Frozen Fingers, Soviet Planes, and Chocolate Pie

Through my wool socks, my toes were hurting. The fingers on my gloveless hands were hurting even worse. And while Scotty and I watched Bohemians gut out a point in a 1-1 draw against the favored home squad, the pain reminded me how stupid I was for not coming better equipped on this trip to Olomouc on what happened to be the coldest weekend of the year. I wish mom had been there. To comfort me, tell me how I'm the handsomest boy in my class, yes. But also to tell me to take warmer clothes. Just in case.

Olomouc is in Moravia, the far east of the country, if that's possible (the Czech Republic is about the size of South Carolina). I went with Scott and some of his friends, a bubbly group of Brits, Yanks, and a Pole. Upon arrival late Saturday morning, we quickly realized how nasty it was outside. Shit. None of us had properly prepared ourselves. After a "brunch" in a pub restaurant (highlight was beer with a shot of cherry syrup and a cherry at the bottom), we found our hostel and checked in.

First order of business in this little town was a search for protection against the elements. Olomouc not being Prague, there wasn't a Vietnamese-run second hand store every few blocks so Scotty and I headed to the local Billa (Czech supermarket chain). He wanted long underwear, but settled for a pair of plaid pajamas he fished out of a bargain bin near the dairy secion. I found a "Furberry" (Fake Burberry) scarf in the same bin for 20 Czech crowns (Kc). It turned out to be the best 20 Kc I have ever spent. Stylish, cheap, and warm.

Meeting up with the rest of the gang, we hit the town's main square and took a look at their Astronomical Clock, which according to Wikipedia was shot to shit by the retreating German army at the end of WWII. There was also a huge pillar adorned with angels, apparently a show of thanks to God for those who survived the Plague.

With the sight-seeing out of the way, we headed for the greatest of Olomouc's attractions: chocolate pie. We each had a slice in a recommended cafe, and it was terrific, a bit of a firmer consistency than cheesecake, and a taste similar but superior to a Hershey's kiss. To wash it down, I ordered a piece of chocolate cheesecake, which was equally delicious.

One quick hostel power nap later, Scotty and I emptied our backpacks and layered on every article of clothing we had in preparation for the two hour Bohemians football game. Night game. Over his regular underwear, Scotty put on the plaid pj's (picture at the end). Now my man is a cool, tough looking guy as explained in a previous blog, but the nightwear made him look like an eight-year-old. Fantastic.

The game was a struggle, for both the players and the fans, due to the plummeting temperatures. Once safely in the bosom of the away section, Scotty pulled out his green Bohemka scarf from inside his coat and wore it proudly. About 400 strong or so, the Bohemians fans were beered up and outcheering/outsinging ("Bohemka je, a bude, a my jsme sni vsude!") the pussy Olomouc fans, most of whom didn't bother to show up. And just as Scotty and I were starting to lose heart in our team and feeling in our appendages, the Kangaroos' hard work paid off. Forcing a turnover near the opposing teams goal, our boys were able to put one away late in the second half and stave off defeat. Scotty and I left hurting but happy.

It was a good night. The beer and shots flowed, and we bounced from a traditional Moravian restaurant to a pub called Rasputin's to the surprisingly hot "Meex" dance club, then closed the night at one of the coolest bars I've been to in the Czech Republic. Back during the days of Communism, the Soviets rewarded the Party elites in Olomouc with a building for a supper club. The "building" in this case was an old Soviet passenger plane. Now it's a late-night place drinking hole which includes a flight attendant/waiter and a dance floor and DJ up near the cock pit. Hell. Yes.

A post-6am bedtime and a pre-10am wake up and checkout left us a bit groggy in the morning, so we returned to the pie cafe and ordered ourselves some quiche and berry smoothies. A good cleanse, though Scotty went with another slice of pie and not one, but two shots of Slivovice, a potent Czech spirit made from plums. The waitress blinked twice after hearing his order, then shrugged and went off in search of his breakfast booze.

Feeling satiated and thus drowsy, the group split. Some headed to a pub to continue drinking, but I felt I should take in some culture, so I headed out into the cold with one other from the crew: Max, a flame-headed Mancunian and aspiring pilot in the RAF. After accidentally walking around nearly all the old fortress walls of the city, she and I hit up the beautiful St. Wenceclas cathedral, popped into the free church museum for a bit, then returned to the pub and killed the last few hours until the train left. A good 36 hours in Olomouc.

the Jungle

It's dark. Humid. Your head is swimming a little. Okay, a lot. A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead. You wipe it off nonchalantly with your forearm. While trying to look like you're not scanning the others, you scan the others.

Around the outside, males stand with a beer in one hand and the other in a pocket. If possible, they lean up against a wall. On the inside, females in groups of 2, 3, 4, giggle and sway their hips. A few of the braver or perhaps more shameless males slide to the inside, awkwardly moving their shoulders and inch closer. You know where you are? You're in the jungle baby! You're gonna die!!!

Actually, it's a night club dance floor, which is essentially the same thing (you're not gonna die either, I just couldn't not finish the lyric.) This particular dance floor happens to be in Prague, but though the languages are different and more varied, the dance is the same.

Prague is an incredibly fun city, but it needs to be said that the music is terrible. The DJ in this particular joint is playing Fergie singles (not the good ones) and remix tapes of Elton John choruses (good) and replacing the verses with Czech rap (shit). Often the music is too slow, or just plain bad. It's work to actually dance. But that's not really what we came here for, is it?

Saturday night I went to La Chateau Rouge with my flatmates, Atila (Albanian, and yes, named after who you're thinking of (her father wanted a boy)), and Julia (Polish, and the "J" is pronounced like a "Y"). This place is right in the center of town, just off of Old Town Square. Thus there is heavy traffic from tourists. British stag parties are brought here by their "party coordinators" (usually a Czech girl hired to take them to various hot spots). They order a "malé pivo" (small beer), watch the dance floor for a few minutes and then head to the next destination. There were also large groups of college-age Americans, which I correctly guessed were exchange students here for the semester. Toward the end of the night, we saw one of these girls, who had lost her ticket, angrily call the Czech coat check guy a "fucking idiot" after refusing to give up her jacket. He screamed at her to "fuck off." Then she cried.

On the floor, I stood with Atila and Julia, and tried to make the best of the music. My moves mostly consist of the head-bob, not unlike a chicken, which increases in intensity depending on the song. I keep my hands in loosely held fists around my waist while shimmying the upper body, kinda like a boxer looking for an opening. This probably sounds cooler than it actually looks. I was "taught" by friend Shannon, a former Northwestern University "Lady Cat" to "grind." The majority of her instruction consisted of her saying, "looser, looser!" as I held onto her hips.) Point being, I'm pretty stiff out there. But the important thing is that I don't care. There is no such thing as a bad dancer, only an inhibited one. And to quote Marvin Gaye in his greatest song:

As long as you're groovin,
there's always a chance,
somebody watchin',
might wanna make romance.

In the room, girls were outnumbered by guys, but on the floor it was about even. Usually the rule is the more attractive a female, the more withdrawn she will be. We noticed one girl bouncing around, eyes frantically searching, which is of course a huge faux pas. She eventually found a quite dapper but also quite pissed Englishman. Latching onto his sweater vest, they twirled wildly, bumping into Atila a few times before finally spinning to the ground and landing hard in a pile of drunken knees and elbows.

At another juncture during the night, a couple of dudes crept up on us, and one asked Atila to dance. She complied briefly, then retreated back to the safety of myself and Julia. But her former partner didn't give up, and appealed to her with folded hands for another go. His buddy moved in on Julia. Because the girls were standing with me, an incredibly good-looking alpha-male, I was impressed by their gumption, so I tossed the young bucks a reward. Using my hips and pelvis, I bumped my flatmates closer to the predators. The girls glared.

"You're supposed to be protecting us," Julia said.

They wanted a break. I followed them past the two dudes and we moved towards the outside. As we passed, Atila's partner bowed his head and I saluted by flipping two fingers off my eyebrow. The other guy returned his attention to the pack.

Sitting on a bench, I was able to take it all in. What a strangely familiar place. The females are there to attract (at the very least) attention, and the males are there for the females. Most of the pursuers are ignored, but a few of those being pursued also allow themselves to be engaged. The rules out there, though not non-existent, are primal. Want to grab that girls butt? Want to rub up against that guy? No speaking. Do the dance and you just might be able to.

You know where you are?

Rock 'n Roll Girls (and Scotty)

So I went to this rock show on Saturday night. The band was what Scotty described as "psychobilly." If that doesn't give you a clear enough picture, the band's name was the Flaming Cocks.

Not particularly my bag, but it was solid, driving stuff with a stand-up bass (I am pro-stand-up bass). It was also "posledni koncert," meaning the last one, which may or may not have given the Cocks even more energy. When I saw Phish on their "farewell tour" (a stretch of a comparison, I know), they played with no energy, so I guess it can swing both ways.

But rather than give another boring concert review, we're here to talk about something important, and it ain't the music. It starts, of course, with the opposite sex. At this punk show, I was amazed to find loads of females. Especially young ones. I bring this up not because I'm a pervert or a cradle robber or whatever you may think, but rather because it was nice to see. If there's one thing I like, it's tough broads. And if you're a 16-year-old at a show like this, you are tough. Not that they were in any danger, but this band does have a poster of a naked, Barbie Doll-proportioned cartoon woman bending at the waist and, over her shoulder, beckoning you with a finger.

American girls (in general) don't go to shows like this. They're not into the music, and even if they were, it's too intimidating of a place for them. I say man up, ladies.

Maybe I'm being unfair, and of course it's an over-generalization. Maybe American dudes are more aggressive than Czech dudes, which would make these events particularly unpleasant for young ladies. In fact, this probably is true. But it is also true that American girls don't listen to much rock 'n roll. And that's a damn shame. I see a direct correlation between a female's interest in rock and her toughness.

Scotty is lacking in neither of these things. Though he works the same pansy job as the rest of us (English teacher), the guy parties hard. He looks very Italian. Unrelated you may think, but we often say he'd be a good extra on the Sorpranos, and accordingly, he looks like he knows how to handle himself. He also used to front a ska punk band, thus is his commitment to the sub-genre and it's related subsidiaries.

After the concert and as people slowly filed out of Rock Cafe, the two of us hung around with a third teacher, Conrad, and drank ourselves some beers. Scotty Bertucci likes to drink. Eventually as the muscles in his neck went slack, essentially putting his head on a slinky, we knew it was time to go home. The feeling was stamped with an exclamation point when Mr. Bertucci really lost control of his head and it came down on the corner of a metal counter. He must have caught himself before full impact, but it did leave a small bleeding mark below his eye. Having been drinking myself and looking somewhere else, I didn't notice until I turned back.

"What the fuck is that?" I said in a not angry but distressed way as I noticed a few small tears of blood dripping out his cheek. Conrad explained, and we left.

Outside we parted ways. Conrad headed for the metro, and Scotty and I to Lazarska, the night tram hub. On the way I picked up a "kureci rizek" (friend chicken sandwich), always swimmin' in mayo, which I must hold away from myself and shake some of that sloppy sauce off before eating. The mayo is good and quite necessary, but I prefer a light spackling rather than a gallon. You may now feel a bit queasy, but at 2 a.m. after a few beers, it's damn good.

Scotty made the inferior choice of some dry chicken legs, and chomped on those babies like he was goin for marrow. I briefly lost track of him as I checked the schedule once at the stop, but then found him again when he yelled at a youngish gypsy prostitute, who had been hassling him, to "fuck off." He sounded like a snarling, drunken bear.

My tram came first, so I peaced out and left him waiting. He got on his a few minutes later, and (as I later found out) woke up at the end of the line. You'd be surprised how often this happens to us.

Smash the Pumpkins

A 6'6'' bald white frontman. Billy Corgan is one spindly dude. He has some freakin great songs. He also needs an editor.

I saw Smashing Pumpkins play here in Prague Wednesday night. The venue was the arena where the Sparta Praha hockey team plays. One of my students told me the place has a capacity of about 10,000. I put the crowd at less than 5000, maybe as little as 3000. The band opened with Porcelina, which if you're familiar with it, you know it's both powerful and soothing. Like the ocean! (The full title is Porcelina of the Vast Oceans.)

He needs an editor because the concert went over 2 hours, which usually isn't bad, but the last 45 minutes turned into a lot of garbled noise that was very mediocre. I was there stag, and had a few beers to help myself chill and forget my troubles. It's a sad fact, but I usually need something to be able to relax enough to let the music wash over me. Wound too tight I guess. But yeah, I was the guy there by himself, eyeing girls. When dudes noticed me they would pull their girlfriends a little closer to themselves, then throw another glance over their shoulder at the creepy guy behind them.

Nah, mostly I watched the band. Billy Corgan is a Cubs fan, so that makes him cool with me. During all that boring "jamming" towards the end of the show, there was a point when the band sort of came together and cut through that crap with a little bit of that kickass Boston instrumental. The song is called "Foreplay" and it leads into "Long Time." Wow. I went from spacing out (in a high school chemistry class kind of way) to alert attention. The band brought me to full rock status! But then he went into a cover of "For What It's Worth" by Buffalo Springfield (stop hey what's that sound) and it was back to lameness again. The moral: Boston fucking rocks arenas.

And the band did finish with Cherub Rock, which blew my hair back. Unfortunately, my beer buzz had worn off, so I wasn't as rocked as I wanted to be. And I had to urinate like a woman who's had three kids.

It is important to mention (even though you may already know) that this version of Pumpkins only counted Billy Corgan and drummer Jimmy Chamberlain from the original lineup. The Asian guitarist and gothy but hot bassist are not with the band. Don't know why. I get the feeling that Corgan is a nerd tyrant. Ironically, the drummer, Chamberlain, was thrown out of the band in the late 90's due to his heroin habit. The old bassist has been replaced by another female, and from my vantage point, she was hooooot, though I was of course far away and beered up. Way to go Corgan.

On a sidenote, I give peace and love to the band, since they are the only heavyweight of the grunge rock era not from Seattle, and even more importantly, from Chicago. Midwest represent.

On the Job Training

Sitting too much in front of a computer screen is bad for you. That being said, life without the internet, while possibly more productive, is too isolating.
Winter should be cold, not mild. Cold is good for you, makes you feel alive when you step inside. Winter should not be mild. Once it starts getting mild, spring should be on the way.
If you are living in a country different from your origin, you have a responsibility to learn the language. If not, you are a sack of crap. Okay, if you're only there for a short while, I understand. But if you're stay is open-ended, pick up a book you P.O.S. Make an effort.
Hmmm, preachy.
Prague is a beautiful city. Europeans from further east, Ukranians, Slovaks, etc. come here for a better life, to make more money. I think they work in tourist shops and hot dog stands. We call the stuff they sell "street meat." The first time I heard that, I thought of prostitutes, but now it just sounds natural. Some Czechs head west to make more money. Mostly doctors, it seems. I headed east, from the USA. Lots of young Americans do. Like the vast majority, I teach English. There are so many, they have created their own expatriated community. If you want, you can come here and live without even getting your toes wet in Czech culture. It's bullshit, but people do it. I complain, but most of my friends are from my own country. Maybe I need to make more of an effort.
There is a lot of dog shit on the street. One time I stepped in some with both feet. I don't know how the hell that happened.
The public transportation here is fantastic. I can stumble out of a pub at 3am, find a tram stop within a few minutes, then after a quick look at the schedule know exactly where I need to go to get home. The metro shuts down at midnight, but tram lines blanket the city and they run all night. Love getting on public transporation and not having to think, just relax and let it take you where need to go. Eventually I'm going to buy a Prius.
Czechs make good beer. The traditional food is pretty good too. But the music is crap. I'm no snob. But it's something that just was never developed in this part of the world, I guess. Discos are bad too. Some are just bad, some are so bad, that they're fun.
Hit the ground running.