December 25, 2002
In England, people kept referring to the way they celebrate Christmas as being "American." I think they were politely saying that it was religion laden and commercial at the same time. Of course, in the United States we do not bring firecrackers to the table, we do not skip work the next day, and we most certainly do not eat Turkey again.
Like most people who led formerly religious lives, I now see religious holidays in a strange new light. In France they celebrate Christmas as some do New Years--staying up and dressed up until it arrives. They eat dinner at almost midnight and open presents until two or three in the morning and spent Christmas day lounging, drinking wine, and being French.
Tonight at midnight mass I enjoyed the spectacle of retired veterans singing hymns about welcoming a Palestinian bastard into the world (This was directly after that old bitch from the back row prayed outloud for "our men fighting in Afghanistan in defense of their country, that they may be victorious in their mission and return home.) Don't get me started on either.
If I had to explain to an Afghani person this holiday, I wonder how it would sound. "Once a year we go to church at 11, my father goes earlier because he has to wear a dress and give out wine and crackers. We only sing songs that everyone knows the first verse of, and my mother and I sit on a bench in back and openly make fun of the lyrics. Then every stands around in the cold waiting to hold the preists' hand for a shake and they make the same joke about a political figure who was recently fired."
Sure the idea of Santa and his reindeer is odd, but at least it's American odd. In Holland Santa does not have animal locomotion. He has "six to eight black men." I'm sorry, but that shit wouldn't fly in the US.
"Now you be good Bobby, or else six to eight black men won't break into our house this winter."
Like most people who led formerly religious lives, I now see religious holidays in a strange new light. In France they celebrate Christmas as some do New Years--staying up and dressed up until it arrives. They eat dinner at almost midnight and open presents until two or three in the morning and spent Christmas day lounging, drinking wine, and being French.
Tonight at midnight mass I enjoyed the spectacle of retired veterans singing hymns about welcoming a Palestinian bastard into the world (This was directly after that old bitch from the back row prayed outloud for "our men fighting in Afghanistan in defense of their country, that they may be victorious in their mission and return home.) Don't get me started on either.
If I had to explain to an Afghani person this holiday, I wonder how it would sound. "Once a year we go to church at 11, my father goes earlier because he has to wear a dress and give out wine and crackers. We only sing songs that everyone knows the first verse of, and my mother and I sit on a bench in back and openly make fun of the lyrics. Then every stands around in the cold waiting to hold the preists' hand for a shake and they make the same joke about a political figure who was recently fired."
Sure the idea of Santa and his reindeer is odd, but at least it's American odd. In Holland Santa does not have animal locomotion. He has "six to eight black men." I'm sorry, but that shit wouldn't fly in the US.
"Now you be good Bobby, or else six to eight black men won't break into our house this winter."
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December 22, 2002
Amanda comes home from Turkey today.
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December 21, 2002
I am the ghost of Christmas' angst.
People race to the mall like animals, hoping to find the perfect gift or more importantly: the perfect parking space. The most perceptive among them drive and shop defensively, worried that everyone else who is out shopping is also out to get them. I am there to make their fears founded.
We started this tradition about a year ago. Go to the mall in a group of four and walk around to all the best parking spaces. As the turn signals go on and people begin to wait for your space, that's when "can't find your keys" you get a "phone call."
Last year I could so this easily, but this year I didn't have a phone. So instead I put my black notebook to my ear and waited while people spread the holiday cheer with their middle fingers.
Sometimes they pull out their phones while they wait. "As you can clearly see, I am a cool important person." This is the point I turn to them and reveal the shoe I have pressed to my ear and then move on to another row.
I can't exactly explain the goals of this. Christmas is about certain nice things, but compulsive retail, horn honking and buying people shit they don't need can't be any of them. I'd like to think that people would step out of their cars, cast their shopping into the Salvation Army bins, and shake our hands on the way out saying "Thank you, boys, you've really made me realize that Christmas isn't about money or material flattery, if you're excuse me, I'm going to give this homeless man a ride to my house for dinner."
Instead Rosie Parez--who waited for one of our "spaces"--pulled up to us, cell phone in hand, "I call the police!"
"But why?"
"Because you fucking people in parking lot!"
I make the "who me? with him?" hand motions? "Fucking in the parking lot? that's gotta be indecent exposure."
People race to the mall like animals, hoping to find the perfect gift or more importantly: the perfect parking space. The most perceptive among them drive and shop defensively, worried that everyone else who is out shopping is also out to get them. I am there to make their fears founded.
We started this tradition about a year ago. Go to the mall in a group of four and walk around to all the best parking spaces. As the turn signals go on and people begin to wait for your space, that's when "can't find your keys" you get a "phone call."
Last year I could so this easily, but this year I didn't have a phone. So instead I put my black notebook to my ear and waited while people spread the holiday cheer with their middle fingers.
Sometimes they pull out their phones while they wait. "As you can clearly see, I am a cool important person." This is the point I turn to them and reveal the shoe I have pressed to my ear and then move on to another row.
I can't exactly explain the goals of this. Christmas is about certain nice things, but compulsive retail, horn honking and buying people shit they don't need can't be any of them. I'd like to think that people would step out of their cars, cast their shopping into the Salvation Army bins, and shake our hands on the way out saying "Thank you, boys, you've really made me realize that Christmas isn't about money or material flattery, if you're excuse me, I'm going to give this homeless man a ride to my house for dinner."
Instead Rosie Parez--who waited for one of our "spaces"--pulled up to us, cell phone in hand, "I call the police!"
"But why?"
"Because you fucking people in parking lot!"
I make the "who me? with him?" hand motions? "Fucking in the parking lot? that's gotta be indecent exposure."
3:56 PM | [permalink] |
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December 20, 2002
A note to Europeans readers:
So we're back in the United States of America now. They always say your culture shock is worse coming home than going foreignward, so I'm trying to pace myself. I of course thought I would come home and suffer episiotomies, gasping "the large is so large."
You of course know that is not the case. Instead I spend alot of time in the bathroom standing over the toilet and thinking, "Jesus, there is a lot of water in the bowl."
Instead I find myself pleasantly driving in autopilot around my post-rural suburb doing the things I have always done without thinking, such as swearing at my automobile.
The phenomenon of my car is the reason every president gets remembered for greatness. Once a little time passes you forget that Clinton signed the Welfare Reform Act or that Eisenhower was a segregationalist.
I get into my car after each hiatus and kiss it, reminding it how much I love riding in it and smelling its exhaust. Then I turn out of the driveway and the cd player shuts off. I come to the stop sign and it juts on again. The song will start to play and I'll slip into that "it's good to be home" feeling. Then I shift gears and the display starts up with the Japanese writing and I nearly crash into a tree trying to turn the volume up or down.
The moral is that this convenient continent of mine is everybit as exhasporating and incomprehensible as yours, especially if you are as slow as me.
So, Jen, Jenny, Steve, Mark, and the rest of you Europeans, stick around I love hearing from you guys. Especially to whomever wrote me the email that said "You know, if you would just leave like 10 minutes earlier whenever you travelled you wouldn't get fucked over so much in airports."
And now, my final travel pass. Enjoy.
2:39 PM | [permalink] |
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With the exception of my green leprechaun number, I had never owned a suit until the day before I left England.
It's my new religion.
Normally I get on to transit and strike up a conversation with the person next to me, lie to them alot, but have a nice chat. (The nice thing is that instead of spending six hours stranded next to someone who makes you miserable, you now have a team mate. Someone who doesn't mind getting up so you can go to the bathroom.)
But with the suit I can double my margin of lying.
This usually involves me pretending to be a number of things. But with the suit I could be anyone. So this time I told Bill that I was a travel writer for a New York magazine called "Spight." I spell it for him. He will beleive anything I say because I am a twenty year old whose red cowboy shirt matches the pinstripes in his three button suit.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of it." I love that. It's not even a word, let alone a magazine. "Geez, that explains alot, here I thought I was being a big baby about take off, but this is just another day on the job for you, isn't it?"
I explained to him all my usual plane small talk, but instead pretended I had written stories about it. "You know, the cost of that crappy microwave meal they serve can be in excess of $90."
"Really?" Maybe.
"Oh yeah, when you add up the cost of storage, refrigeration, preparation, heating, and then you have to have nearly four times the flight crew to do so. It is really more economical to fly the budget airlines and pack a lunch." I kept shovelling the shit.
"So you say you flew from Istanbul to Dublin for $60 and spent the $200 you saved on a picnic lunch for the flight? That's engenious." I used my best fake accents to properly pronounce the names of made up champaigns, cheeses, and breads. He went on to explain that he was a diabetic and couldn't go very long without food or else he would always fly like that.
I had just written a story that involved a diabetic, so I made him explain everything to me just so I would have my facts straight. Of course, he's 68 and retired. So talking about his illness in public is his Christmas.
But when he asked me what my favorite place I had visited was, I suddenly realized that I usually lie to cover up for my provincio-suburban naivete. (I usually make up stories to make up for the fact that I don't know shit, but really after I left I realized that I can now name drop a number of places for real.)
Then I got up to get his pills out of the overhead compartment and I kept marvelling at the suit. I love the inside pocket where I kept my passport. I loved the way the red shirt sleeve and s single diamon shape button peek out of the cuff. And I appologize to all the shitbags I went to higschool with, for making fun of your materialism.
Austin Powers calls himself an international man of mystery, and that's pretty much what it feels like because people think, "Now what the hell kind of adult wears disco clothing on a weekday?" I swore I saw a middle aged woman pointing and whispering "dot-commer."
So yes, as much as I pretend to be out of highschool. As much as I think I am a grownup, a college student, a whathaveyou. I still crave the attention of complete strangers whom I will never see again. And I can't help it.
It's my new religion.
Normally I get on to transit and strike up a conversation with the person next to me, lie to them alot, but have a nice chat. (The nice thing is that instead of spending six hours stranded next to someone who makes you miserable, you now have a team mate. Someone who doesn't mind getting up so you can go to the bathroom.)
But with the suit I can double my margin of lying.
This usually involves me pretending to be a number of things. But with the suit I could be anyone. So this time I told Bill that I was a travel writer for a New York magazine called "Spight." I spell it for him. He will beleive anything I say because I am a twenty year old whose red cowboy shirt matches the pinstripes in his three button suit.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of it." I love that. It's not even a word, let alone a magazine. "Geez, that explains alot, here I thought I was being a big baby about take off, but this is just another day on the job for you, isn't it?"
I explained to him all my usual plane small talk, but instead pretended I had written stories about it. "You know, the cost of that crappy microwave meal they serve can be in excess of $90."
"Really?" Maybe.
"Oh yeah, when you add up the cost of storage, refrigeration, preparation, heating, and then you have to have nearly four times the flight crew to do so. It is really more economical to fly the budget airlines and pack a lunch." I kept shovelling the shit.
"So you say you flew from Istanbul to Dublin for $60 and spent the $200 you saved on a picnic lunch for the flight? That's engenious." I used my best fake accents to properly pronounce the names of made up champaigns, cheeses, and breads. He went on to explain that he was a diabetic and couldn't go very long without food or else he would always fly like that.
I had just written a story that involved a diabetic, so I made him explain everything to me just so I would have my facts straight. Of course, he's 68 and retired. So talking about his illness in public is his Christmas.
But when he asked me what my favorite place I had visited was, I suddenly realized that I usually lie to cover up for my provincio-suburban naivete. (I usually make up stories to make up for the fact that I don't know shit, but really after I left I realized that I can now name drop a number of places for real.)
Then I got up to get his pills out of the overhead compartment and I kept marvelling at the suit. I love the inside pocket where I kept my passport. I loved the way the red shirt sleeve and s single diamon shape button peek out of the cuff. And I appologize to all the shitbags I went to higschool with, for making fun of your materialism.
Austin Powers calls himself an international man of mystery, and that's pretty much what it feels like because people think, "Now what the hell kind of adult wears disco clothing on a weekday?" I swore I saw a middle aged woman pointing and whispering "dot-commer."
So yes, as much as I pretend to be out of highschool. As much as I think I am a grownup, a college student, a whathaveyou. I still crave the attention of complete strangers whom I will never see again. And I can't help it.
1:28 PM | [permalink] |
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December 19, 2002
He didn't even notice the bronze gentleman behind him. That's why I like it.
12:08 AM | [permalink] |
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December 18, 2002
As you can imagine if you've read more than three or four posts, I missed my flight from England to New York today.
See this would be normal protocol for me: a time to think of a good lie, to remind self that self does not enjoy the pain of defeat and the smell of waiting rooms, etc etc.
However: 1) This wasn't some value jet bus with wings, this involved people picking me up, vegetarian meal selection, etc. 2) today I had most of my material possession either in my enormous backpack, or in my two smaller bags 3) I thought it would be cool to wear my new suit and red cowboy shirt as I travelled as a person of mystery does 4) They wouldn't let me bring my bag of hats with me, so I had to lugg my belongings around London Airport with two bowlers perched on my head like a hat salesperson.
"Are you (reading her name tag) Jeaneane? Great, there was a train delay and they said to come to this desk and ask for you because you could help me get onto the next flight." (the issue at hand is getting out of a never-more-deserved $150 ticket changing fee)
"Is that a style?"
"No, standby."
"No, I mean the hats." She laughed in my face and then got me on the next flight standby.
See this would be normal protocol for me: a time to think of a good lie, to remind self that self does not enjoy the pain of defeat and the smell of waiting rooms, etc etc.
However: 1) This wasn't some value jet bus with wings, this involved people picking me up, vegetarian meal selection, etc. 2) today I had most of my material possession either in my enormous backpack, or in my two smaller bags 3) I thought it would be cool to wear my new suit and red cowboy shirt as I travelled as a person of mystery does 4) They wouldn't let me bring my bag of hats with me, so I had to lugg my belongings around London Airport with two bowlers perched on my head like a hat salesperson.
"Are you (reading her name tag) Jeaneane? Great, there was a train delay and they said to come to this desk and ask for you because you could help me get onto the next flight." (the issue at hand is getting out of a never-more-deserved $150 ticket changing fee)
"Is that a style?"
"No, standby."
"No, I mean the hats." She laughed in my face and then got me on the next flight standby.
11:52 PM | [permalink] |
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December 17, 2002
My dear friend Peter, from Kenyon is here in Brighton with me today. We intend on having a gay old time in the town. Furthermore, has anyone read the book "Gilligan's Wake" it's not fan-fiction but the idea is that there are seven people who have lives for an entire novel before taking a three hour tour by the end of the novel. Great title if nothing else. You know, wake, what you leave behind, etc.
Anyway, Peter's here and last night we got to be double foreigners. At a Thai restaurant called The King and I, they put Christmas Crackers on the tables. It was terrible because we had to point at unpronouncable things on the menu, and even then we didn't know when to open the Christmas crackers. I imagined the Thai woman who served us saying something like, "Don't ask me, whiteboy, it's not my silly island. You think my people give eachother exploding paper crowns for the winter? Get real."
Anyway, Peter's here and last night we got to be double foreigners. At a Thai restaurant called The King and I, they put Christmas Crackers on the tables. It was terrible because we had to point at unpronouncable things on the menu, and even then we didn't know when to open the Christmas crackers. I imagined the Thai woman who served us saying something like, "Don't ask me, whiteboy, it's not my silly island. You think my people give eachother exploding paper crowns for the winter? Get real."
7:30 AM | [permalink] |
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December 15, 2002
Ok, Brittain has a higher rater of suicide and divorce than the US, and I'm going to imprecate BBC.
At home in America when you're depressed, there's always television. Can't wait for this day to be ok? Just watch three hours of Friends on Fox. Or flip around. How many nights have I successfully wasted merely by flipping channels incessantly for hours without watching a single thing.
In Brittain they have four channels. I'm in my friend French Ben's apartment for the week and it's helping me to get ok about leaving this place. I'm not kidding when I say this, tonight's television was: Shania Twain in Concert (BBC1), Ventriloquism Today (BBC2), A Really Shitty British Drama, and a documentary about How America Has Destroyed Ethipia and Afghanistan (the fourth channel which has the Led-Zepplin-syndrome of just being called Number Four).
It's awful because I don't want to write, I just want to have Peter come over tomorrow so I'll have someone to play with. Instead I keep flipping from starving women in burkas to Shania Twain and not knowing which way to vomit.
At home in America when you're depressed, there's always television. Can't wait for this day to be ok? Just watch three hours of Friends on Fox. Or flip around. How many nights have I successfully wasted merely by flipping channels incessantly for hours without watching a single thing.
In Brittain they have four channels. I'm in my friend French Ben's apartment for the week and it's helping me to get ok about leaving this place. I'm not kidding when I say this, tonight's television was: Shania Twain in Concert (BBC1), Ventriloquism Today (BBC2), A Really Shitty British Drama, and a documentary about How America Has Destroyed Ethipia and Afghanistan (the fourth channel which has the Led-Zepplin-syndrome of just being called Number Four).
It's awful because I don't want to write, I just want to have Peter come over tomorrow so I'll have someone to play with. Instead I keep flipping from starving women in burkas to Shania Twain and not knowing which way to vomit.
4:20 PM | [permalink] |
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This always happens.
I've left Prague and had the typical last night: spent two hours eating really good dinner, watched a movie and ignored the subitles, moseyed into a pub and drank sparkling water while reading The Great Gatsby (never read it before, good book, though).
Putting aside the Czech shit for a second: what the hell has happened to me? Do you have any idea what my 15-year-old self would say to me now? Do you have any idea how much he would have made fun of the buttoned-down loser sitting alone acting all european in a cafe? I daresay my glasses alone would bring on a storm of ridicule.
Actually, I didn't even know where Prague was until my first year in College, but I sure as hell wouldn't have gone to Paris or studied in England. But leaving ignoring my childhood wishes as usual: I had a good last night. I had abscinth the night before and quickly added it to a special category. This is a list which I am very cautious of. It includes:The Godfather Series, Major League Baseball, South Park, strip clubs, and other things that make me feel alone in finding them mind-numbingly boring.
It's banned in the US, and it should be only because otherwise it would never sell in Europe. Supposedly it makes you hallucinate and paranoid, I only noticed myself checking doorways for people as I walked past and went back to my hotel.
I've left Prague and had the typical last night: spent two hours eating really good dinner, watched a movie and ignored the subitles, moseyed into a pub and drank sparkling water while reading The Great Gatsby (never read it before, good book, though).
Putting aside the Czech shit for a second: what the hell has happened to me? Do you have any idea what my 15-year-old self would say to me now? Do you have any idea how much he would have made fun of the buttoned-down loser sitting alone acting all european in a cafe? I daresay my glasses alone would bring on a storm of ridicule.
Actually, I didn't even know where Prague was until my first year in College, but I sure as hell wouldn't have gone to Paris or studied in England. But leaving ignoring my childhood wishes as usual: I had a good last night. I had abscinth the night before and quickly added it to a special category. This is a list which I am very cautious of. It includes:The Godfather Series, Major League Baseball, South Park, strip clubs, and other things that make me feel alone in finding them mind-numbingly boring.
It's banned in the US, and it should be only because otherwise it would never sell in Europe. Supposedly it makes you hallucinate and paranoid, I only noticed myself checking doorways for people as I walked past and went back to my hotel.
2:47 PM | [permalink] |
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December 14, 2002
Somewhere in the deepest regions of space, they still have the original broadcasts of Leave It To Beaver coming through. The TV waves ripple through space one after the other. It's like when you shake out a bed spread it takes a moment for the ripple to make it to the head. That's pretty much what it's like being in Prague.
The pop music here isn't the cheesy "Hey! look at me! i'm listening to crap from the 80s! Aren't I just cute enough to kiss!" kind of thing. Rather, they seem to take seriously all the things we have left behind. The song on the radio right now, for example, is "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)" by Bryan Adams. Made popular ten years ago by the Kevin Costner movie Robin Hood, Prince of Theives. Next up is Michael Jackson's "Keep it in the Closet."
I didn't see the Robin Hood movie until it came out on video, and even then my classmates made me feel as though I lived in Siberia, but just think: these people still had Communism then and weren't allowed to watch Kevin Costner kill the British.
The pop music here isn't the cheesy "Hey! look at me! i'm listening to crap from the 80s! Aren't I just cute enough to kiss!" kind of thing. Rather, they seem to take seriously all the things we have left behind. The song on the radio right now, for example, is "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)" by Bryan Adams. Made popular ten years ago by the Kevin Costner movie Robin Hood, Prince of Theives. Next up is Michael Jackson's "Keep it in the Closet."
I didn't see the Robin Hood movie until it came out on video, and even then my classmates made me feel as though I lived in Siberia, but just think: these people still had Communism then and weren't allowed to watch Kevin Costner kill the British.
5:14 AM | [permalink] |
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I've got another winner of a hotel. One of my favorite parts about ailing post soviet democracies is the way that I--a normally cheap bastard--can lead a rich life through the magic of exchange rates.
Juniors Hotel Spaghetti and Bowling Bar, is how they translate the name. Ever 5 minutes a pleasant little rumble of a streetcar rolls by (this is much nicer than you would imagine, esp. if you remember Brad Pitt's apartment in Seven). I've gone downstairs everynight and each of the two lanes are reserved. Damn. I will try again tonight.
Last night I watched Amelie with Czech subtitles, that was a lot of fun, because I noticed so many things about the cinematography that I never did before. For ex: Jeneut uses a monochromatic background for every shot unless it's going to be an epiphany or a twist in the plot. Everytime that happens, there's a little interruption: a blue lamp when she watches the documentary of her life, a lighted blue jar when Mr. Dufayel asks her about the boy she was chasing, etc.
I think the entire Czech republic closes at about 9. I'm in Prague 1 and when I went out last night at 12 to get chips, I couldn't find much more than a lap dance or the odd prostitute (also odd: she was in a long woolen coat and hat mittens on and one of those big ear flap hats wrapped around with a scarf, I'd like to think that Prague prositutes are safer because they wear these woolen burkas).
Juniors Hotel Spaghetti and Bowling Bar, is how they translate the name. Ever 5 minutes a pleasant little rumble of a streetcar rolls by (this is much nicer than you would imagine, esp. if you remember Brad Pitt's apartment in Seven). I've gone downstairs everynight and each of the two lanes are reserved. Damn. I will try again tonight.
Last night I watched Amelie with Czech subtitles, that was a lot of fun, because I noticed so many things about the cinematography that I never did before. For ex: Jeneut uses a monochromatic background for every shot unless it's going to be an epiphany or a twist in the plot. Everytime that happens, there's a little interruption: a blue lamp when she watches the documentary of her life, a lighted blue jar when Mr. Dufayel asks her about the boy she was chasing, etc.
I think the entire Czech republic closes at about 9. I'm in Prague 1 and when I went out last night at 12 to get chips, I couldn't find much more than a lap dance or the odd prostitute (also odd: she was in a long woolen coat and hat mittens on and one of those big ear flap hats wrapped around with a scarf, I'd like to think that Prague prositutes are safer because they wear these woolen burkas).
4:40 AM | [permalink] |
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December 13, 2002
Dusane, came with a friend. Those of you who remember my London Malaysian Homosexuals party should know I was releived to find I wasn't someone's incidental date. The two of them wished to ragale me with their English skills.
"So, Brendan, who will you hold your fingers for tonight?"
They also wanted to try out that thing that Americans use in movies--sarcasm. For them this just means saying the most undesirable thing they can think of, loudly.
"If we cannot find a pub we shall just go back to the train!" (that was it, that was the punchline.)
"Maybe the bar is not having any drinks!"
They laugh, and I laugh too. Only for different reasons.
"So, Brendan, who will you hold your fingers for tonight?"
They also wanted to try out that thing that Americans use in movies--sarcasm. For them this just means saying the most undesirable thing they can think of, loudly.
"If we cannot find a pub we shall just go back to the train!" (that was it, that was the punchline.)
"Maybe the bar is not having any drinks!"
They laugh, and I laugh too. Only for different reasons.
2:59 PM | [permalink] |
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So we're in Prague right now. I wouldn't say I'm a particularly inviting person, but I can't figure out anyway to explain my new friend. I think I may just look helpless enough that I'm not hopeless and I won't get offended if you try and bail me out. I say this because when trying to buy my Prague transit pass, I expended my entire Czech vocabulary in a single breath. "No, No, could I have some tram pass? Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you."
A crooked toothed Eastern Bohemian came to my aid. "She won't give you the student discount unless your university fills out the form, she wants you to just by two 15 days passes." How do you explain--in the present tense--that you didn't want two fifteen day passes, but you would rather have liked to buy a monthlong pass so that you can show up you friend Ben by getting the one with the passport photo on it.
After twenty minutes of his aid, the line behind me reached British levels, and I walked away with laminated transit pass.
We talked for a few minutes, Dusane and I. I figured he would leave me and go about his Czech business, but instead he walked out and put on his big woolen hat, "Well, what now?"
Being not yet hungry enough for lunch, he took me to a pub because he couldn't wait to show me Czech beer. We talked for a long time, wavering into the past tense occasionally. By the end of our meeting, we were discussing diclensions and Czech pronounciation. I now had doubled my usage of Czech so that it may even take a breath and a half to use it all now.
We're meeting tonight to watch Prague v. Greece soccer. I don't like soccar, but I couldn't explain why else a twenty year old would wear soccer shoes to a trainsation as I had.
A crooked toothed Eastern Bohemian came to my aid. "She won't give you the student discount unless your university fills out the form, she wants you to just by two 15 days passes." How do you explain--in the present tense--that you didn't want two fifteen day passes, but you would rather have liked to buy a monthlong pass so that you can show up you friend Ben by getting the one with the passport photo on it.
After twenty minutes of his aid, the line behind me reached British levels, and I walked away with laminated transit pass.
We talked for a few minutes, Dusane and I. I figured he would leave me and go about his Czech business, but instead he walked out and put on his big woolen hat, "Well, what now?"
Being not yet hungry enough for lunch, he took me to a pub because he couldn't wait to show me Czech beer. We talked for a long time, wavering into the past tense occasionally. By the end of our meeting, we were discussing diclensions and Czech pronounciation. I now had doubled my usage of Czech so that it may even take a breath and a half to use it all now.
We're meeting tonight to watch Prague v. Greece soccer. I don't like soccar, but I couldn't explain why else a twenty year old would wear soccer shoes to a trainsation as I had.
2:54 PM | [permalink] |
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December 10, 2002
Tonight at dinner, I went out with Meg's friends to a really nice Italian place.
The function of this dinner was to give me a good reason to get the hell off of this island. But I will miss having actual ethnicity waiters, tonight I learned how to order in Italian. Things I shall whine about:
1) They asked me beforehand not to order tap water, because it "would embarass us all."
2) Some ignorant fuck said, "I don't know why you're calling me ignorant just because I think that all muslims are terrorists and that Islam is a terrible relgion." (honestly, verbatim). He then went on about "those little brown people."
3) The boys who came along said they wanted to go to American Univerisities in Paris because, "All the American girls will be all over us with our British accents." Mind you these boys both have that English impediment of not having a "th" sound, but an "f." But still the they fink very highly of femselves.
The function of this dinner was to give me a good reason to get the hell off of this island. But I will miss having actual ethnicity waiters, tonight I learned how to order in Italian. Things I shall whine about:
1) They asked me beforehand not to order tap water, because it "would embarass us all."
2) Some ignorant fuck said, "I don't know why you're calling me ignorant just because I think that all muslims are terrorists and that Islam is a terrible relgion." (honestly, verbatim). He then went on about "those little brown people."
3) The boys who came along said they wanted to go to American Univerisities in Paris because, "All the American girls will be all over us with our British accents." Mind you these boys both have that English impediment of not having a "th" sound, but an "f." But still the they fink very highly of femselves.
7:26 PM | [permalink] |
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I've moved out now. All my posters are down from my English dorm room. My bed is stripped, my bags are packed. The accoustics of the room are all off now: they echo now like a hallway, which just sort of explains how small dorm rooms are.
I've separated out things I won't need anymore: yellow pages, voltage adaptor, sideburn trimmer, train time tables.
I'm coming back, so there's no reason to get all teary eyed, but I'mma gonna miss it here in Brighton, but when I get home I get to see Amanda and not wait in lines.
I'll be back, Europe.
I've separated out things I won't need anymore: yellow pages, voltage adaptor, sideburn trimmer, train time tables.
I'm coming back, so there's no reason to get all teary eyed, but I'mma gonna miss it here in Brighton, but when I get home I get to see Amanda and not wait in lines.
I'll be back, Europe.
2:07 PM | [permalink] |
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December 09, 2002
Here's something that I've heard about, but has never happened to me before. I woke up this morning at 5 AM and couldn't go back to sleep. People always talk about this, but I never beleived them.
Leading a pathetic life, I normally wake up anywhere between 9 and 12, yesterday it was 1:45. So seven hours ahead of schedule startled me. I tried, I tried to get back to sleep. I rolled over and tried to fake myself out, "Mmmhmm, I sure do like warm covers in the darkness." No luck.
So for once I was ahead of myself. I got up, shaved, showered, made tea.
I then had the kind of day one expects when trying to leave a place behind.
The day after tomorrow I leave for Prague and today is my last day of classes. But when I got up I cranked out ten pages of a story that made me roll with delight. Honestly, I think the brewing narration is what really woke me up. Sometimes when I write, I dawdle between making coffee and shelling pistachios until I end up with a collection of half assed one liners and a shitty plot. Today I sat for three hours fixated on my computer to the point where looking out the window would make me ache with pain.
At 8:40 I went into Brighton for the crispest, clearest day yet. I'm in England and I can't find a cloud to block the sun. No one knows what to do, so I took advantage of the weather and tried to swindle an electronics store into buying back the stereo I bought three months ago when I first got here.
The man handed me almost $50 in cash (£35) which is all I will need for the rest of my time here to eat and get the train to London for my flights. (It was one of my finer moments: without a receipt he blindly began looking into the computer for transactions involving my model of stereo. I convinced him that it wouldn't be under my name because a Frenchman and I had come in together and rang up our transactions as one, but I'm sorry I can't recall his name. I watched as he wrote down dates on a piece of paper and I leafed through my notebook pretending it was a calendar. "Ah, you know what, maybe it wasn't a week ago after all, does anything come up for the 7th of November?")
I had a nice breakfast at The Dumb Waiter: Fried potatoes, beans, veg sausage, carton orange juice, and "coffee" which is really just espresso left to overflow and filled into a coffee cup.
The man at the used bookshop bought a schoolbook of mine for a £1, bringing my daily average up to $51.66. I left with a copy of Bridge Jones' Diary and Bill Bryson's Notes From a Big Country, a column he wrote chronicalling his return to the states.
I guess what I'm saying is. I know I spend a lot of time whining and telling stories that are only interesting if you have a particular interest in my embarassment or pain, but you don't get one today. Today was a good day, and as much as I know this will change soon--as in inevitably does when I write it down--tonight is my last class of shitty creative writing, so I will always have something to look forward to.
Leading a pathetic life, I normally wake up anywhere between 9 and 12, yesterday it was 1:45. So seven hours ahead of schedule startled me. I tried, I tried to get back to sleep. I rolled over and tried to fake myself out, "Mmmhmm, I sure do like warm covers in the darkness." No luck.
So for once I was ahead of myself. I got up, shaved, showered, made tea.
I then had the kind of day one expects when trying to leave a place behind.
The day after tomorrow I leave for Prague and today is my last day of classes. But when I got up I cranked out ten pages of a story that made me roll with delight. Honestly, I think the brewing narration is what really woke me up. Sometimes when I write, I dawdle between making coffee and shelling pistachios until I end up with a collection of half assed one liners and a shitty plot. Today I sat for three hours fixated on my computer to the point where looking out the window would make me ache with pain.
At 8:40 I went into Brighton for the crispest, clearest day yet. I'm in England and I can't find a cloud to block the sun. No one knows what to do, so I took advantage of the weather and tried to swindle an electronics store into buying back the stereo I bought three months ago when I first got here.
The man handed me almost $50 in cash (£35) which is all I will need for the rest of my time here to eat and get the train to London for my flights. (It was one of my finer moments: without a receipt he blindly began looking into the computer for transactions involving my model of stereo. I convinced him that it wouldn't be under my name because a Frenchman and I had come in together and rang up our transactions as one, but I'm sorry I can't recall his name. I watched as he wrote down dates on a piece of paper and I leafed through my notebook pretending it was a calendar. "Ah, you know what, maybe it wasn't a week ago after all, does anything come up for the 7th of November?")
I had a nice breakfast at The Dumb Waiter: Fried potatoes, beans, veg sausage, carton orange juice, and "coffee" which is really just espresso left to overflow and filled into a coffee cup.
The man at the used bookshop bought a schoolbook of mine for a £1, bringing my daily average up to $51.66. I left with a copy of Bridge Jones' Diary and Bill Bryson's Notes From a Big Country, a column he wrote chronicalling his return to the states.
I guess what I'm saying is. I know I spend a lot of time whining and telling stories that are only interesting if you have a particular interest in my embarassment or pain, but you don't get one today. Today was a good day, and as much as I know this will change soon--as in inevitably does when I write it down--tonight is my last class of shitty creative writing, so I will always have something to look forward to.
UPDATE: The library gave me my £2 deposit back on my copy card, which I found in the lost and found, and refunded the £4 left on it. Luck me, in case you were counting.
7:28 AM | [permalink] |
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December 08, 2002
Great Czech words:
Cocka- lentils
Pani- men's room
Zeleniny- vegetables
Zackazano- bathing
4:57 PM | [permalink] |
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Today I made peace with guidebooks. I'm sorry about all those nasty things I've said and I would like to share a few great things from today's readings in The Rough Guild to Prague. The rough guide is essentially a collection for rich brits who are tight with their money until after dinner. It's great when English culture leaks in:
So here I go at the end of December, their specifically least advisable month. In the Czech language they have their own words for each month that are not Grekoroman in nature like outs. Apparently this is true for all Slav languages--fuck I had no clue. But anyway, the names are descriptive: The word for January means "ice", November means "leaves falling." A December the single word is "Prosinec" which literally means "slaughter of pigs."
This is going to be great.
Guidebooks like this are of course intended to fit into your backpack, so they keep important information to a minimum. The result is that the Brits who wrote it include nothing on how to say "Could I have a ___?" but go on for a paragraph on how to pronounce the sentence that would explain that "I am from a strange little island--as you may well tell from the fact that you, a part siberian, have a better tan than I--where we have disgusting cuisines, so could I please have some Milk in my tea."
"The Czech Republic has yet to become a fully paid-up member of the throwaway culture and many drinks still come in glass bottles with a deposit on them."
"April is the earliest you can guarantee at least some sunny days, and October is the last warm month. During the winter months the city can fall prety to "inversions", which blanket the city in a grey smog for a week or more."
So here I go at the end of December, their specifically least advisable month. In the Czech language they have their own words for each month that are not Grekoroman in nature like outs. Apparently this is true for all Slav languages--fuck I had no clue. But anyway, the names are descriptive: The word for January means "ice", November means "leaves falling." A December the single word is "Prosinec" which literally means "slaughter of pigs."
This is going to be great.
Guidebooks like this are of course intended to fit into your backpack, so they keep important information to a minimum. The result is that the Brits who wrote it include nothing on how to say "Could I have a ___?" but go on for a paragraph on how to pronounce the sentence that would explain that "I am from a strange little island--as you may well tell from the fact that you, a part siberian, have a better tan than I--where we have disgusting cuisines, so could I please have some Milk in my tea."
4:52 PM | [permalink] |
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December 07, 2002
The Plan
1) For the next three days I will work, write, and pack up all my shit. I have to be out of my room by the 14th, but French Ben is letting me stay in his apartment.
2) Tuesday: Travelling to dover with a stumpy Italian girl in her Fiat. There we will try and see France because Calais is less that 20 KM from there.
3) Wednesday: Noon flight from Heathrow to Prague. I tried to figure out a better way, like flying to Berlin (see below) in the morning and then going to Prague via train the next day, but I couldn't ever get a price to work out. I'll be in Prague until Sunday.
4) Sunday night rather than rush home and rush back to the states, I will spend the next four days saying goodbye to Brighton with the probable assistance of Peter Barker Huelster on Monday.
5) Wednesday we will go to London together and fly away home.
1) For the next three days I will work, write, and pack up all my shit. I have to be out of my room by the 14th, but French Ben is letting me stay in his apartment.
2) Tuesday: Travelling to dover with a stumpy Italian girl in her Fiat. There we will try and see France because Calais is less that 20 KM from there.
a) If we can't see the port of Calais, we will board the Ferry and go to France--sheerly for the novelty of a boarder crossing, and to apologize to myself for not going to Tijuana with Schaper when we could see it from San Diego. There I will purchase cheap alcohol and cigarrettes for my family in reparations for Mexico.
3) Wednesday: Noon flight from Heathrow to Prague. I tried to figure out a better way, like flying to Berlin (see below) in the morning and then going to Prague via train the next day, but I couldn't ever get a price to work out. I'll be in Prague until Sunday.
4) Sunday night rather than rush home and rush back to the states, I will spend the next four days saying goodbye to Brighton with the probable assistance of Peter Barker Huelster on Monday.
5) Wednesday we will go to London together and fly away home.
9:47 AM | [permalink] |
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December 06, 2002
The whole world is hilarious.
2:01 PM | [permalink] |
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I never really write about school life, so I'll add this. Today my pretty-much-only-friend Meg left for the airport. I had been here about a month before we even ever hung out, then I went to turkey, liverpool, dublin, etc and since I came back we've hung out every day.
We get along because we come from similar fibers: we're both cheap people who like to do things. She's a lesbian, currently dating a boy in Northampton, which makes for great moments where we can stew for hours over how much we miss our respective Northampton sweeties. Then we can talk about all the good food and the nice record stores we miss in Northampton, etc etc.
My phone didn't have a ringer, so I could hide in my room for days all term. Meg was the only person in school who would ever bother to come and see me. On days when I would want keep sleeping until it was time for Amanda's visit, Meg would bang on my window and we'd go get breakfast in Brighton, stew over how much we missed our respective loves, and so forth.
Tonight I'm going to go out with my other friend, French Ben, to see a Woody Allen movie, which shall be nice. And Meg lives in Northampton, so I can go see her anytime at home really. Last night I went out with her and her flatmates (she doesn't get along with the only other American on her hall as well, excellent) for Thai food. Afterwards we went out to an Indie Club--it's really just a regular club except you don't feel awkward the whole time because every couple of dance hits they'll play something by Weezer or The Violent Femmes.
At the prophylactic literary level, on which I prefer to view life, I got all nostalgic as we sat watching skinny people dance, drinking our Lemonade and Orange Juice. Saying goodbye to Meg made me realize that this is the beginning of the end of my "abroad experience", which I will bring refer to, like an asshole, for the rest of my life.
We get along because we come from similar fibers: we're both cheap people who like to do things. She's a lesbian, currently dating a boy in Northampton, which makes for great moments where we can stew for hours over how much we miss our respective Northampton sweeties. Then we can talk about all the good food and the nice record stores we miss in Northampton, etc etc.
My phone didn't have a ringer, so I could hide in my room for days all term. Meg was the only person in school who would ever bother to come and see me. On days when I would want keep sleeping until it was time for Amanda's visit, Meg would bang on my window and we'd go get breakfast in Brighton, stew over how much we missed our respective loves, and so forth.
Tonight I'm going to go out with my other friend, French Ben, to see a Woody Allen movie, which shall be nice. And Meg lives in Northampton, so I can go see her anytime at home really. Last night I went out with her and her flatmates (she doesn't get along with the only other American on her hall as well, excellent) for Thai food. Afterwards we went out to an Indie Club--it's really just a regular club except you don't feel awkward the whole time because every couple of dance hits they'll play something by Weezer or The Violent Femmes.
At the prophylactic literary level, on which I prefer to view life, I got all nostalgic as we sat watching skinny people dance, drinking our Lemonade and Orange Juice. Saying goodbye to Meg made me realize that this is the beginning of the end of my "abroad experience", which I will bring refer to, like an asshole, for the rest of my life.
9:50 AM | [permalink] |
0 comments
December 05, 2002
American Things I Tell Myself To Miss
Yesterday I walked around the streets of Brighton watching people dine in public and sit outside in British december talking as though they are solving the world's problems. I thought of how much I am going to miss public life when I am back at my parents house, so instead of getting all whiney about those superior Europeans, I'm going to make a list of things to look forward to at home:
1) Free local calls.
2) Indoor ventilation--no need to leave the goddam mutherfucking window open all the time.
3) Dry weather- no damp or mold, see item number 2.
4) Deciding to go out for a meal and returning twenty minutes later with it--no busses.
5) Being able to go to the next town over without consulting time tables
6) Filtered coffee.
7) Not being the only American.
8) Non smoking sections. (People actually do thank eachother for not smoking here. Like outloud.)
9) Not having to smell other people all the time.
10) Being a minor. (You think I'm whiney, imagine being a 20 year old European studying abroad in America trying to get a fake ID.)
11) Not having to convert prices into dollars.
12) Not hearing those British phrases that I can't stand, like "top up" it's their word for drink refills, phone card vouchers, any snack, or University fees.
13) Living as a cold hearted shut-in rather than a member of a tax pooling commonwealth.
14) Not having health insurance.
Yesterday I walked around the streets of Brighton watching people dine in public and sit outside in British december talking as though they are solving the world's problems. I thought of how much I am going to miss public life when I am back at my parents house, so instead of getting all whiney about those superior Europeans, I'm going to make a list of things to look forward to at home:
1) Free local calls.
2) Indoor ventilation--no need to leave the goddam mutherfucking window open all the time.
3) Dry weather- no damp or mold, see item number 2.
4) Deciding to go out for a meal and returning twenty minutes later with it--no busses.
5) Being able to go to the next town over without consulting time tables
6) Filtered coffee.
7) Not being the only American.
8) Non smoking sections. (People actually do thank eachother for not smoking here. Like outloud.)
9) Not having to smell other people all the time.
10) Being a minor. (You think I'm whiney, imagine being a 20 year old European studying abroad in America trying to get a fake ID.)
11) Not having to convert prices into dollars.
12) Not hearing those British phrases that I can't stand, like "top up" it's their word for drink refills, phone card vouchers, any snack, or University fees.
13) Living as a cold hearted shut-in rather than a member of a tax pooling commonwealth.
14) Not having health insurance.
9:54 AM | [permalink] |
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December 04, 2002
Lately I've been feeling like it's time to get out of here. I love Brighton and all, but I am so close to so much more. With all the budget airlines out there, I could be in Egypt next week for less that $100. I got all excited about that and then today I did something one should never do when one is very, very happy: I checked my bank balance.
And then I did the other thing someone in such a new mood shouldn't do: I converted it into British Pounds.
How much is that little? Let's put it this way: I had a fistful of honey nut cherios in my hand when I checked the balance, and I had to put them back in the box so that I could have breakfast before I leave.
And yet, even knowing that I can only eat the box of cherios in my cupboard and the loaf of bread I currently own, I want to get out. I have enough for trainfair anywhere under the crown, or a cheap flight to Spain, France, The Netherlands, or Prague. Anyone got a recommendation?
And then I did the other thing someone in such a new mood shouldn't do: I converted it into British Pounds.
How much is that little? Let's put it this way: I had a fistful of honey nut cherios in my hand when I checked the balance, and I had to put them back in the box so that I could have breakfast before I leave.
And yet, even knowing that I can only eat the box of cherios in my cupboard and the loaf of bread I currently own, I want to get out. I have enough for trainfair anywhere under the crown, or a cheap flight to Spain, France, The Netherlands, or Prague. Anyone got a recommendation?
7:01 PM | [permalink] |
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December 02, 2002
Commie wankers:
I just about through my curry across the kitchen when I heard this tonight: it costs exactly as much per year to go to The University of Sussex as it does to go to Oxford. Does that piss you off like it pisses me off? I go to a shitty school, but to think that it costs exactly the same £1,100 to go to the best university in the world blows my mind.
New York University costs in excess of $40,000/year while Central Connecticut State Unniversity is only something like $3000, which is still cheaper. The British government even gives you a loan each year of £5000--which you don't have to pay off until you start making £20,000/year--so you can live and live well while you study.
Sure I get sick of looking at these horribly imbred creatures, I wish they had decent dental care, I wish I didn't have to wait in so many god damn lines all the time. But Jesus, imagine the trouble we could all get into if we had free health care and free education.
I just about through my curry across the kitchen when I heard this tonight: it costs exactly as much per year to go to The University of Sussex as it does to go to Oxford. Does that piss you off like it pisses me off? I go to a shitty school, but to think that it costs exactly the same £1,100 to go to the best university in the world blows my mind.
New York University costs in excess of $40,000/year while Central Connecticut State Unniversity is only something like $3000, which is still cheaper. The British government even gives you a loan each year of £5000--which you don't have to pay off until you start making £20,000/year--so you can live and live well while you study.
Sure I get sick of looking at these horribly imbred creatures, I wish they had decent dental care, I wish I didn't have to wait in so many god damn lines all the time. But Jesus, imagine the trouble we could all get into if we had free health care and free education.
7:24 PM | [permalink] |
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Secret to Happiness