more crowded this week. No, I didn't buy more clothes (though that would also have been a lovely way to spend the weekend.) We have a new puppy ~ Artemis. Artemis was the Greek goddess of hunting. I'm beginning to think we should have called her Ate (ah-tay)- the goddess of mischief.
I have learned a very important lesson after five sleepless nights. I am not ready to have children.
Pup is a bit more than a handful. More like a ten gallon bucketful. Miller, my lab, was easier; he was dumb. I'm pretty sure pup has an IQ to rival most MENSA members. She has figured out how to open both of the childproof trash cans, can unravel a roll of toilet paper in the exact time it takes me to put in my contacts, and today discovered how to turn on the TV. The talking people scared her, so she immediately set to protecting us by barking her head off. She loves to steal my Coke but is less interested in DH's Mountain Dew. Good taste. She is now working on opening the fridge.
I give her three days.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Modern art and footwear
S. spoiled me terribly. My first night there she made an amazing pasta and incredible dessert. I hadn't eaten that well since I left the States. We stayed up way too late talking and drinking wine. It reminded me of when I stay with her sister. We do the same thing. I'm always tired the next day, but it's worth it.
She had parent-teacher conferences for her son V. the next day, so she arranged for me to tour a modern art exhibit with some friends of hers. The Neues Museum was wonderful - very sleek and minimalistic, and her friends were darling. The exhibit was Marcello Morandini, an immensely talented artist/architect/designer. The tour guide was very thorough; she talked for almost two hours.
Unfortunately, the tour was in German, and I tend to dislike modern art.
S. and V. picked me up from the museum, and we went for a walk in the old town. There's a fountain in the center, Schoner Brunnen, that has a lovely myth associated with it. The Glucksbringer (golden ring) set into the fence is supposed to grant your wishes or bring you love if you turn it 360 degrees. I'm always up for luck and love, so I gave it a spin. Based on the rest of my trip, I think I spun it the wrong direction.
We ate lunch at (I think) Zum Gulden Stern. They have the cutest little sausages with kraut. It's much like Prague in that you share a table with whomever is at the other end. V. had homework to finish, so S. called him a cab and sent him home after lunch. I thought this was fabulous. How fun to have your own driver! I would have pretended to be very famous and important.
S. and I continued the tour of the old town. As most all of you know, I have a distinct weakness for beautiful shoes (and clothes) that often outweighs the practicality issues I might face. I was wearing red crocodile skin open-toe heels. They are fabulous. They are not, however, all that appropriate for walking up a cobblestone path to an ancient castle as noted by the cute road worker as we passed by.
I did look cute though.
She had parent-teacher conferences for her son V. the next day, so she arranged for me to tour a modern art exhibit with some friends of hers. The Neues Museum was wonderful - very sleek and minimalistic, and her friends were darling. The exhibit was Marcello Morandini, an immensely talented artist/architect/designer. The tour guide was very thorough; she talked for almost two hours.
Unfortunately, the tour was in German, and I tend to dislike modern art.
S. and V. picked me up from the museum, and we went for a walk in the old town. There's a fountain in the center, Schoner Brunnen, that has a lovely myth associated with it. The Glucksbringer (golden ring) set into the fence is supposed to grant your wishes or bring you love if you turn it 360 degrees. I'm always up for luck and love, so I gave it a spin. Based on the rest of my trip, I think I spun it the wrong direction.
We ate lunch at (I think) Zum Gulden Stern. They have the cutest little sausages with kraut. It's much like Prague in that you share a table with whomever is at the other end. V. had homework to finish, so S. called him a cab and sent him home after lunch. I thought this was fabulous. How fun to have your own driver! I would have pretended to be very famous and important.
S. and I continued the tour of the old town. As most all of you know, I have a distinct weakness for beautiful shoes (and clothes) that often outweighs the practicality issues I might face. I was wearing red crocodile skin open-toe heels. They are fabulous. They are not, however, all that appropriate for walking up a cobblestone path to an ancient castle as noted by the cute road worker as we passed by.
I did look cute though.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Train stations
I am quite behind on my blogs, so forgive them for being out of order. The whole trip will make it up...eventually. Maybe.
Ah, Germany. The country of kraut, sausages, and beer. I never thought much about Germany before I went there on this trip. I now have fabulous memories of it.
I've a friend who lives in Nuremberg who graciously allowed me to stay with her for a few days before my partially ill-fated trip to Ireland. I dropped M. and DH off at the metro and headed to the train station in Prague. The train I was planning on taking left at one p.m. It was about nine a.m., so I thought I could buy my ticket, grab lunch with the sixty crowns I had left, and then catch the train. The ticket man had other ideas. He booked me on the morning departure, so I had just enough time to grab a Coke and jump on the train.
The trains are an interesting ordeal. Some of the seats are reserved. Some are first-come, first-serve. I have yet to figure out how one tells the difference. I chose poorly my first go around. I tucked my bags in the overhead compartment and settled in to listen to "Agreeing to Disagree". About twenty minutes later I was interrupted by a couple who had somehow magically reserved the seat I was occupying. I spent the next five minutes standing in limbo land between the train cars. Scary place, limbo. The old westerns had it wrong. It is not adventurous to jump over the speeding rails. It is idiotic.
Wandered down the aisle in the next car and found an open seat. Hooray! Border patrol came through and checked my passport, but didn't stamp it. I find this curious. I also did not get a stamp when I entered or left Czech. What if I was a spy or a fugitive? I could totally have hidden in Czech.
My Czech is bad. My German/Deutsch is non-existent. This did not stop me from trying. I made friends with the elderly German couple in my car despite the language barrier. Sign language and smiling covers all manner of sins. They took me under their wing and helped me with the transfer in Schwandorf. I'm sure that they announced the transfer, but announcements in German are not very helpful to me.
Arrived at the train station several hours early. No wifi. No cellphone. No Euros. Sigh. I found a bank of payphones with instructions - also in German. I really envied all of my multilingual friends at that moment. An hour or so later, I finally figured out how to work the phone and reached Shara. She picked me up at the train station and my German adventure began.
Ah, Germany. The country of kraut, sausages, and beer. I never thought much about Germany before I went there on this trip. I now have fabulous memories of it.
I've a friend who lives in Nuremberg who graciously allowed me to stay with her for a few days before my partially ill-fated trip to Ireland. I dropped M. and DH off at the metro and headed to the train station in Prague. The train I was planning on taking left at one p.m. It was about nine a.m., so I thought I could buy my ticket, grab lunch with the sixty crowns I had left, and then catch the train. The ticket man had other ideas. He booked me on the morning departure, so I had just enough time to grab a Coke and jump on the train.
The trains are an interesting ordeal. Some of the seats are reserved. Some are first-come, first-serve. I have yet to figure out how one tells the difference. I chose poorly my first go around. I tucked my bags in the overhead compartment and settled in to listen to "Agreeing to Disagree". About twenty minutes later I was interrupted by a couple who had somehow magically reserved the seat I was occupying. I spent the next five minutes standing in limbo land between the train cars. Scary place, limbo. The old westerns had it wrong. It is not adventurous to jump over the speeding rails. It is idiotic.
Wandered down the aisle in the next car and found an open seat. Hooray! Border patrol came through and checked my passport, but didn't stamp it. I find this curious. I also did not get a stamp when I entered or left Czech. What if I was a spy or a fugitive? I could totally have hidden in Czech.
My Czech is bad. My German/Deutsch is non-existent. This did not stop me from trying. I made friends with the elderly German couple in my car despite the language barrier. Sign language and smiling covers all manner of sins. They took me under their wing and helped me with the transfer in Schwandorf. I'm sure that they announced the transfer, but announcements in German are not very helpful to me.
Arrived at the train station several hours early. No wifi. No cellphone. No Euros. Sigh. I found a bank of payphones with instructions - also in German. I really envied all of my multilingual friends at that moment. An hour or so later, I finally figured out how to work the phone and reached Shara. She picked me up at the train station and my German adventure began.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The taste of Czech
Saturday we woke up early and left the sketchy hotel. Our destination that morning was the town where DH's and M.’s great-great grandfather was born. It was a tiny little town at a crossroad with a population of about ten. We talked to three of them. I use the term talk loosely. My Czech is definitely functional, not conversational, and it’s not all that good. The whole experience was very surreal. Think about a kid packing up and leaving his country, going across the ocean to a land where he wouldn’t know the language or the people, knowing he probably would never see his family again. It takes guts. I have a new respect for my ancestors.
We toured the Pilsner Urquell brewery that afternoon. Learned a lot of technical mumbo-jumbo about beer, sampled beer straight from the barrel. Mostly though, we watched this guy who we later found out was a brewmaster from Seattle. There was a section of the tour where they show you the barley, water, and hops that they use to make the beer. There is a bucket of barley out so visitors can touch it and smell it. They have about ten tours a day, probably of about ten to twenty people each, all touching the barley.
The guy ate the barley.
I shudder to think about it even now. He probably has the plague.
We assumed our car roles, and we headed back to Prague. It was a true test of my navigating capabilities and M.’s Czech driving. The drivers were crazy, the map was terrible, and the three of us were exhausted. We were doing okay until Prague decided to put a parking ramp in the middle of the road and have all the lanes exit into the parking garage. Luckily for us, they gave five hours of free parking on the weekends.
We toured the Pilsner Urquell brewery that afternoon. Learned a lot of technical mumbo-jumbo about beer, sampled beer straight from the barrel. Mostly though, we watched this guy who we later found out was a brewmaster from Seattle. There was a section of the tour where they show you the barley, water, and hops that they use to make the beer. There is a bucket of barley out so visitors can touch it and smell it. They have about ten tours a day, probably of about ten to twenty people each, all touching the barley.
The guy ate the barley.
I shudder to think about it even now. He probably has the plague.
We assumed our car roles, and we headed back to Prague. It was a true test of my navigating capabilities and M.’s Czech driving. The drivers were crazy, the map was terrible, and the three of us were exhausted. We were doing okay until Prague decided to put a parking ramp in the middle of the road and have all the lanes exit into the parking garage. Luckily for us, they gave five hours of free parking on the weekends.
The worst day
One day had to receive the honor of being the worst day of the trip. Thursday won. We woke up early, had breakfast, and toured the castle at Cesky Krumlov. The moat there is home to a huge brown bear. Learned that the answer to 'does a bear poop in the woods?' is no. He poops in a moat. We decided against photographic evidence.
We had developed set roles by this point in the trip. M. was not allowed to navigate as his attention was easily caught by tractors. Once while navigating, he looked up and asked why we were turning right. He hadn't noticed the signs. DH was not allowed to navigate or drive because he couldn't see out the windows. So M. drove, I navigated, and DH was in charge of snacks and naps.
We headed north to a spa town where we were going to get massages. We had been told it was full of Russians. I think this was code for overpriced, ugly, and not worth the trip. To quote M., "This town sucks." After trying five different hotels and finding them all full or WAY out of our budget or closed, we decided to head back to Plzen.
Now the map we were navigating with was not the most detailed of maps. It had major highways, bigger towns, and county lines. We had discovered that the term road was loosely applied. Some marked major highways were similarto our interstates back home. Some were more like our two lane highways. Then there were the roads that didn't make it to the map. A few had all three lines painted on them, but most did not. It seemed they took an asphalt truck and followed the cow trails. There were no shoulders. They planted trees next to the road- right next to the road. In a few places the road had been paved around the tree. Most of them could fit two cars side by side. This was not a concern for the drivers; they passed uphill-around a corner-in the rain with abandon. We call this "feeling Czech".
We drove around Plzen searching for a hotel or wireless signal. We were not successful. M. and I left DH at a cafe and went in search of a hotel. One place was kind enough to show us a room. We went to the fourth floor and a chambermaid met us. She said "room". We nodded. She took us to the door, pointed, and left. The door was locked. I don't know if this counts as showing us a room, but she was nowhere to be found. We had some trouble with the fire escape, but made it out mostly undetected.
We were cold, wet, tired, and cranky – always an excellent combination. M. and I decided that we were going to get in the car, drive north, and stay in the first hotel we came across that had a restraint nearby no matter how sketchy it seemed. That is how we ended up at Hotel Diana. It had a pool/large cement round bowl full of rain water and scum. It had communal bathrooms. It had a bathtub with a shower head laying in it. It had shower curtain rings with no shower curtain. It had beds/cushions on platforms. It was a Communist horror. It was clean and dry though, and the restaurant was across the driveway.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you walk into a room and everyone looks you up and down and knows you do not belong there? We have.
We had developed set roles by this point in the trip. M. was not allowed to navigate as his attention was easily caught by tractors. Once while navigating, he looked up and asked why we were turning right. He hadn't noticed the signs. DH was not allowed to navigate or drive because he couldn't see out the windows. So M. drove, I navigated, and DH was in charge of snacks and naps.
We headed north to a spa town where we were going to get massages. We had been told it was full of Russians. I think this was code for overpriced, ugly, and not worth the trip. To quote M., "This town sucks." After trying five different hotels and finding them all full or WAY out of our budget or closed, we decided to head back to Plzen.
Now the map we were navigating with was not the most detailed of maps. It had major highways, bigger towns, and county lines. We had discovered that the term road was loosely applied. Some marked major highways were similarto our interstates back home. Some were more like our two lane highways. Then there were the roads that didn't make it to the map. A few had all three lines painted on them, but most did not. It seemed they took an asphalt truck and followed the cow trails. There were no shoulders. They planted trees next to the road- right next to the road. In a few places the road had been paved around the tree. Most of them could fit two cars side by side. This was not a concern for the drivers; they passed uphill-around a corner-in the rain with abandon. We call this "feeling Czech".
We drove around Plzen searching for a hotel or wireless signal. We were not successful. M. and I left DH at a cafe and went in search of a hotel. One place was kind enough to show us a room. We went to the fourth floor and a chambermaid met us. She said "room". We nodded. She took us to the door, pointed, and left. The door was locked. I don't know if this counts as showing us a room, but she was nowhere to be found. We had some trouble with the fire escape, but made it out mostly undetected.
We were cold, wet, tired, and cranky – always an excellent combination. M. and I decided that we were going to get in the car, drive north, and stay in the first hotel we came across that had a restraint nearby no matter how sketchy it seemed. That is how we ended up at Hotel Diana. It had a pool/large cement round bowl full of rain water and scum. It had communal bathrooms. It had a bathtub with a shower head laying in it. It had shower curtain rings with no shower curtain. It had beds/cushions on platforms. It was a Communist horror. It was clean and dry though, and the restaurant was across the driveway.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you walk into a room and everyone looks you up and down and knows you do not belong there? We have.
National Security
Thursday we rented a car and drove south toward Cesky Krumlov. We stopped off at an ammunition factory on the way. I don’t know how many of you have toured an ammunition factory, but let me give you a couple of tips.
One: if it is in a foreign country, do not send the guy who doesn’t speak any of the language to talk to the guards. The guards will then follow him to the car with their big guns and make the situation very uncomfortable.
Two: do not make jokes about national security or act too interested in which government defense contracts they have. It is not felt to be funny.
Three: bring your own safety gear. Even though the signs say that eye protection and ear plugs should be worn, they might not be given to you. Your ears might ring for an hour or so.
Four: do no stand too close to the belts, particularly if they are jerry-rigged.
Five: the bullets are hot when they come off the press and sticking your hand in the big box of them is a bad idea. That should cover it.
After the tour we continued south to Cesky Krumlov. It was by far the prettiest town I have seen the entire trip. It puts Prague to shame. It’s a medieval town on the World Heritage list or some such nonsense. Practically, this means that the roads are exactly wide enough for one economy car to get through. The charm more than made up for the narrow streets. We dubbed this ‘the pretty town’.
We stayed at my favorite hotel of the trip here. It was adorable. James had a little trouble with the doors trying to scalp him a few times, but that was the only flaw. The bathroom had a bidet – the first one M. had ever seen. There are a whole fleet of stories that go with that, but we have agreed to keep them between us.
After the tour we continued south to Cesky Krumlov. It was by far the prettiest town I have seen the entire trip. It puts Prague to shame. It’s a medieval town on the World Heritage list or some such nonsense. Practically, this means that the roads are exactly wide enough for one economy car to get through. The charm more than made up for the narrow streets. We dubbed this ‘the pretty town’.
We stayed at my favorite hotel of the trip here. It was adorable. James had a little trouble with the doors trying to scalp him a few times, but that was the only flaw. The bathroom had a bidet – the first one M. had ever seen. There are a whole fleet of stories that go with that, but we have agreed to keep them between us.
Beer is cheaper than water
Most of you know that I do not like beer. I have never cared for the taste or smell of it. Czech beer has changed my mind. There are multiple reasons for this. First, I am cheap. Beer is cheaper than water, Coke, juice, milk, and every other drink on the menu, so I drink beer.
There are several pubs where beer is all you can order to drink – sometimes only one kind of beer. The culture around beer drinking here is fascinating too. A specific toast ‘na zdravi’ is said, everyone clinks the mugs together, taps them on the table, and then drinks. It never fails.
My favorite beer here, Kozel, doesn’t taste at all like beer. It’s sweet, not bitter, not overly carbonated, dark, and delicious. It tastes more like bubbly water with chocolate and coffee flavors. I have no idea why they do not export this beer to the U.S., but James assures me it would be not nearly as good if they did. Thus, I have amended my dislike of beer to a dislike of American beer.
It is still crap.
Mining towns
Wednesday we made a day trip to Kutna Hora, a mining town east of Prague. We caught a bus and an hour or so later pulled up at the station. James had a whole trout for lunch. We offered 50 crowns for him to eat the eye, but he wouldn’t take it. I don’t blame him. I probably would have a put a piece of lettuce over it during the meal though. It freaks me out when my dinner is watching me.
We toured Saint Barbara’s cathedral, then went to the ossuary in Sedlec. It was decorated with the bones of over 40,000 plague victims and pilgrims. It was also seriously creepy. Grabbed some snacks at a local grocery store. They have onion, ham, steak, and paprika flavored potato chips. The steak ones are surprisingly good. We went back to the bus station and spent an inordinate amount of time figuring out which bus would take us back. We managed to pick the bus that took the scenic route. I think we went through every small town between Kutna Hora and Prague. I am quite aware that buses need to fill up occasionally. However, I have never been on a bus full of passengers that pulled off the road to fill up in the middle of the route until this trip.
Cleaned up at the hotel, then back to Wenceslas square to meet up with Dan, a guy we know from Prague that visited the U.S. last year. He took us to a pub near my first hotel that had decent food, large portions, and excellent beer. We went for a drink afterward at a pub up the road. He talked the waitress into selling us a couple of the Pilsner glasses. Walked back to the hotel and headed to bed - we had to get up early for our road trip.
We toured Saint Barbara’s cathedral, then went to the ossuary in Sedlec. It was decorated with the bones of over 40,000 plague victims and pilgrims. It was also seriously creepy. Grabbed some snacks at a local grocery store. They have onion, ham, steak, and paprika flavored potato chips. The steak ones are surprisingly good. We went back to the bus station and spent an inordinate amount of time figuring out which bus would take us back. We managed to pick the bus that took the scenic route. I think we went through every small town between Kutna Hora and Prague. I am quite aware that buses need to fill up occasionally. However, I have never been on a bus full of passengers that pulled off the road to fill up in the middle of the route until this trip.
Cleaned up at the hotel, then back to Wenceslas square to meet up with Dan, a guy we know from Prague that visited the U.S. last year. He took us to a pub near my first hotel that had decent food, large portions, and excellent beer. We went for a drink afterward at a pub up the road. He talked the waitress into selling us a couple of the Pilsner glasses. Walked back to the hotel and headed to bed - we had to get up early for our road trip.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Irish, part 1
For the loyal readers of my blog, I apologize. Last week was a touch trying and a smidge stressful and I was not able to blog. I will try my hardest to be extra charming and amusing the next few weeks to make up for my lapse in writing. There will be a surplus of entries today. Try not to gorge yourself all at once. For those unfaithful readers, I hope you contract a cyber-STD. Serves you right for straying.
Last week while I was lurking on the stairs of my hotel trying to catch a wifi signal, I met a lovely group of Irish firemen. They were in town for a holiday and proclaimed Prague "brilliant". Upon hearing that my husband wasn't coming until next week and that I was spending the evening alone, they insisted I come out to celebrate St. Patrick's day with them.
We went to an Irish pub not far from the hotel. They ordered a round of doubles. Apparently one beer at a time is not enough. We sang Irish songs I didn't know at the top of our lungs. We cheered on Liverpool in a soccer match. I learned all about Gaelic football (my new favorite sport) and the finer points of shoulder tackles. We toasted every saint I have ever heard of and a few I hadn't. There was a drinking contest between the Irish patrons and the Czech regulars which devolved into an all out brawl. In the middle of swinging fists, one of the Irish guys nodded at me. "Could ye order another round love?"
Last week while I was lurking on the stairs of my hotel trying to catch a wifi signal, I met a lovely group of Irish firemen. They were in town for a holiday and proclaimed Prague "brilliant". Upon hearing that my husband wasn't coming until next week and that I was spending the evening alone, they insisted I come out to celebrate St. Patrick's day with them.
We went to an Irish pub not far from the hotel. They ordered a round of doubles. Apparently one beer at a time is not enough. We sang Irish songs I didn't know at the top of our lungs. We cheered on Liverpool in a soccer match. I learned all about Gaelic football (my new favorite sport) and the finer points of shoulder tackles. We toasted every saint I have ever heard of and a few I hadn't. There was a drinking contest between the Irish patrons and the Czech regulars which devolved into an all out brawl. In the middle of swinging fists, one of the Irish guys nodded at me. "Could ye order another round love?"
I loved them.
I was crushed when they had to go home. Luckily, the boys were coming on Saturday.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Another beautiful rainy day in Prague. It has been sunny one morning since I arrived. Spring will come soon, I'm sure.
Had a rather rough start to my day. Fell out of bed an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off. You're supposed to be mostly immobile during REM sleep, but I don't think my brain is aware of this fact.
Didn't pull the shower door all the way closed and caused a minor flood in the bathroom. Oops. Broke the top off of my mousse, so I now have fuzzy hair. Sigh.
Tripped and fell in a puddle on my way to the metro. Skinned my knee a bit.
Hospital was good today. Lecture about rheumatoid arthritis, clinic. Had a half liter in the hospital bar afterwards with the other students. Today is their last day - they have next week off to study for exams.
Went to St. James church this afternoon- couldn't get inside though because they are cleaning for Easter. It's the second longest church in Prague, historically linked with the city's butchers. More interestingly, it has a decomposed arm hanging inside above the door. The story is that a thief in the 16th century tried to take the jewels off the Madonna at the altar. The Madonna grabbed his arm and wouldn't let go. The butchers cut it off the next day. It's been hanging in the church since. It's an oddity now, but can you imagine the people that had to go to Mass when it was new? Ick.
I'm calling a mulligan for today. I'll give it another go tomorrow.
Didn't pull the shower door all the way closed and caused a minor flood in the bathroom. Oops. Broke the top off of my mousse, so I now have fuzzy hair. Sigh.
Tripped and fell in a puddle on my way to the metro. Skinned my knee a bit.
Hospital was good today. Lecture about rheumatoid arthritis, clinic. Had a half liter in the hospital bar afterwards with the other students. Today is their last day - they have next week off to study for exams.
Went to St. James church this afternoon- couldn't get inside though because they are cleaning for Easter. It's the second longest church in Prague, historically linked with the city's butchers. More interestingly, it has a decomposed arm hanging inside above the door. The story is that a thief in the 16th century tried to take the jewels off the Madonna at the altar. The Madonna grabbed his arm and wouldn't let go. The butchers cut it off the next day. It's been hanging in the church since. It's an oddity now, but can you imagine the people that had to go to Mass when it was new? Ick.
I'm calling a mulligan for today. I'll give it another go tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
These Boots
Had an excellent lecture on pediatric orthopedics today. I feel my learning was enhanced by my outfit. Today I am wearing my tough-girl boots I picked up at one of the vintage stores here. I like to think the previous owner wore them in the revolution and resistance against Communism. They have kicked some KGB secret police butt in their past. Scoliosis doesn't stand a chance against these suckers.
After lecture, caught a bus to Melnik, home of one of the oldest wineries in Bohemia. (I like to call the Czech Republic Bohemia too. It sounds so earthy.) Toured the chateau and the wine cellars from the 1300's. It blows my mind sometimes the sheer age of this country. The first castle was built in the 900's. Isn't that incredible? This vineyard was established by Emperor Charles IV. I don't recall what he was emperor of exactly, but good call on the grapes Chuck.
The bus ride was an hour of fun. I spent ten minutes arguing with the lady about my student status for ticket discounts I know I'm getting old (Happy Birthday honey!!), but I think I can still pass for under thirty. Especially since I am under thirty! I won after pointing out that no professional adult would be wearing butt kicking boots in the middle of the work day. I also had a student ID card. Shared my aisle with a couple of chickens in a cage. Before I would have questioned this, but now I know about the egg thing.
I also finally understand why the Czech people immigrated to Nebraska. It looks exactly the same. Rolling hills, farm plots, strips of trees around houses, and a bar every mile and crossroad. I still don't get why people immigrated to Minnesota. You would think they would have veered left when the winter came. Lewis Black does a great bit on that. Google it.
Sampled some wine, had a fantastic early dinner of pit roasted venison, quail, and dumplings. Caught the bus back and am getting ready to go out with Russian Julia and crew. Finally talked them into taking a night off from studying. They take this being a doctor thing WAY too seriously. I will Americanize them one by one.
One more thing -
Happy Birthday DH!!
After lecture, caught a bus to Melnik, home of one of the oldest wineries in Bohemia. (I like to call the Czech Republic Bohemia too. It sounds so earthy.) Toured the chateau and the wine cellars from the 1300's. It blows my mind sometimes the sheer age of this country. The first castle was built in the 900's. Isn't that incredible? This vineyard was established by Emperor Charles IV. I don't recall what he was emperor of exactly, but good call on the grapes Chuck.
The bus ride was an hour of fun. I spent ten minutes arguing with the lady about my student status for ticket discounts I know I'm getting old (Happy Birthday honey!!), but I think I can still pass for under thirty. Especially since I am under thirty! I won after pointing out that no professional adult would be wearing butt kicking boots in the middle of the work day. I also had a student ID card. Shared my aisle with a couple of chickens in a cage. Before I would have questioned this, but now I know about the egg thing.
I also finally understand why the Czech people immigrated to Nebraska. It looks exactly the same. Rolling hills, farm plots, strips of trees around houses, and a bar every mile and crossroad. I still don't get why people immigrated to Minnesota. You would think they would have veered left when the winter came. Lewis Black does a great bit on that. Google it.
Sampled some wine, had a fantastic early dinner of pit roasted venison, quail, and dumplings. Caught the bus back and am getting ready to go out with Russian Julia and crew. Finally talked them into taking a night off from studying. They take this being a doctor thing WAY too seriously. I will Americanize them one by one.
One more thing -
Happy Birthday DH!!
Monday, March 9, 2009
My Kingdom for an Egg
I like eggs. They're good scrambled, baked in cake, whipped up into a country omelet. They are a happy part of my unbalanced diet.
The Czech people on the other hand seem to LOVE eggs. They are everywhere. Boiled, scrambled, poached. Sliced and on bread with horseradish or tartar for sandwiches. Chopped and mixed with mayo (not Miracle Whip, but heavy real mayo) and spread with ham on toast. Sprinkled on pizza- not breakfast pizza, real pizza. On top of cheeseburgers. Fried and put in baguettes with sliced meat. Sliced, dehydrated, and premixed into your cereal like strawberries.
Well, the last one isn't true, but I'm betting it would be a huge hit here.
They sell wooden eggs, big and small. Each part of the country has a traditional way of decorating eggshells for Christmas and Easter decorations. These are quite beautiful, and are also for sale in some small traditional shops. Some are even jeweled. Garnet brooches are made in the shape of eggs.
They even have a story about eggs and the St. Charles bridge. They say that each village had to send money or goods to help build the bridge. One village sent eggs to help strengthen the bridge. The eggs were boiled and mixed into the mortar. They claim this is why the bridge has stood so long.
I pointed out to my British compatriots the love affair with the egg here. They hadn't noticed. I am not terribly surprised. Look at what they eat in England.
The Czech people on the other hand seem to LOVE eggs. They are everywhere. Boiled, scrambled, poached. Sliced and on bread with horseradish or tartar for sandwiches. Chopped and mixed with mayo (not Miracle Whip, but heavy real mayo) and spread with ham on toast. Sprinkled on pizza- not breakfast pizza, real pizza. On top of cheeseburgers. Fried and put in baguettes with sliced meat. Sliced, dehydrated, and premixed into your cereal like strawberries.
Well, the last one isn't true, but I'm betting it would be a huge hit here.
They sell wooden eggs, big and small. Each part of the country has a traditional way of decorating eggshells for Christmas and Easter decorations. These are quite beautiful, and are also for sale in some small traditional shops. Some are even jeweled. Garnet brooches are made in the shape of eggs.
They even have a story about eggs and the St. Charles bridge. They say that each village had to send money or goods to help build the bridge. One village sent eggs to help strengthen the bridge. The eggs were boiled and mixed into the mortar. They claim this is why the bridge has stood so long.
I pointed out to my British compatriots the love affair with the egg here. They hadn't noticed. I am not terribly surprised. Look at what they eat in England.
Another Day
I love the new hotel. I'm sure some of it is reactionary from the horror of the last place, but I don't care. I even have a bathtub! The breakfast is fantastic - cheeses, meats, cereal, kolacs, chocolate, rolls, yogurt. My husband obviously has great taste. I am becoming addicted to kolacs. This spells trouble for my clothes fitting.
Today, I loved Prague. It was partly sunny and snowing this morning when I left. Hospital was okay. I went to St. Vitus' Cathedral this afternoon. The sun coming through the stained glass windows was stunning. It was like being inside of a drafty kalidescope. Watched the changing of the guards, peeked through the arrow slots at the castle, strolled down St. Charles bridge. I was listening to my friend Brad's podcast and squeaked rather loudly when he mentioned James and I. It startled the people and pigeons around me a bit. They looked a little stuffy to begin with, so it probably did them good.
Found a cluttered little store stuffed with Art Deco statues, vases, farm tools, jewelry, coffee sets, watches, and oodles of other stuff. The owner and I had green tea in Bohemian crystal mugs and discussed what the world was coming to. Prayed in St. Nicholas' cathedral and saw the crypt of the astronomer who died of a bladder rupture. (He had one pilsner too many and didn't want to offend his host by leaving the table to go to the bathroom. I think he could have just wet his pants.)
Stopped at Starbucks to warm up - try not to judge me; they have free wifi. Caught a tram back to the hotel. It's cold now and snowing, so I think I'll stay in for the evening. Not an exciting day, by any means. It was lovely though.
Today, I loved Prague. It was partly sunny and snowing this morning when I left. Hospital was okay. I went to St. Vitus' Cathedral this afternoon. The sun coming through the stained glass windows was stunning. It was like being inside of a drafty kalidescope. Watched the changing of the guards, peeked through the arrow slots at the castle, strolled down St. Charles bridge. I was listening to my friend Brad's podcast and squeaked rather loudly when he mentioned James and I. It startled the people and pigeons around me a bit. They looked a little stuffy to begin with, so it probably did them good.
Found a cluttered little store stuffed with Art Deco statues, vases, farm tools, jewelry, coffee sets, watches, and oodles of other stuff. The owner and I had green tea in Bohemian crystal mugs and discussed what the world was coming to. Prayed in St. Nicholas' cathedral and saw the crypt of the astronomer who died of a bladder rupture. (He had one pilsner too many and didn't want to offend his host by leaving the table to go to the bathroom. I think he could have just wet his pants.)
Stopped at Starbucks to warm up - try not to judge me; they have free wifi. Caught a tram back to the hotel. It's cold now and snowing, so I think I'll stay in for the evening. Not an exciting day, by any means. It was lovely though.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Moving
Woke up early Saturday and the hotel lady had made fresh kolacs with 'chocolate' (bitter hot cocoa). I packed up my suitcase and checked out of the hotel. I decided to book hotels a week at a time. This would give me an opportunity to see different parts of the city and ensure I was never stuck at a terrible place for more than a week. It was like a safety net. Turns out it was a net with large holes.
The new hotel had pictures online of clean rooms with white linens and happy guests. It had a list of amenities including smoke free rooms, wireless Internet, and breakfast. It reported it was close to the tram. It was pure propaganda y'all. Stalin should have bulldozed this place when he had the chance.
The lobby was clean but old. I could live with that. They insisted on payment with a credit card. I could live with that. They gave me a real key with a keychain as big as my palm attached. This was my first clue that things might be taking a turn. They assured me that the key worked on both the bathroom and bedroom locks.
I beg your pardon?
Yes, they had seperate locks - for safety reasons. We have already discussed my imagination, so I won't bore you with the 'safety reasons' I came up with in the next few seconds.
The wireless Internet was twenty Euro for thirty minutes.
They pointed me in the direction of the lift, and said that it had been working most of the day. I thought about taking the stairs, but they put me on the 8th floor and my suitcase is heavy. The elevator came, and there was room for me OR my suitcase. It wasn't full of people or cleaning supplies. It was just that small. I didn't feel I could put the suitcase inside, push the button, and then race up the stairs to meet it for 'safety reasons', so I started up the stairs with suitcase in tow.
The cigarette smoke was choking me. It was like a jazz club in a movie with clouds of tar swirling around as you walked through. I swear it had all risen to the eighth floor. The walls were dark yellow except where the pictures used to hang. There, it was white. The carpet was....industrial.
I unlocked the door to the bedroom. There was one light overhead. There were no power outlets. The window had bars. (I'm on the eighth floor! Why do I need bars? Is Spiderman coming to murder me in my sleep? Who are these people? )
The beds, for there were two, did not have mattresses. Instead, they had four inch thick pieces of foam much like that used for seat cushions which was upholstered in what I can only assume were carpet remnants. There were no sheets. The blankets were wrapped in a slightly less than pristine white duvet cover that was mostly transparent. In their favor, the pillow (singular) seemed nice.
There was a rotary phone. I did not unlock the bathroom. I didn't have the courage.
DH booked me another hotel, and I canceled the rest of the week. Call me a snob, but do it while you're calling me a taxi, please.
The new hotel had pictures online of clean rooms with white linens and happy guests. It had a list of amenities including smoke free rooms, wireless Internet, and breakfast. It reported it was close to the tram. It was pure propaganda y'all. Stalin should have bulldozed this place when he had the chance.
The lobby was clean but old. I could live with that. They insisted on payment with a credit card. I could live with that. They gave me a real key with a keychain as big as my palm attached. This was my first clue that things might be taking a turn. They assured me that the key worked on both the bathroom and bedroom locks.
I beg your pardon?
Yes, they had seperate locks - for safety reasons. We have already discussed my imagination, so I won't bore you with the 'safety reasons' I came up with in the next few seconds.
The wireless Internet was twenty Euro for thirty minutes.
They pointed me in the direction of the lift, and said that it had been working most of the day. I thought about taking the stairs, but they put me on the 8th floor and my suitcase is heavy. The elevator came, and there was room for me OR my suitcase. It wasn't full of people or cleaning supplies. It was just that small. I didn't feel I could put the suitcase inside, push the button, and then race up the stairs to meet it for 'safety reasons', so I started up the stairs with suitcase in tow.
The cigarette smoke was choking me. It was like a jazz club in a movie with clouds of tar swirling around as you walked through. I swear it had all risen to the eighth floor. The walls were dark yellow except where the pictures used to hang. There, it was white. The carpet was....industrial.
I unlocked the door to the bedroom. There was one light overhead. There were no power outlets. The window had bars. (I'm on the eighth floor! Why do I need bars? Is Spiderman coming to murder me in my sleep? Who are these people? )
The beds, for there were two, did not have mattresses. Instead, they had four inch thick pieces of foam much like that used for seat cushions which was upholstered in what I can only assume were carpet remnants. There were no sheets. The blankets were wrapped in a slightly less than pristine white duvet cover that was mostly transparent. In their favor, the pillow (singular) seemed nice.
There was a rotary phone. I did not unlock the bathroom. I didn't have the courage.
DH booked me another hotel, and I canceled the rest of the week. Call me a snob, but do it while you're calling me a taxi, please.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Should I stay or should I go
For those of you wondering, I won The Battle of The Sheets. The final skirmish involved some tactics not covered under the Geneva Convention. My lawyer advises I not discuss it further.
It was my turn to get grilled in lecture today. I have found that it's much easier to remain calm when one is focused on translating instead of the actual question being posed. He had me describe some hardware and its uses. I nailed it (pardon the pun). I also learned a lot about their techniques for repair of intertrochanteric fractures today. It was a really interesting morning. I am still having trouble with the non-antiseptic style. Doubt that I will get used to that.
Huw and Faris (I apparently spelled their names wrong before) showed me a new way home from the hospital. They are both just darling. Anyway, it turns out I can ride one of the trams most of the way there. This is very exciting as it cuts my commute way down. So I bid them goodbye and was cheerfully riding the tram back to the hotel and listening to NPR.
Suddenly, a screeching noise came from up ahead. Everyone was thrown forward. I pulled my earphones out and looked around. All around people were grumbling and picking up their bags. The doors remained shut; the tram wasn't moving. Interesting.
We sat there for five minutes. The grumbling increased. The conductor came stalking through and made a rapid announcement in Czech. Half of the people wordlessly moved to the front of the tram and disembarked. The other half didn't move.
I feel compelled to point out that my Czech at this point consists of about ten phrases, none of which are appropriate to ask what is going on. I futilely try English. Spanish. Nothing. I should point out that the two halves were about equal- genderwise, weightwise, agewise, package holding-wise. My imagination took flight, as it is wont.
Are we too heavy for the track? Were the heavy people supposed to get off? Did all the Czechs get off and now the train of evil foreigners will be blown up? Was there a selection process for who left? What if I met the criteria and now everyone is stuck because I didn't get off? Is this like a movie and we're teetering on a cliff and one wrong weight imbalance sends us over? Am I in Speed 5?
I decide that I will be better off outside of this death trap. None of my scenarios had anything pleasant for the people left on the train. Alone, I head up the aisle to disembark. The passengers eye me as I go by. I am sure that I am about to be lynched.
I made it! Freedom!
Now as it turns out, one tram had broken down and then been rear ended by another causing a jam. This is much more logical than any of my explanations. However, my imagination did not go to the most logical explanation. Instead, it went to the most absurd. I'm sure this says something deep about my personality, thus my plan is to ignore whatever it is saying.
It was my turn to get grilled in lecture today. I have found that it's much easier to remain calm when one is focused on translating instead of the actual question being posed. He had me describe some hardware and its uses. I nailed it (pardon the pun). I also learned a lot about their techniques for repair of intertrochanteric fractures today. It was a really interesting morning. I am still having trouble with the non-antiseptic style. Doubt that I will get used to that.
Huw and Faris (I apparently spelled their names wrong before) showed me a new way home from the hospital. They are both just darling. Anyway, it turns out I can ride one of the trams most of the way there. This is very exciting as it cuts my commute way down. So I bid them goodbye and was cheerfully riding the tram back to the hotel and listening to NPR.
Suddenly, a screeching noise came from up ahead. Everyone was thrown forward. I pulled my earphones out and looked around. All around people were grumbling and picking up their bags. The doors remained shut; the tram wasn't moving. Interesting.
We sat there for five minutes. The grumbling increased. The conductor came stalking through and made a rapid announcement in Czech. Half of the people wordlessly moved to the front of the tram and disembarked. The other half didn't move.
I feel compelled to point out that my Czech at this point consists of about ten phrases, none of which are appropriate to ask what is going on. I futilely try English. Spanish. Nothing. I should point out that the two halves were about equal- genderwise, weightwise, agewise, package holding-wise. My imagination took flight, as it is wont.
Are we too heavy for the track? Were the heavy people supposed to get off? Did all the Czechs get off and now the train of evil foreigners will be blown up? Was there a selection process for who left? What if I met the criteria and now everyone is stuck because I didn't get off? Is this like a movie and we're teetering on a cliff and one wrong weight imbalance sends us over? Am I in Speed 5?
I decide that I will be better off outside of this death trap. None of my scenarios had anything pleasant for the people left on the train. Alone, I head up the aisle to disembark. The passengers eye me as I go by. I am sure that I am about to be lynched.
I made it! Freedom!
Now as it turns out, one tram had broken down and then been rear ended by another causing a jam. This is much more logical than any of my explanations. However, my imagination did not go to the most logical explanation. Instead, it went to the most absurd. I'm sure this says something deep about my personality, thus my plan is to ignore whatever it is saying.
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