Karlovy Vary
The biggest film festival in the Czech Republic takes place every year in the middle of July in Karlovy Vary, a nice little city of around 50,000 west of Prague and very close to the German border. High green bluffs surround it, and a lazy river cuts it in half. Newly wealthy Russians discovered it in the 90's and started buying up land and houses, to the dismay of the Czechs who were outpriced. The airport provides one international flight: Moscow. Fancy restaurants, some offering Russian pelmeni (dumplings) line the river, and a shopping district with expensive clothing stores has popped up in the last ten years, as well as a Russian Orthodox Church. Street signs are written in three languages: Czech, Russian, and German.
Young people from Prague exodus to Vary for the festival, and my Polish flatmate Julia, my American missionary bud CJ and my Czech friend Jana were all going independently of each other, so I decided to tag along.
Julia and CJ both took public transportation, but with everything sold out for the weekend, I was able to hitch a ride on Friday afternoon with Jana and her friends Liba, a Czech girl in her mid-twenties and Jaap, her 30ish Dutch boyfriend. The couple bickered childishly in the front seat, and when they took a breather Jana would radid-fire questions to Lipa in their native language. My attempts to make conversation were politely and quickly answered, so I gave up. Since Jana and I are not romantically involved, it felt like the start of a double date weekend with all of the bad stuff and none of the good. I reminded myself of the movies and fun to come, and stared out the window.
Cars full of young Prague people passed us on the two-lane highway, and the ninety-minute drive took us through farm fields and rolling hills and past small country hotels. Upon arrival, the Europeans dropped me near the center to go find their lodging, and I walked into the thick of the festival.
The Hotel Thermal, a big, Soviet-era monstrosity has the biggest theater in Vary, and served as
the focal point. Not a red, but a green carpet led up the front entrance, and a big screen hung from high up on the hotel flashed clips of the opening ceremonies, including one of a tuxedoed Robert DeNiro on the carpet waving to the crowd. He was there to promote his new movie What Just Happened (which I didn't see). Danny Glover would also be making an appearance at some point. Huge movie posters were hung on tall polls, and wading through the crowd outside the hotel, I read the titles as I passed.CJ was in a movie, so I took a seat in the outdoor section of a pub next to the river, away from the hubub. I sipped a $5 beer (ridiculously expensive by Prague standards) and read my magazine. It was a bit chilly, and I was the only patron outside. After the sun had set, the waitress began to take in the place mats and tablecloths from the surrounding tables, but I stayed firm. I had bought not only a beer, but also time goddamit. A small group of people stopped as they passed, and an older man asked me a question in Russian. Though I do not speak any of that language, I shook my head and said "no." Fucking Russians.
Eventually the waitress told me in broken English to bail, so I killed time walking around the Thermal before meeting my friend CJ, the missionary. He was with his colleague Barbara and a group of university kids on a sort of informal mission trip. Hangin' out, talkin' about movies and not necessarily talkin' about Jesus. One girl in the group said she was an atheist.
"At least we got her talking about it," Barbara said.
The least pushy missionaries I've ever known. We found a big corner booth in a basement pub and plumped down with a round. I took a minute to check out the girls and found one to my liking, but turned my attention to the movie on the bar's TV after she showed everyone a picture of her wedding dress. The girls talked about their husbands and fiancés, and I watched Resident Evil. The night ended without fanfare, and CJ, Barb and I crashed in their temporary apartment.
Ticket Adventure
Saturday morning I arose early to get myself some movie tickets, as CJ and co. had already secured theirs the day before. I spoke English slowly to the cute chick at the register, but she became confused when I asked for her recommendation.
"Nevadí," I said in her language. "Nevermind."
Though I had secured seats for three shows on Sunday, I was still ticketless for the current day. After a stop at the supermarket and a return to the apartment, I went back to the ticket office to hook myself up when they released the last-minutes. The girl at the register this time spoke even less English, so I used my limited Czech to tell her what I wanted.
"Chci tento," I said, pointing to one particular film in the program. "Ale jestli nemaš, uhhhh, tak chci... tohle," I said, pointing to another.
The girl nodded and machine-gunned a line of Czech at me. I threw up my hands.
"Whoa, whoa," I said. "Mluvim trochu cešky. I speak little Czech." She looked at me dumbly.
"Pomalu, prosim," I added, asking her to slow down.
Every half hour they released new tickets for that day, and my name was put into the computer lottery system three different times before I quit. I think the girl was a ditz.
Dejected, I walked back out to the green carpet and ran into my flatmate Julia and her friend Geisha. They were on their way to an Italian film for which Julia already had a ticket, so she gave me the pass hanging around her neck. It allows you to go in last if any seats are still available. Geisha had a pass also, but no ticket. When we arrived, a mass of people were waiting around the doors. Julia went straight in. Geisha and I sauntered to the front of the room and wedged ourselves between the head of the crowd and the wall when the doors opened (a shitty move, I know). As we scrambled before the ushers in suits and ties, Geisha then decided it would be better if she wore my pass, which featured a picture Julia's female face, and I wore her picture-less tag. We exchanged directly in front of the ushers, who did nothing except pull a standing gate closer to the wall to prevent others in the surging crowd from following our shortcut.
Italian to Czech to English
The Grand Hall seated nearly 1200 people, so Geisha and I had no problem finding spots. After awhile, a couple of youngish men came out onto the stage and stood in front of a three-pronged microphone. Two women followed them and also took up places behind the mics. The two men looked at each other and smiled sheepisly while the women waited. Finally one leaned into the microphone and said something quickly in Italian. One of the women said something quickly in Czech. Then the second woman spoke.
"Welcome to our movie."
This continued for a few minutes. A typical exchange:
Something in Italian. Pause.
Something in Czech. Pause.
"We would like to say..."
Something in Italian. Pause.
Something in Czech. Quiet laughter.
"...thank you."
It was unclear whether both the translators spoke Italian. Not much of substance was said, or perhaps conveyed, but it was funny to watch the filmmakers and translators giggly stumble through the introduction of Il mattino ha l'oro in bocca, or Ranní Ptáče Dál Doskáče, or The Early Bird Catches the Worm.
The movie was about a radio DJ who gets in trouble when he borrows money from different shady characters. It left us underwhelmed. C-.
We rendezvoused with the girls' friends, another gaggle of Czechs, and indecisively walked around before they settled on the same pub I had been the night before. Not making the effort to talk to the strangers, I nursed a Pilsner Urquell and watched a movie on the TV again. Striking Distance with Bruce Willis and Sarah Jessica Parker.
The Tent
When that group retired and with CJ again in a movie, I walked back to the Thermal and into the adjacent Captain Morgan Tent. The music was loud, the lights were low, the people were attractive, and I was surprised they allowed me to enter, dressed in cargo shorts and sneakers. I noticed one amazingly beautiful brunette with huge fake breasts in a small black dress. Seemed redundant to me. With a beer, this time a Gambrinus, I leaned against a tall circular table and took in the party. It was like velvet-roped club crashed by a group of college kids. Young, sloppily dressed dudes mingled with some of the best looking women I've ever seen. A few drunken bums walked around also, mumbling to themselves, and several couples consisting of young hotties with significantly older men flashed smiles around the room. Though I've never been there, I got a strong impression of Los Angeles. There were probably some Czech celebrities in there, but I didn't recognize them.
Needless to say, I wasn't able to attract anyone in the Tent. Next time I'll bring a suit.
Two More
The next morning on the way to the smaller theater outside of town, I bussed past the fancy and prestigious Grand Hotel Pupp (pronounced "poop"), which along with the Thermal bookends Vary's center. The Pupp's external was used in the recent Bond film Casino Royale.
My first movie of the day was a Belgian flick called Aanrijding in Moscou, or Moscow, Belgium. It's a funny and slightly sad movie about an abandoned middle-aged housewife and mother of three who starts a romance with a younger truck driver. I give it a solid B.
At about noon I walked back into town for my second feature of the day, a "silent," Spanish film titled En La Ciudad De Silvia. It featured long shots of people sitting in a café and walking through European streets, and a soundtrack consisting mostly of running water in fountains. Very little dialogue, and very relaxing. When I say the film nearly put me to sleep, I mean it in a good way. C+
Jana and her friends never were able to get tickets to anything, so I had to leave early with them, missing my final movie, a Russian joint by the name of Gruz 200. "Gruz" means "cargo." If you ever see it, let me know how it is.
Znojmo
Since both of us were leaving the country soon for an extended period, CJ and I took a romantic little trip to Moravia, the eastern half of the Czech Republic. Znojmo sits near the Austrian border in an area known for wine-making. After a three-hour-plus bus ride from Prague, CJ led us to the the lodging he had procured over the phone using his Czech, which is limited but stronger than mine. The "chateau" turned out to be the first floor of the owner's house in an unremarkable subdivision, but it was clean so we plunked down our bags in the bedroom, peeked into the kitchen and headed out to explore.
We made a brief stop at Znojmo's big cathedral ("seen one you seen 'em all,"), admired the rotunda which was all that remained of the town's medieval castle, and got a nice view of the village and surrounding trees and vineyards from atop the town hall tower. The girl in the visitor's center spoke only Czech and German, so I fumbled around with the former to get information on walking trails in the woods.
"Chci...jit...ven. Kde je...," I said, then turned over my shoulder. "CJ, what's the word for "nature"?"
"I dunno."
We left with a map but little information.
A short walk through town led us to a long and narrow park, a tree-lined grassy area which cut through the center of Znojmo. With my cribbage board in hand, we sat down at the outdoor patio of a bar/restaurant in the green strip and played a game over a couple of 11 degree beers. Other patrons sat at a few of the other picnic tables around us, but the patio was mostly quiet. People walked by through the park with their dogs and kids, and the wind lightly rustled through the leaves in the trees.
Afterwards, CJ continued exploring and I retreated to the "chateau" for a midday nap. When I got up we headed to a cellar pub for a so-so Czech meal of pork and potatoes, then returned to the patio in the trees for another 11 degree. And another. And another.
At midnight, we trudged into the park, and with my head buzzing, CJ pulled out a little yellow flyer he had grabbed from the visitor's center. "Znojmo Music Club," it said.
Mingling with the Locals
The "club" wasn't the big disco we were expecting. Really more of a dingy bar for young people. We ordered two beers from the dreadlocked, obviously high bartender, and sat down at a table next to a group of locals.
As we sipped our beer and chatted quietly, the bartender sauntered over and joined the table next to us. Hearing our English, he turned to us and grinned, flashing a pair of crazy eyes. We looked up, then went back to our conversation. A few minutes later he turned again and asked CJ in Czech if he had any weed.
"Máš travu?"
"Ne, ne mám," CJ said.
This caught the ear of another guy sitting at the table. Around twenty years old, he wore a flat-brimmed baseball hat pulled slightly to the side and a baggy basketball jersey, and excitedly asked us if we spoke his language. When CJ responded in the affirmative, he came over and talked with his new friend about Kobe Bryant and the NBA. I stayed quiet until his English-speaking girlfriend joined us. Cute but a little tubby, she told me in English about her job working on the border between the Czech Republic and Austria in a duty free shop. We chatted a bit about her job until I inadvertently made a short comment in Czech, as I'm prone to do when speaking with a local.
"To je škoda," I said, meaning "pity."
She looked at me, confusion turning into curiosity. When she asked if I could speak her language, I shrugged.
"Dělám si prdel," I told her. Literally, "I do an ass,"but meaning "I make a joke."
For the rest of the night she watched me warily, unsure of how much Czech I spoke. I didn't say much until I noticed her pretty Moravian friend at the other table. She eventually came and sat near us, and when the boys got up to play foosball, I convinced her in rudimentary Czech to be my partner. Translated, it would sound something like this:
"You play with me. We go. We win. We go."
She girlishly told me she wasn't good and some other things I didn't understand, but I grabbbed her by the arm and she came along. There was only one spot open, so she went back to sit with her friend. After CJ and I beat up on our baked opponents, I chatted up the Moravian some more, trying to to get her to come to the Music Club again the next night, or to come dancing with us, and while shaking her head, she giddily exclaimed her surprise that I could speak Czech. Then she told me she had to get back to her five-year-old son, and I gave up. Disco lady's gots kids...
Tastes of Moravia
After a late breakfast the next morning, we set out to find "the nature," but ended up on the side of an outbound highway after an hour and quit. On the way back, we stopped at a vineyard outlet and I bought a bottle of Znovín Znojmo, an award-winning white for my parents. The rest of the day was spent sleeping in the chateau, reading in the park, and playing cribbage at the outdoor bar in the park. They have a pig roast there on Friday nights, and CJ and I devoured the deliciously slow-cooked meat and accompanying potatoes, then went back for seconds. My mouth is watering just thinking about the pig, rotating on the spit.
That evening we walked along the river until we came to the dam, which had been covered on one side with sod and grass. On the other side of the river we could hear a band playing. The dam was fenced off and locked up, so we went back the way we came and crossed a bridge in search of the music. Our ears lead us to another outdoor pub, this one on the water. After a few beers, some more cribbage and a couple Dylan and Clapton covers translated into Czech, we walked back into the center and found a surprisingly bumpin' dance club called Chavignon or something along those lines. The crowd was pretty young, and CJ and I made an effort to hit the floor for a bit, but crapped out and headed home early.
After another late wake up and breakfast, we packed up our things and left the chateau. In the park we shook hands and parted. CJ was staying an extra night, so he needed to find his hostel, and I had time to kill before my bus left. I sat down at a bench under a tree and read my book, but had to move when I realized I was covered in mating bugs. They were connected from behind, as though they had backed into each other, and their legs walked in sync, like one long animal. Gross.
My New Friend
Anxious to get out of Znojmo and back to Prague, I made sure to get to the bus station early. But there were several postings of departures for Prague, so I checked the schedules at each place and wandered between them, confused. A man came up and checked the schedule with me, talking to himself as his pointer finger slide down the paper. He said something to me and then motioned to follow him across the street. On the way, I asked him if he spoke English, and he shook his head, then said something I initially took as a request for money. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he continued to explain himself until I was able to pick up enough words to realize he was talking about American coins, and asking if I had any for his collection. I wish I'd had some, but told him I didn't. On the other side of the street, people with bags were standing around, and a woman there told him the Prague bus would be along soon.
Once it came, I found my seat number and sat down, and the guy asked to sit next to me. I was afraid of having to listen to him talk the whole time (even if I didn't understand what he was saying), but he had done me a favor, so I nodded my head. He saw my book and asked me to describe it to him. I made a valiant effort, but I just don't have the vocabulary. He was a nice guy, in his late 30's or early 4o's, and I asked him about himself and his job (I think he said he worked at an airport), and nodded my head at his answers, even though I didn't understand much. Though he spoke no English, he was curious about me and so I told him where I was from and that I had been teaching in Prague for the past two years. I nodded off at some point during the ride, and before he got off at a little Czech village, he lightly prodded my arm and said goodbye. I was sad to see him go.
