I woke up today sticking to my sheets. It’s hot. Record-breakingly hot. Drink-every-cold-beer-in-the-house-before-noon-hot.

Wednesdays are walking-tour days in Bilek’s Czech Lit class. Heat and all, we hiked the hills to the Outlook over Zizkov.

A lot of people were going to a beer garden afterward; I would have gone as well, but I was having a panic attack over the photos that I was supposed to show in a few days… so I split early to go shooting. Sorry, buddies.

The school set us up with transportation passes that cover all metros, buses, and trams in the city. Because I can’t get up on time, can’t be ready on time, the metro has become my favorite buddy—it’s a block from the dorms and in about five minutes spits me out at the school’s steps. I don’t know what Prague looks like in between stops, though, so this afternoon I’m jumping a tram.

Tram 23. A joyride. A back-streets ride. That I can’t stop grinning, that I hold a lens-heavy camera in my lap colors me red, white and blue to those commuting home or on their way to the post office. “Amerikanska?” their gazes ask jovially. The farther we ride the less-friendly these gazes become. I put my camera back in my bag. I get off at a park on the far far outskirts.

It’s later. I take a red-line metro to I.P. Pavlova to walk the streets up and down like supermarket aisles. Pubs, secondhand stores, plumbing supply shops, casinos, a bookstore, convenience shops selling cigarettes and yoghurt …all of this below and apartments above…all of this in five-story buildings lining the streets, stony-faced and leaning in like challengers of a staredown. I wish I could stay in this part of town. Had I antlike strength I would pick up the dorm building and move it to the very street on which I stand. Had I a horn of plenty in my bank account I would rent a flat here for the remaining two weeks. Had I relentless grace and charm I would bewitch someone there, trick them into letting me to stay. As it is, all I can do is walk the sidewalks slowly, happily. I love it; it feels like home.

Dusk. Zizkov, somewhere. I sit unworried on a bench. “Lost” is a word reserved for sea, space, the arctic, Montana. I know I am in front of this building

and that this thing is behind me

and that the closest metro is probably over my left shoulder and down a few blocks. The possibility of somehow missing the metro and night tram don’t worry me either. The night is fine and I’m drawing that one building, people walk their dogs and an Italian café seats hungry neighbors from around the corner.

You can ask Arvie, Berry, Paul, anyone: I don’t draw well, but I love the process as much/if not better than photo. It’s eight, now nine, now ten. The dogs are still walking, the café still serving, and I’m drawing drawing drawing. Someone stops. It’s an older gentleman, white-haired but still spry. He sits beside me. Speaks no English apart from “ok” and “it is finished!” and because I recently dropped my language class (due to photo meeting conflicts…..ok fine, and oversleeping) I speak no Czech. Language barriers are more problematic when two people speak the same language, however; hand gestures and expression suffice for those who don’t. This is our conversation:

Man: “You’re an artist?”
Me: “Yes, a student. I’m a photographer, though; not a draftsperson. This is silliness, just for fun. I’m not very good.”
He looks at my drawing.
Man: “No, no, it’s very good. Maybe you should work on the perspective, but it’s very good. It’s perfect.”
Takes a notebook from his bag. Opens it to a drawing of a woman. It’s in pencil, beautifully rendered.
Me: “You too! This is beautiful. May I see?”
He hands it to me. It’s the only used page in the notebook. I give it back. He takes out a pencil and smiles.
Man: “Turn your head—no, too far. There!”
Begins sketching rapidly. I smile. It feels like Dryden Goodwin.
Man: “Eh? Yes?”
Hands me the result. It looks like me. It’s fantastic. He rips it out and gives it as a gift. I’m close to splitting my face open with smiles.
Me: “Yes! Thank you!”
Man (shrugging): “No problem, no problem. Tell me, what are you doing out so late? You should in bed.”
Me: “It’s only 11, I can’t sleep this early.”
Man: “When?”
Me: “2, 3am…”
Man: “You can’t stay here this late, this is Zizkov! You’ll be kidnapped! Where do you go, what part of Praha? Praha 3, Praha 1…..?”
Me: “Praha 6. Dejvická”
Man: “I hope you’re aware, young woman, that the metro will be closing at midnight. That’s in less than one hour.”
Me: “Oh I know, thanks, but I plan to stay here until the last minute. I like it better here than Dejvická.”
Man: “Ah, you like it better? What, the clock? The buildings? The dogs running amuck and the noisy streets?”
Me: “All of it.”
Man: “Have you been up yet?”
Me: “Up…?”
The man takes out his watch, not worn on his wrist but kept in his bag, and checks it against the clock behind us. He smiles knowingly, mischievously.
Man: “We still have time. Come with me.”
Me (alarmed): “What?”
Man: “Come on, come on! It’s ok, come on!”

In a split second I weigh the pros and cons. Everything my mom has ever warned me flashes before my eyes. Some strangers are worth trusting though, and he is one. I stand and follow.
We turn a corner. The Prague TV Tower looms above us, a few hundred feet away. It had been blocked by a tree or structure—I had no idea we were so close. I grab his arm.
Me: “We’re going…?”
He grins, nods, and I beam. Shanna made me promise to go, and I want to for my own sake. With 15 minutes before it closes he’s racing me to the entrance, insisting on paying my way, ushering me into an elevator and chatting happily in words I don’t understand of the tower’s fame, how it’s the tallest in the Czech Republic, taller than their little Eiffel Tower, taller than the Twin Towers. The elevator opens to one of the four site decks. it’s now very dark, and maybe the interior is always lightless, but I’m guessing that they’re preparing to close and that we’re the night’s last customers. The structure is very new, reminding me of the Space Needle, and I run to the glass. The view is the kind to suck your breath like a punch to the chest. On a clear day, they say, you can see to the very edges of the world. Imagine this, but at night when all the world has turned on their bedroom lamps and headlights, neon and street lamps, fluorescents and tungstens of every wattage made. It’s a flickering landscape of red, white and green and I swear that tonight there are more stars on the ground than in the sky. I’m rooted to one spot, but my friend is pulling at my sleeve, wanting to give me the tour. We walk from one site deck to the next, stop for him to point out the different districts, towers, castles, church spires, and finally, the bench on which we had just sat.
Man: ”...and there is where I live….and cleeeear over there is where you live. What is your name? Emily? Emiliska. My name is Jan. Jani.”
Me (laughing): “It’s lovely to meet you, Jani.”
And that is that. Those who work at the tower wanted to go home. I thank him as we ride the elevator down, and he shrugs it off, pleased. (“It is nothing, it is nothing.”)
He takes me back to the bench, pointing to the metro. It’s dark enough now to see the green-lit sign a few blocks away, right where I thought it would be. Hands me the tickets for the tower. The stubs double as postcards. He takes out his notebook, scribbles an address.
Man: “Take these, they’re yours. This is where I live. You’ll write to me?”
Me: “Yes, of course I will. It was wonderful to meet you. Thank you.”
He gave a little nod of the head, a smile, and left. I walk to the metro. There’s plenty of time before it closes.

Up until I came out of the tunnel.





























No camera I’ve ever held could capture the rest.

I’m late with this, sorry. Things tend to happen faster than I can write about them, edit and upload photos, and post. I’ve been diligent with writing in Word everyday….the photo uploading and html-ing take forever. But by the way, Dear Readers, Thank You for reading my blog, for the comments, the e-mails, etc. You’re the best.

 

The Charles Bridge turned 650 today and all the world came. The locals dressed in elaborate medieval costumes and from midnight to 5:31am they paraded the bridge with drums and scared horses, acting out their history, waiting for the minute after dawn when the priest would bless the last stone laid all those years ago.

Looking for the local laudermat, Adrienne and I stopped for lunch at an on-the-corner bar. We shared a table with a wonderful lady named Milada who has lived in Prague for all of her life, speaks very good English, and spent over two hours talking with us about geology, herbal medicine, photography and what it was like to live through the Velvet Revolution. It was she who told us about the celebration at the bridge and suggested we meet there that evening.

At around 9pm, Adrienne went ahead with Milada while I opted to finish a page of Czech Language homework and catch up later. We were supposed to meet at the base of the bridge, but oh chaos! A zoo! It was a rare moment when a throng of out-of-the-woodwork native Praguers and a stampede of tourists willingly came together as a single mass. It smelled of horse and warm beer, and I had to elbow my way through a crowd of armored knights to reach my buddies.

 

The party kicked off at midnight with parades, old school fireworks, and jousting. We went for a drink at a riverside café until the crowds calmed down, then braved the bridge. Actors lined the sides near every statue—one every 15 feet or so—and would tell you on your approach all there is to know about Saint Somebody or the Goddess X. Milada, history buff, was in heaven and it took over two hours for her to go through them all. Cute. Exhausting. By that time the cannon had been set off numerous times, the sober ones had gone home and the not-so-sobers were staggering back and forth over the bridge, the actors had relaxed their poses and were lighting cigarettes and removing their hats and swords….and we decided that although not one of us would ever live to see (or care to attend) another such celebration, we were NOT going to stay until 5:31am to see a pope kiss a rock. I stayed up that late anyway, sitting in the kitchen. Sometime before I leave the jet lag will have to wear off. It has to.

Praha is that earnest little indie band you once loved, now taken by the mainstream, sold at Hot Topic, playing Ozzfest, climbing Billboard mediocredom, drawing millions of fans every day and breaking the hearts of those who knew them when their songs were raw and underproduced, when they played the basements and local bars, when they were still unknown.

I’ve spent the last few days searching the outskirts of downtown for a stretch of road NOT lined by souvenir shops and glass trinkets of questionable quality, where I won’t hear any English or see any T-shirts stating “Czech me out!” It’s like I’ve been eating champaign cake for days and I need something to balance out the fluff. Like a pickle.

Editor’s note:

My brilliant roommate, Sara Long, in fact spells her name without an “h.” My deepest apologies, and I hope in all sincerity that by hereby spelling her name as it appears on her certificate of birth, our friendship will not suffer the permanent damage that this error could potentially cause.

1. When Czech people says “No no no, it is impossible, it is impossible!” they really mean it. If you are crossing the street in an undesignated place and they say “not here, it is impossible,” you sure as hell better NOT cross there. They’re stubbornly serious about shutting out the possibilities.

2. I really love dark beer. Thanks to roomie Sara for turning me on to it.

3. The vending machines are deluxe. Downstairs in the lobby is a coffee machine that sells the best espresso I’ve ever had. Push a button and it spits out a little cup, the coffee goes woosh! and voila, caffeine.

4 There is also a vending machine with beer downstairs. In a college dorm. T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

5. Speaking of college dorms: Just because I’m from Oregon does not—does NOT—mean that I am a walking, talking personal supply of marijuana. Stop barking; I am definitely the Wrong Tree.

6. There are more Italian restaurants and markets than Czech.

7. Czech old men are the cutest people in the world. Like gnomes.

8. There is a KFC on nearly every block. The MacD’s and Subways tie for second place. It is heartbreaking to be walking through an old, untouched cobblestone street, turn the corner and run smack into Colonel Sanders.

9. All the large dogs are required to wear muzzles while out in public.

10. The most common breed is the yorkie. They’re thick.

11. There’s so little traffic one can walk in the street, especially in Old Town, but the few who do drive are maniacs.

12. The locals speak very good English. I haven’t encountered many language barriers thus far.

13. I have never seen so many variations of toilets.

14. This city is much safer than home, excepting maybe the pickpockets. And this dorm (see #4).

15. Czechs drive on the right-hand side of the road. Emily Ignoramus thought that all of Europe drove on the left.

16. If you need to take a taxi, you have to catch it on side that points toward the direction you’re going. Apparently cabs are incapable of turning around.

17. The exchange rate is outRAGEous. Six of us went out to a very nice restaurant and ordered drinks, salads, and main courses. The food was smashing, the waitstaff’s hearts beat gold, and the bill was something like 1100 crowns. That’s about $50. For SIX PEOPLE. (The Café Louvre, I believe—definitely go the next time you’re in town).

18. Czechs make fun of Germans like Americans make fun of Canadians.

19. The money is beautiful. The common bills are 2000, 1000, 500, 200, 100 and 50; and 50, 20, 10, 5, 2, 1, .5 are coins—I love love love the coins.

20. Ice is a novelty and the tea is usually presweetened to the max. Ugh.

21. People don’t bathe often and occasionally the metros, crowded streets and small pubs/cafés smell ghastly. Deodorant is hard to find.

22. The tourists really DO suck. They’re disrespectful, loud, mercenary and drunk all the time. The Brits are better than others while Germans and Americans tie for worst.

1. Marionette shops and puppet theaters are everywhere! We stumbled upon a tourist-less section of Old Town lined by beautiful, local cafés and a puppet shop that had The Sound of Music goat marionettes. Roommate Jen and I were beside ourselves with delight. I’m definitely bringing one home. Perhaps a pair. Maybe a whole herd. I could change my thesis to a theater production called Goats! Good thing I brought an extra, empty duffel along in preparation for such a find.

2. On the third day we found Tesco. It’s a 5-story Prague-mart/Prague Meyer. The ground floor is a weird mishmash of watches, bath bubbles, alcohol; the 1st through 5th floors are clothing, home supplies, office stuff and garden tools; and groceries are in the basement. The system is brilliant. You take the stairs down, buy as many groceries as you care to stuff in the bag that you provide (they have plastic, but they’re 3 time thinner than ours and I wouldn’t trust them with a carton of eggs for more than a block), and an escalator carries you and your groceries back to the ground level. To go anywhere you have to take at least three flights of stairs, you understand—my calves are burning—but it’s to be noted that while carrying one’s weight in groceries, the Czechs kindly roll out the escalators. This observation falls under the category clever.

3. One of Portland’s shiniest qualities is the numerous farmer’s markets and outdoor produce outlets. Before coming over I googled “Czech Republic + fresh produce” and read blog after blog on how difficult it is to find anything fresh, vegetarian, etc. I had braced myself for a daily diet of fried cheese and carp and some kind of goulash. But not only does Tesco have a healthy stock of fruits and veggies, look at what we found:

And it’s open EVERY DAY!!

The right-hand side of the dorm stayed up all night talking and downloading photos. I swear that the nights are only half as long as those in the US. As I had to be in class this morning and Adrienne was catching a plane to Florence, we both said ‘screw it’ to sleeping—at 5am, what’s the point? I’m a late-morning sleeper; if I went to bed at 5 I’d never wake up in time for school.

Still, I was late. Unbeknownst to me I scrambled the room number of my first class. Horrible idea for a high-speed Slavic language class. Especially because unlike a lot of the students here, bhu´zel nemluvím cesky—I don’t speak Czech at ALL. Try this on for size:

Hello > Dobr´y den/ ahoj
Goodbye > Na shledanou / cˆau
Thank you > Dêkuji
Please/you’re welcome/beg your pardon > Prosím
I don’t understand > Nerozumím

I’m going to use the last one the most.

Class #1 was completely overwhelming; Class #2 was completely over my head. Richard Katrovas, head of the program, insists that I audit selected lectures, seminars, and readings. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I know nothing about English/literature/poetry/words.

The first speaker was Czech, heavily accented, gestural and enthused, couldn’t stand still …

...the second was from Germany, sat perfectly still and spoke very softly.

Today everyone met in the commons, walked a few blocks and caught the metro to Staromêtska (in Staré Mêstro, Old Town). After riding up the escalator (stand on the right side, the left is for passing) and ascending a hefty flight of stairs, Charles University is on the immediate right. The orientation speeches were short (most of it didn’t apply to Adrienne and I, as we are independent photo kids swimming in a sea of English students) followed by a tour of Staré Mêstro led by the cutest little man named Milos (Mee-LOWSH).

Afterward we headed back to the dorms for the Welcome bash downstairs in the student club. This place has it all—a swanky, dark Student Club with a bar that puts our lounge to shame, a basement bar that’s open til 3am, and a restaurant that looks white-tablecloth fancy .

Adrienne and I sat with our roommates, Sarah and Jen, and got to know them. They’re both undergrads from Western Michigan University; Sarah’s a Literary Critic major (i think) and Jen’s a poet. Already we loved them for bringing an army of pots and pans, silverware and cups to share. Adrienne had said that we really fell in the luck bucket when it comes to our roomies, and after tonight I completely agree. They are amazing, funny, beautiful girls. We could have been paired with the sleazy Egyptian fellows down the hall.

The girls had a lot of reading homework, so Adrienne and I decided to go out exploring again. The city is such a puzzle, divided into quadrants (Praha 1 through 7, I think). Everything is rounded and twisty and tunnely, and I have no sense of direction yet.

We took the metro to the school and walked that area until about 1am, stopping once at a Czech-Italian restaurant, not realizing that the metro stops running at midnight. Time to figure out the tram system.

Shanna wasn’t kidding when she warned me not to try deciphering it. There are green lines, red lines, blue lines, yellow lines of which only certain numbered cars run after 12. A group of three Czech boys, two of whom spoke spoke very passable English, stopped to help us, determined which stop we needed, and offered to walk us there as they were going the same direction. They walked us clear across town, sat and talked with us until the tram came, then rode along to Dejvická to make sure we got off at the right place.

They were very kind, curious about the US, in love with their city (even though they thought it was “dirty” and the tourists “weird”), and completely adorable. Adrienne and I are going to try to befriend at least one Czech a day, because from our experience they’re smart, genteel and generous people.

Watch out kids, this Study Abroad thing will distract you with school, the promise of summer break, and before you know what’s happening it will sneak upon you and carry you off to a foreign land. One moment I was finalizing last-minute portfolios and locker clean-outs at PNCA; the next moment my family was whirlwindedly driving me to Airport PDX. With a bag stuffed with Tylenol PM, reading material and a change of clothes, and with my suitcase holding the insect repellent and sunscreen and everything else I could possibly need, I set off to travel the Earth on Thursday, June 28th.

Plan: Adrienne Butzer and I were spending July at Charles University in Prague as independent study photo students, thanks to Lennie Pitkin’s brilliant negotiating powers. We had matching itineraries except for hour-apart flights from PXD to Denver, but in Denver we would meet and fly together into London and the Czech Republic.

However. A lightning storm broke out in Denver just as my flight landed. Because of taxiing for an hour and the baggage trucks being on oh-no-you-DON’T-go-out-into-that-lighting delay (causing my suitcase to come in from the plane FOUR HOURS LATER), I missed my connecting flight to London and was put on standby—the next flight was booked solid, and I had no guarantees until Saturday.

Oh.

“I’m sorry,” said the voice at the end of the Airport Hotel Booking Service’s hotline, “we have no rooms available this evening.” There were several conferences happening in Denver, the hotels had been turning people away all day.

Oh no.

There was a very very sweet lady from the lightningaphobic airline who had assisted me through the baggage fiasco, and now she gave me a wealth of food vouchers and personally helped set up a cot in the most out-of-the-way location we could find. She was nothing but kindness and I love her. I wasn’t too upset at this point; this was just another part of the adventure. Even so, the aforementioned Tylenol PM came in handy. The Denver airport has got to be on this year’s Top 5 Worst Places to Sleep list.

Friday was longer than long. I walked up and down the airport, people watching. I solved a lot of crossword puzzles. I cashed in my food vouchers. But mostly I hung out in front of British Air to make sure that they knew how serious I was about getting on this flight. At 7:30pm I was given the OK to wait at the gate. All but one passenger had checked in—and by 8 o’clock, I was boarding.

The greatest part of spending umpteen hours in a truly terrible airport was that the flight to London was a breeze. The flight was lovely. The British accents of the flight attendants were adorable. The food was decent. I slept like the dead. Anything was amazing compared to spending another night in Denver. I would have happily stayed in the air for days.

The Heathrow airport is a funny, backward maze of long long hallways and yellow signs. A bus takes passengers to different terminals, and there’s no way to know where you’re going until your flight shows up as “boarding at gate such-and-such” on the overhead monitor. It was foggy in London, however, and my flight was late, so I had time to sit and have a proper cup of tea (as promised, Mom).

The head of the Prague program had sent detailed directions on where to change money, what bus to take, how to get to the dorms, etc. The flight to the Czech Republic was peaceful, moving through security and finding my suitcase was easy, and I was able to exchange US money for Czech koruna (crowns), buy bus tickets and find the 119 to Dajvická.

It’s beautiful in Prague, even along the “ugly” route to the dorms, Masarykova Kolej. The climate is like Portland with higher humidity. Everything is obviously old, but the area is pristine. I saw no houses, just apartment-style buildings.

I checked in, receiving an orientation packet with the class schedules, field trip details, my bus/tram/metro pass and dorm key. Adrienne was in our room when I arrived. I had had no means to communicate with her, so when I came in she was very relieved. I wasn’t tired at all—being here was too exciting—so after unpacking my suitcase and checking out our room (it’s a two dorm unit with an adjoining kitchen and split bathroom—our roomies were asleep, I’d meet them later) we ran down and caught the metro to the Staromêstská stop, downtown.

I can’t even write about how overwhelming it was to walk up from the subway and be in This Place. Adrienne is a walker too, thank goodness, because we probably walked 10 to 15 miles that night, exploring. We walked over the Charles Bridge, through Old Town, through New Town, up and down the hill to a castle (I don’t know which one, there are too many) and through a walled-off park and winding, steep-hilled neighborhoods. We left at 8 and came back at 3am by taxi. I’m so happy that we have a month; we wouldn’t be able to see anything if we were doing the two week program instead.