The Grey Pen Goings

American Avimaan

2007-04-06T17:48:00.000+03:00

Well I've been back in the States a couple of weeks now without posting. While I was traveling across Asia I made many notes for posts, outlined specific topics to write about, got ready and...

It never happened. When I came home, it was something else. I think maybe the trip had been so long that I processed a lot of it along the way, while sitting in 14 hour bus rides in Thailand and three hour waits in the Tokyo airport. So, essentially, while I have a lot of stories to tell from Asia and quite frankly I haven't told them to anyone, it looks like it's going to stay that way till someone asks me to crack the vault. I'm done traveling for a little while, you know?

So, I'm hoping to keep this blog going, but doing it in the United States seems a trifle strange for me. Here's a request to anyone who reads this (and to be honest, I was pretty surprised to find the range of people who read this regularly)--what part of the blog did you enjoy most? What posts/topics did you like me writing about? I would love some input about what flies here, especially if I am to continue.

Cheers and it's nice to be back in this beautiful Texas weather,

Avimaan

The Air Up There in Udaipur

2007-03-05T06:33:00.000+02:00

West Bengal Pictures

2007-02-15T04:31:00.000+02:00

My brother has been tenaciously taking and uploading pictures while we've been in and around Kolkata--this should stop today as we're losing or stable Internet connection. However, you can view a great deal of his pics at his Flickr site.

Update

2007-02-13T00:04:00.000+02:00

I've been in Kolkata for a week and a half now. On Thursday my brother and I shift home bases to Dehli and a different aunt and uncle, and go to Rajasthan shortly thereafter.

The wedding ceremonies were long and confusing for everyone and full of rich food, etc. I'm planning on posting a travelogue later For now know that your Avimaan is alive and well (if driven awake at four A.M. by hordes of mosquitoes).

Pictured above is my brother and I with our cousins (from left to right): Runa, Deep, Amit (the beleaguered groom), and Muniya.

Probable Blog Hiatus

2007-02-02T09:43:00.000+02:00

I have no idea what kind of internet connection I'll be dealing with in India/Thailand/China, so my guess is that you won't be seeing much if any updates here to Grey Pen. I'll be writing, but more than likely in journal format.

My brother has a digital camera so perhaps there will be time for us to download then upload pictures from our sub-continental traverses, but we shall see.

So I taste the apple that is Prague one more time before flying off. Ciao, my friends, ciao, and good luck and health to you from far-off points on the globe.

Avimaan

Packing

2007-02-01T16:33:00.000+02:00

They say youth is wasted on the young. Well I say unemployment is wasted on those looking for a job, for these last days in Prague have been an exorbitant, wonderful waste of time. Tuesday night, for example, I cooked an 18 ounce steak which was accompanied by a bottle of red wine and Monty Python's Search for the Holy Grail. Yesterday I lingered through packing while watching a ripped copy of Little Miss Sunshine. And earlier today I spent an hour listening to three pieces of music (Bach sonatas) for my novel, trying to come up with correct phrases and metaphors to run through them. Hot damn, if it ain't the pirate's life for me.

Packing's been a bit difficult, namely because the big suitcase I flew over here with is being stored in London for my father to pick up on his return leg. For the majority of my trip I'll be traveling with a regular-sized backpack and a little suitcase 2' by 1' by 1'. Not exactly a lot of room for two months of clothes (or books!). What makes this more complicated is (a) We'll be traveling both in tropical climes--India, Thailand--and much colder ones--China, Korea, and (b) Any clothes I might have left in Prague I am in fact bringing to give to relatives.

So crunchtime says a Kundera book will be sold instead of kept. I've had to sort through the knickknacks and oddball souvenirs I've picked up along the way, trying to figure out what I'll forget or think is crap in six months. It's funny how quickly our opinions on things can change--the poems I exchanged with an ex-lover now sit in my cupboard like falsified documents demanding to be shredded.

My basic itinerary looks something like this:

February--in India. From the 4th to the 14th in Kolkata for my cousin's wedding. Plan to visit Sundaraban Tiger Preserve amongst other things. From the 15th to March 3rd we'll be based in Dehli, with trips to the Taj and Rajasthan planned. I suppose I should mention that "we" is my brother and I.

March 3rd to March 1oth--Thailand.

March 10th to March 16th--China. Beijing and areas surrounding Shanghai. Hopefully chilling with Kan Yan.

March 16th to 19th--Seoul, South Korea. Tour guide=old roomie Michael Greene.

March 20th to 21st--Tokyo. Why only a day? Travel burn + almost no extra fee to keep flying.

March 22nd--Texas.

Prague

2007-01-29T10:28:00.000+02:00

As is customary during departures, many people are asking me how I feel about leaving, what I’ll miss, if I’m sad/happy/relieved/excited/etc. I can honestly say I have no idea. My departure sits before me, bluntly. It’s all very surreal. I think I’m going to need a hefty amount of time and distance before I fully digest what I’ve done here.

From other powerful experiences, like the 30 hour a week 325M writing class or Winedale, I’ve found that adjustment to different environments afterwards takes a while. There’s this tremulous feeling running through you: Where do I go from here?

The fact that I have two months of traveling before I get back to Texas won’t really offset that feeling so much as delay it, I imagine. For now I’ll have this whole week in the city doing nothing, and that should give me ample time for reflection into the what’s and why’s of my time here. Hell, it’s probably way too much time.

I had an interesting chat with my friend Tom who taught here for 18 months starting in ’03, and it was strange to hear the differences between our experiences here. Not so much surprising as illuminating. The point Tom hit upon was people I’m definitely going to stay in touch with after I leave. And my answer to him was probably none.

When I think of it like that it’s seems really depressing, as if Prague was this lonely bubble that I floated through and will pop as soon as I leave. And I don’t think of it like that at all. And I haven’t been reclusive or anti-social. But…I suppose I never found close, like-minded people, really. My best bud here was a solid drinking buddy and we watched a bunch of random sports together. My roommate Tom was a pretty good pal, but I doubt we’ll stay close. There are definitely people I sought out to say goodbye to or exchange emails with, but I wouldn't expect communication to go on too long. The only person I really connected closely with was a girl I was seeing for a while. The fact that such a sentence is in the past tense is indicative of our future, perhaps.

The problem with memory is that it becomes inherent decisions. We can’t roll back the film. We determine that this was good and that was bad and this person was always an asshole and that time was wasted and and and andandnandandadnadnadnadndand…

I remember once on vacation I saw the movie Joe Dirt in theatre. A friend came to the conclusion that if the ending had been good instead of maudlin and lame, we might have looked on the movie as a whole favorably (instead of seeing it as the David Spade starring junk it is). And our impressions of cities, years, people, and places are built in a similar fashion—if we finish fondly we remember fondly. Or perhaps it’s a bitter aftertaste that lingers on, time immemorial.

So: We’ll see what color tints this final week and the Prague experience as a whole. Rose would be nice, but I’m hoping for half red/half blue: that way I can see the world in 3D.
In the meantime, I can offer you some thoughts on what I will miss and what I won’t miss from the good old Czech Republic.

What I’ll Miss: Public transportation. Prague is an incredibly small city with an excellent transportation system. During peak hours each metro line is running a new train each minute, there’s bunches of trams and buses, it’s fairly inexpensive, and overall a very efficient system.

What I Won’t Miss: Not having a car. I know, I know, mainly it’s having to deal with crowded trams for long periods of time. But as great as public transportation is, it makes you dependent on their schedules. Looking forward to getting behind the wheel of Kean-O again.

What I’ll Miss: Walking everywhere. Dropped about ten pounds while here and you always get a better experience and feel for a city by hoofing it through strange corners of town.

What I Won’t Miss: Not being able to jog. I actually had a student ask me if people really jogged or if it was just something American movies made up. No one runs on the streets or sidewalks here: they’re covered in dogshit, they’re in poor condition, people will stare at you, etc. Expats will jog at Letna Park, but it’s a ways away from my flat. I really miss just walking out the door and setting out—the one time I did it here, my knee was throbbing from the impact of such uneven pavement.

What I’ll Miss: My flatmates and landlady. Tom and Emily are a couple of nice, quiet Canadians—really, exactly what I would expect from Canadians. And Kveta is a strange old kook who means the best but is hindered by her poor English and general strangeness—how many people have a 21 year old grandson and a grandfather and work as a microbiologist? My guess: only Kveta. When I showed her my bug bites, she was very concerned that I had too much stress and was potentially allergic to cucumbers.

What I Won’t Miss: My flat. I still get bug bites. The bed is atrocious and none of the furniture was made after 1967. The kitchen only has a mini-fridge, a mini-stove, random pots and pans; there is no showerhead. Now clearly I signed on to this flat, and have to take a good deal of blame. It was selected in a slightly desperate time, and in my defense, I didn’t know so many bug bites would follow. The bottom line: this flat sucks. And soon I won’t have to live there. Holla!

What I’ll Miss: The price of beer and food.

What I Won’t Miss: The price of most everything else on the teacher’s budget here.

What I’ll Miss: Hot wine. Grog. Delicious drinks both warm and alcoholic.

What I Won’t Miss: European coffee. I’ve never been a huge fan of espresso and everything here is a derivation thereof. I really love an actual mug of coffee, big, warm, in your hands, and you can get something close here, but it’s never the same.

What I’ll Miss: The eclectic mix of people you meet while abroad. There’s the folks from Prague, the folks from other parts of Bohemia that are resentful of Prague, people from Moravia, Slovakia, etc. There are the random conglomerations of English teachers telling me about hockey, Baudelaire, sheep farms in Australia. There’s the bountiful hoard of backpackers and others at various hostels, a motley crew of fools and savants and jerks and surprises.

What I Won’t Miss: The strong undercurrent of racism that persists in Europe. Seriously. Obviously America has its own racial problems, but any public demonstrations are more or less immediately reprimanded by society (i.e. the Confederate flag). Here it’s understood that even the most liberal intellectuals will have some contempt for gypsies, Ukranians. Blacks are stared at and distrusted, Asians too.

Case in point for difference: at a preseason Rockets game, someone yelled a racial epithet at Dikembe Mutumbo—the man was fined $5000 and banned from NBA games for a year. Here in Prague, it is considered cheering against Sparta Praha if you cheer for their black winger.

What I’ll Miss: The wonders of being abroad. I remember the first weekend I was in Prague, I looked out my window onto the complex playground to see two men traversing across it with machine guns. The kids were frolicking, their parents watching, and these two cammo-clad men were waving their guns about animatedly. No one noticed them. No one cared. No one has ever explained this to me.

But things like this, or watching carp brained on the side of the road in the name of Christmas, or taking in the marvelous view from Vysehrad, I guess this is the magic that keeps you playing the game, you know? John Hartford has a piece called “Prayer” where he intimates that we should be lucky for everyday, for our last chance to be sick, to be poor, to be anything. When I get down, I think of this song and where I am and tell myself to get out the goddamn door and out into the wonder of Prague.

What I Won’t Miss: Being a stranger in a strange land. Almost every student I’ve ever had has asked me why I came to Prague. My three-pronged answer:

1. It’s real easy for Americans to get here and work illegally.
2. I wanted to try and live somewhere other than Texas.
3. I’d been to Prague once before and liked it.

Which is all true, ostensibly. The more accurate truth is that I told myself that if I didn’t get the Enspire fellowship, I would teach abroad. I finished as first alternate and applied and the next day I was accepted to the Caledonian School. I was ready to be out.

The biggest barrier to overcome is the language. Czech is a Slavic tongue, so my German is useless here. You speak to them in English and (for a goodly many) there’s a river between us that will never be crossed. Praguers are notoriously gruff with tourists/expats. This isn’t to say I didn’t meet many, many wonderful Czech people, it’s just that…

It’s like this. When I walk down the street I don’t even hear Czech. The language is like a gentle current of sound that there’s no point for my ear to register. But any English pricks you immediately. There’s something taxing about living not just in a different country, but a different country where you can’t communicate with the native population. I remember when I first came here I thought I would be able to tell who was an expat just by sight. Not the case. If I was planning on living in Prague for more than a year, I would definitely take classes. The language is notoriously difficult though, and in a shortened window it was pointless. This can make tasks such as grocery shopping or going to the post office frustrating/difficult/intimidating in their own right. There is some strange, ironic bliss garnered by walking around the multitudes impervious to their words and workings, but it’s fleeting at best.

You learn as much about your home as you do about the land of your travels, I suppose. I know I’m not homesick—hell, it’s hard to even fathom what home means to me now. There’s a difference between not being home and knowing your away, and I guess I’ve always known I’ve been away, in foreign lands.

So here near the end I imagine my thoughts are somewhat akin to someone who just finished a marathon: I can’t believe I did it! But was all that really worth it? Surely there was some other way to prove myself? Aw fuck it, someone get me a burger and a beer!

Like I said, it’s going to take a while to process. The best way to end this might be with Dave Eggers’ intro to A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius:

First of all:

I am tired!
I am true of heart!

And also:

You are tired!
You are true of heart!

Enter Winter, Stage Left

2007-01-24T13:04:00.000+02:00

Well, the mild Winter of the Czech Republic has vanished under a white blanket. One foot fell yesterday and at least one more's on its way, according to forecasts. It's falling pretty hard right now.

The first time I saw snow in person I was eight. I took a great big leap into a pile of snow and was surprised by what a soggy mess clung to my bright red sweatpants. Snow is wet? I felt like the depictions of snow on television had lied to me, showing it as a wondrous white powder to flock around in. As a child you make many connections for yourself about how things work--sometimes you're dead-on, sometimes you're dead wrong. My impression of snow was that it was a "cold alert:" as in, it's so cold that a white powder has manifested itself as the physical version of our concept of cold. The fact that rain might have anything to do with it was quite beyond me.

For now, I'll indulge in this snow as long as i can: heck, I'm only here ten more days.

If I'm not a Good Teacher,

2007-01-23T23:05:00.000+02:00

at least I'm a good person, for all my night classes insisted on taking me out to the pub on my last week of teaching.

And today they bought me dinner. And beer. And shots. Oh Prague--why am I leaving you again?

Teaching English, A Retrospective

2007-01-20T12:36:00.000+02:00

With just a week left on the job, I’d like to offer some insight on a position that, I believe, holds a great deal of interest to people my age who find the future as certain as George Bush’s plan for Iraq. Heck, even my folks are interested in potentially teaching English some time in the future. So, the rundown:

Rudimentary as it sounds, “Teaching” comes before “English” in the teaching English game. If you can handle yourself in front of a group of strangers, a crowd, if you’re confident in your public speaking, you’ll be able to teach English. Ted, a woebegone engineer from Chicago, has a personality that can best be described as a passively awkward serial killer. Suffice to say: not a good teacher.

If your students like you, they’ll forgive almost all your faults—not knowing a specific rule, not having planned enough, showing up ten minutes late. Hey, you’re their friend.

The caveat to the teaching-first rule is when your English isn’t good enough, which is pretty rare. Look, very few people in America know what the past perfect continuous is, or what an uncountable known is, or why we use certain prepositions, or when we use etc., etc., etc. But you can learn that (really). We had one guy in our training course, however, who was from Taiwan originally, and though he ACTUALLY had a Masters’ in Education and had taught high school for four years in NYC, he wasn’t offered a job. Why? Partially his awkward personality. But mainly because he would say things like “That don’t make sense.”

So can you teach English? More than likely, yes. Two people weren’t offered jobs from my training course: the aforementioned poor English speaker and Linda, a sweet retired bank clerk from Vancouver with the personality of a snail. Two people were offered only part-time jobs, because they were partially lacking in personality (Ted) and language skills.

So if I know you, and you’re reading this blog without having to go to the dictionary, you can probably teach English. Now to whether you’d actually enjoy teaching or not…

By far the best part of teaching English is the students. If you want to talk about the merits of travel, and truly learning about the people and culture, well, teaching is a treasure trove for this.

Most of my students are between 21 and 38, with only a few exceptions. They’ve amazed me and I’ve amazed them with stories, traditions, words, abilities, etc. They give me recommendations and warnings. A few of my favorites:

Libor: the CFO of the Czech branch of Leo Burnett, Libor is stressed out all the time. Our lessons are closer to therapy sessions where he belittles French management, Czech society, his lack of time, reminisces about almost living in Canada, etc.

Rychard: a man in his fifties who works as a salesman for Lach-Ner, a chemical company, we shared a mutual affection for a range of music. I introduced him to Hartford and he gave me a host of Czech music, and he invited me to a concert in the hills of Bohemia.

Honeywell Thursday: my favorite group of students, a group of girls who are all immensely tired by Thursday evening and only want to laugh the whole night long.

This is just a sampling of the great, great people I’ve met. I feel quite blessed to have met so many interesting souls across the city.

The worst thing about teaching, by far, is lesson planning. As my friend Tim bemoaned, with a 9 to 5 job you’re mind is off to new things as soon as you leave your desk. Lesson planning lingers in your mind over weekends, at nights, because as much as you’ve planned (even to the next week!) it’s a never-ending, unwinnable game, like Falldown was on the graphing calculator.

You only get paid for TEACHING lessons. But, obviously, you have to plan them beforehand. This you don’t get paid for. So it doesn’t behoove you to plan for a long time…unless you want to be a good, in-depth teacher. I ended up spending mere minutes planning, because as long as you know what will be easy to talk about and what will get you through ninety minutes you’ll be fine. Does that make me a good teacher? No, not really. I could have done much better if I really wanted to.

But why would I want to? Look, I get paid for 24 hours a week of teaching. But I’m traveling for at least another 25. If I told you you were going to work a 50-hour week but I was only paying you for half of it, you’d never agree to it, right? Just to get to a lesson outside of Prague I have to

--WALK 4 minutes to the tram stop
--RIDE the tram 10 minutes to the metro
--RIDE the metro 10 minutes to the bus station
--RIDE the bus 40 minutes to the village
--WALK from the bus stop for 15 minutes to the company

The only thing they could add to make things worse was a dog sled (Of course the huskies would probably abandon me in the middle of Winter in a lame attempt to get Disney to make a move about them—I’m on to you Huskies!).

Now the caveat is that they’re factoring some of this time into your salary, and in places other than Prague you don’t necessarily have to teach all over the city.

Still. The fact of the matter is I (and a good majority of teachers) don’t put too much time into lesson planning because we don’t get paid for it. We have a boatload of resources here at Caledonian and when I want to I can craft an energetic, excellent lesson. Or I can look at a book, photocopy some pages and glide on by. It’s not that my students aren't learning, but…I think the moment you know you should stop teaching is when you’re more concerned with how you as a teacher are going to get through a class as opposed to what your students will learn in that time. That happened to me a while ago (mainly do to the time factor), and instead of a teacher I became a worker doing a job.

One more word on the time thing—split shift schedules are a pain. Honestly, I would gladly work from 6 A.M. to 12 everyday if I could have the rest of the afternoon off. But it doesn’t work that way. You work in the morning ( starting between 7 and 8:30) and you work in the evening (starting between 5:15 and 6:30). Most days you work a class or two in the afternoon. This leaves your free-time slung about in strange two hour gaps—do you go home and catch a nap? Read a book? Lesson plan? The time I have to wake up snaggles up and down—Monday not till noon, Tuesday at 6:45, Wednesday 8:00, Thursday 5:45, Friday 7:15. It’s really difficult to get on a sleeping routine here (not to mention my awful bed).

In the end, I suppose, all of this—the shitty hours, the lesson planning, the massive amounts of unpaid travel—are what you put up with to live abroad. Prague, Seoul, the boonies of China, etc. Without this job I wouldn’t have been able to see Budapest, Auschwitz, Vienna, Poland, etc. I wouldn’t have learned the crazy ways of the Czech culture, or seen my alcohol tolerance shoot the roof, or experienced XYZ in my life. The ride has been tremendous, and teaching English has been the price of admission.

If I was going to recommend teaching English abroad to someone, I would say (A) get a CELTA, not a TEFL; (B) Decide if money or location is more important; (C) Try to research your school before signing on there. (D) Try to research what live you’re going to be living there—I had a friend living in the sticks in China who could never leave his village because he only got one day off at a time.

As most people who’ve taught will attest, the job gets easier the more you do it. It takes less time to plan once you know how to. And, hey, it got me over here (On the other hand, I’m not really crying about leaving).

Goulash Grab-Bag

2007-01-10T21:52:00.000+02:00

Ten Tidbits for Y'all from the Czech Republic:

1. This is the mildest Winter Prague has seen in 550 years, apparently. Since I've been here there's only been three days of snow, and today was around 60 degrees. Amazing. Some students postulate that global warming is causing their probelms (last year was the worst Winter in a millenium), but I tell 'em it's just Avimaan going all Nolan Ryan on them and bringing the Texas Heat.

2. When I told my students what a "connoisseur" was, and asked them to think of what they were connoisseurs of, they all assured me they were "connoisseurs of beer."

3. When doing a storytelling exercise, the same group of students came up with the following jobs for "Emma": Private Eye, Prostitute, Lesbian, Lesbian Prostitute. Good times.

4. The bites still continue. I think they're beyond understanding at this point: they're never the same size, I get them while sleeping or sitting at my desk or on the metro, I get them under clothes or on open skin. I don't really notice them anymore, but nevertheless, some sort of morphing bug continues to plague our flat.

5. I've finally been converted to the European way of writing the date before the month. Not sure what this means about me as a person. Probably bad things.

6. The same group of students, when asked what they had a "talent for" (preposition exercise), all insisted they had a talent for drinking beer.

7.Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion is so much better than One Flew Over the Cuckko's Nest, it boggles my mind that this isn't Kesey's defining work. Wide in scope, nearly flawless in execution, a beautiful novel. Pick it up, open it, find the first page of the novel, then commence in reading. I urge this much of you!

8. I've been struggling with my novel for a while now. Editing is so much harder than the first draft! Sometimes I forget that I've written and rewritten the first chapters several times, and when I see these later chapters I panic. It's hard to control. Also detrimental to writing--getting Internet in the flat. I started having a mandatory Internet disconnect for writing/reading time, and that's helped. October and November was such an amazing creative burst that I sort of freaked when the eventual comedown occurred. Reading heavyweights like Rushdie or Kesey can be alternatively inspiring or detrimental (as in, shit, mine isn't anywhere near that). It's really hard to clear your mind and just do it.

9. Last weekend my hair decided that it was firmly in its "long" phase again. Good to be back.

10. I've felt like I've had to give my two weeks notice ten times so far (telling each group of students). Not fun. But two night classes have insisted on the last lesson being a pub lesson. Much more fun. Cheers to all.

Reasons Why

2007-01-06T12:23:00.000+02:00

Jon Webb, the wonderfully stodgy veteran of ESL teaching and our TEFL trainer, surveyed our class during his first lesson (his black sock replete with family crest poking out of a Birkenstock), then said these telling words:

“Every one of you has a secret. Why anyone would do this is beyond me. It’s certainly not a glamour job. You’ll get shit hours, you’ll get shit pay. You’ve left home and you’re here. Why? That’s your secret.”

He’s a sarcastic showman, Mr. Webb is, but I’ve found he was right to a large degree. “Secret” might be an exaggerated term, but I think the main question Jon was asking was this: Why have you moved halfway across the world to do what you could do much easier at home? What are you doing unrooting your life?

Pertinent indeed. Because no answer is ever the same, really—oh, there’s a few categories for sure, a few patterns, but it’s still kind of a secret card that everyone holds in their hand. Look at these facts: most of the teachers can’t speak a lick of Czech; most plan to go back “home” (i.e., North America) in a year or two. So why?

There are lots of strange cases, and lots of strange people. In fact, it’s people who act “normal” or “mainstream” that make me the most weary—they swagger through the school like politicians, all smiles and not much to say.

So, the basic categories:

Lovers: Some, like Alyssa and Tom, had significant others in the area and decided to relocate on their behalf. That seems nice if it works out. Paul moved for an Internet love he had never met in person—unsurprisingly that did not work out.

Ted came to bang Euro chicks because he couldn’t get any at home. His Frankenstein physique and persona aren’t fairing much better over here, though.

Nathan fell in love with one of his students. I’ve heard a bunch of guys say, “Well, if I find the right girl over here and settle down…” This is strange to me, because it seems like a case of taking advantage of your English-speaking prowess (which WILL get girls interested in you to a good degree).

I don’t know. You find love where you find it—in chance meetings, in blue pickups, in Dairy Queens or classes you almost cut out on. Searching halfway across the globe does not increase the likelihood of finding it, in my opinion. But who am I to blow against the wind?

Partiers: It is entirely possible to party your brain into a large foggy blackness in Prague and still get paid for it. You can get by without lesson planning, you can spend every night at the pub if you want. Entirely possible.

The first month or two I was here I was getting a lot of drinks with friends. Then back into the fight the next morning. I got burned out by this quickly, though, and limit my partying to the weekends (predominantly) if at all. I've actually come to appreciate the weekends as wind-down time as opposed to wind-up party time. (Yaoza. That's kind of an adult thought. What am I turning into? What, praytell, have I become?)

But there are plenty of people who work hard and play hard. And there are plenty of people who work poorly and play hard. My ex-roommates were heavy into it, hitting up raves, dropping X, drinking and smoking every night. Which is fine, I guess, if that’s your bag. I just couldn’t sustain it.

I will say this about Prague—of all the European capitals I’ve been to, it’s certainly the seediest. It’s got this decadent element to it, the kind that brings English stag parties over in droves. A beer is cheaper than a coke—Come and get it, boys. It's still more beautiful than most other major cities, it's not necessarily dirty, it's just...well, you only need to go a couple feet off the main square to find a whore. So yeah. that's what I'm saying.

After that who’s left? Who Else Is Here?

—the lost?
—the lonely?
—the beaten down?

You’ve got the recent college graduates, like Colin, who decided that figuring out the future could wait.

You’ve got people doing gap years, like Grace from Oxford.

You’ve got people who’ve sworn off America, like Jessica from Virginia.

You’ve got some hardliners, veterans, folks that have made it a permanent profession, directors and the like who’ve been here 5, 10, 15 years.

You’ve got the restless, the travelers, the adventurers.

And…these people are easier to define. Their “secret,” so to speak, is less hidden (or so it seems). The rest, though, the rest, fall into various permutations of either

1. Not knowing what they want from life
2. Running away from something

One of my roommates, Emily, was offered a promotion at her job in Calgary to events coordinator for a bookstore. And she would have loved the job. But her boyfriend and her split and the emotional waves carried her all the way to Prague, where she once studied and had been happy.

My other roommate Tom wants to do everything. He’s taking French lessons. He’s taking Czech lessons, but he might drop it to take Spanish lessons. He wants to go to grad school for environmental studies. He wants to make movies. He wants to buy a car and drive it to Finland. He wants to buy a piano and take piano lessons. Oh, and his future might be in interior design. Translation: Tom has no idea what he wants to do so he’s trying to collect as many possibilities as possible.

And I…I had to get away (for a while). The year before, after I’d graduated, was quite difficult. It was tough finding a job, finding a place to live, and nothing seemed to go quite right. The Measure for Measure project that I failed to put on was kind of analogous to the whole year—something I put a lot of work into, that had the best intentions, but ultimately fell apart. And maybe it wasn’t my fault, completely, but I hadn’t saved it. Not getting the fellowship at Enspire was the same way. It was a tough adjustment that didn't go well, I got down on myself mentally, told myself I only had a few people I could count on, shied away from new relationships and old. I felt trapped. The job I was working was fine but not a career path. Nothing…fit. Nothing felt right. I told myself if I didn’t get the Enspire fellowship I would leave, and lo and behold, I left.

Who knows if it was the best choice? But getting to Prague, finally getting far, far away and gaining some perspective, has been great. It’s taught me (A) To get over myself, (B) That Texas is more awesome than other parts of the world, (C) You can make it anywhere if you try, (D) What and Who I value, etc., etc., etc.

Satanic Verses starts with the line, “To be born again, first you have to die.” We’d like to think of life as levels, steps to take, snakeskins to slough off. Rarely does it work that way. But Prague has been close to that, I think. It’s taught me lessons I needed to learn.

Sometimes you can’t hope for more than the chorus of The Bealtes’ “Getting Better,” you know? You hope that you’re improving yourself. You have to tell yourself you are.

Other teachers have strange brews of my reason, of Tom’s, of Emily’s, of all and anything else. Sometimes it just amounts to being more fun that what people were doing back home. Grace says everyone here is looking for something. I'm not sure--there is no perfect answer when your students ask you why you decided to come to the Czech Republic.

But I have to admit it’s getting better. Oh yes. All the time.

Prague New Year's

2007-01-03T21:45:00.000+02:00

When they say Prague is dangerous on New Year’s Eve (or Silvester, as it’s known in Europe), they mean it. It’s not so much the pickpockets and pimps that add the normal flair of danger to the center of Prague, but the complete abandon of rules in certain areas. Observe:

Grace and I took a leisurely approach to making it to the center. We drank some beer and down a bottle of champagne at her flat, then went to a café for some Irish coffees to perk up a bit. She lives close to the center, maybe a fifteen-minute walk, and even so far away there were drunken teenagers blissfully sprinting about and shooting sparks off into the sky.

We made our way to Wenceslas Square. Wenceslas is the Prague equivalent of Times Square, and not somewhere the locals go if they can avoid it. A bit of a tourist hotbox, if you get my means. And I’d been told to avoid it, too, by concerned students looked out for my New Year’s Eve life.

But I’d never seen such mass spectacle, and that more than anything is what drew me to Wenceslas as midnight neared. Half of the Square was devoted to a concert which was broadcast across the country—that section required a frisking to enter, and was well guarded by policemen with twelve o’clock shadows.

LAME. I wanted the action, and the other half of Wenceslas was teeming with it. I would point out the drunks, but it might have been easier to point out the sobers. When we first arrived, around 11:30, the fireworks seemed sporadic but controlled, coming out of a few certain strongholds of explosion. But the closer it got to New Year’s the more people just started shooting in every direction, at their own discretion.

There weren’t any cops over here. The only atmosphere I’ve witnessed close to this is Bourbon Street, particularly during Mardi Gras. Some of the things I saw:

Cherry bombs were littered behind careless celebrators, ready to blow on an unexpected group.

A girl not ten feet from me took one to the calf and was helped, limping, away.

Several times a massive grouping of fireworks accidentally went off together, which sounded like a mortar landing twenty yards away and filling the air with colored smoke. Startled “Ooh”s carried from the crowd.

The couple next to us was just gone, absolutely blitzed, and the girl was dry-humping her man as if her life-depended on it. I think at that point she might have believed intercourse was taking place. Amazingly, she tried to finish her friend off by going down on him, and when he tried to stop her from actually unbuttoning his fly, her hair became stuck in his shirt zipper. Good times.

People just chucking empty bottles towards empty areas: soon a shattered glass snowfall developed.

Blissful drunks dancing (to no music) between the hurled bottles and falling fireworks and malicious cherry bombs.

After getting rained down upon by multiple bottles of champagne and getting enough celebratory kisses from strangers, we decided to depart. I never particularly felt in danger, though I never exactly felt safe either.

I remember when my friends and I left the Bonaroo Music Festival back in 2002, we agreed that it was a great experience and we never wanted to do it again. And I think that’s pretty much my take on the Praguean New Year’s—can’t risk my luck each year anyways.

One Month

2007-01-03T14:43:00.000+02:00

One month from now I'll hop on a jet to London, meet my father, and hop on another plane to Kolkata. One month. An amount of time you can fold up and put in your pocket.

It's interesting, when my parents read my blog they always seem to point out my struggles and hardships. When my friends respond, they talk about how amazing a time it sounds like I'm having. I'm not sure if that's a difference in age or relation or what.

After speaking to my friend Kandlay (recently returning from Senegal), I'm not sure what type of long-term conclusions I'll make about my experiences. I know they've changed me, and for the better. As for what lies beyond them...

One more month. how strangely ridiculous.

Austro-Hungarian Empire Revisited

2006-12-30T22:29:00.000+02:00

Traveling solo is certainly its own experience. It’s like a quiet secret you can’t reveal. No one else is taking quite the same path, no one is there to keep track of you or roll their eyes at you or laugh with you.

I’m a pretty secretive person anyways, I suppose, and the incessant candle you hold only to yourself can be alternatively illuminating and disturbingly revealing. Left alone with your actions and thoughts, devoid of excuses or people to blame, your days (for better or worse) are entirely dependent on you.

In this sense traveling alone can feel like throwing yourself to the wolves and hoping you can fend them off. Or it can be a drinking binge. Or anywhere in between. It can be unnervingly up to you. Observe:

With all my friends departed for the holidays, I took four days to peruse the capital cities of the former Hapsburg Empire, Budapest and Hungary. The initial night train was not the most favorable of starts. I nestled into my own compartment only to find that the heating didn’t work. Well shit. I figured the heating was out for the train until I was asked to move compartments (they were splitting the train) and the new one’s heater was stuck on full blast. Well shit.

The Portuguese girl across the way was sweating bullets from under her goth get-up, but I told her I was a Texan and welcomed some heat.

That is, until the Hungarians came.

A man tapped on the door asking if he could enter, to which I nodded assent. Only it was him and his wife.

And their teenage son and 5 year old daughter.

And Grandma.

And Grandpa, struggling on his cane, liable to go down like a house of cards at any moment.

Bloody hell. The room that was 80 degrees surged up to unfathomable discomfort. Add to this that Grandma over there decided that the lights need to come on. Grandma, it’s 5:45—go to your deathbed sleep, damn it! But Grandma proceeded to work on fixing her coat’s zippers for the next two hours. Ye Gods and little fishes!

I should mention here that I was using my buddy Tim’s “Rick Steves’ Best of Eastern Europe 2006” as a guidebook. Tim calls it his baby and it really does go a long way towards telling you what’s unnecessary, what’s overpriced, when to get the audioguide, etc. But one thing that I realized is that the book is certainly geared towards middle-aged American tourists. When it says Budapest is huge and unwalkable, that means if you’re an SUV-driving-upper-middle-class-fat-ass then it will indeed be difficult to cross a bridge on foot. If you’re an Avimaan, well. Did some one-armed Goddamn pushups on that bridge, then I kissed my biceps. At least I’m pretty sure I did that…

But anyone who strays from the path can tell you that walking across cities is a far, far better way to pick up its pulse than only hitting up the main attractions. In both Budapest and Vienna I started feeling sort of overwhelmed and unattached until I just hit the streets.

You’re never really going to feel a city till you live there, I guess, and I think I’ve learned that the key to any vacation is to give yourself time and freedom. When I first got to Budapest, for example, I found that two of the places I wanted to visit were closed on account of the holidays. So I wandered around till I started heading up Gellert Hill, the highest peak of the city. It was a darn good look and it was a damn gorgeous day, and I never planned to do it. It’s really funny how easily you can forget you’re on vacation and supposed to have fun, you know?

The “Budapest Card” was a great extension of this mindset: the card provides you with a two day travel pass and gets you in free to a lot of museums and exhibits around town. With my trip to the House of Terror cancelled in the afternoon, I was meandering around the vast City Park when I came upon a mammoth rock structure fenced off from the street. On investigation, I found it was the zoo. Did the Budapest Card cover the zoo? It did.

(Half-second Pause)

I’m going to visit the zoo. And for a half hour, it was a root-tooting good time. Three thoughts from the Budapest Zoo:

1. Of all the animals I’d ever wished being, I never really considered the seal. But what other animal gets to do barrelrolls just for the hell of it? Seals are show-offs and love to swim, and they’re either doing one or the other or both. Or snacking on some fish. I like seals.

2. They had an American bald eagle in a tiny, tiny habitat. Aren’t we, like, supposed to have them? Why does Budapest have one? What?

3. Pro-Timberwolf over here. These guys kept hoofing it around this long, rocky track the whole day long. Other animals sit around and arbitrarily lick their genitals clean. This is why those animals are prey and the timberwolves hunt them down. Yeah, T-wolves and seals moving up Avimaan’s Big Board.

After the zoo and some roasted corn, I decided to hop into Budapest’s main attraction, its natural baths. Although the air was frigid outside, the water was hot and relaxing. I floated about for a couple hours, idly watching the old men play chess while floating. I think it’s nice that the “must-do” event in Budapest involves hanging out in a steaming pool and looking at beautiful Europeans and fat tourists. Good times.

That night I went to a restaurant that Rick Steves called the “best Indian food on continental Europe.” I haven’t had any since I’ve been here; there’s an absolute dearth of Indian restaurants in Prague unless you want to drop 50 bucks. I’ve been missing Saag for much, much too long, and though their texture was creamy than my mother’s, it was sure nice to get a taste of something from back home.

The next morning, after conquering the Great Market Hall that had been closed on the 26th and munching on some tasty langos (think funnel cake sans powdered sugar), I took a shuttle bus to a place just out of town called Statue Park.

Now, ok, clearly this place involves a park of statues. But they’re all commie statues from Hungary’s time as a Soviet satellite country. They were all constructed as part of the communist propaganda machine and I have to say, that machine knew how to churn out some pretty sweet statues. Here's one of the highlights.

Upon returning to the city, I dawdled in a Pest café before trucking back over to Buda to see the castle. Well, by dawdling I mean that I waited thirty minutes to get a flipping sandwich that I could have made myself in two minutes. That kind of dawdling.

The inside of the Matthias Church was the highlight of the castle complex, its wall vibrantly covered in crests and crosses making it decidedly more Eastern than any of the other inspiring churches I’ve seen in Europe. The other highlight was the giant statue of a mythical bird said to have helped the Magyars come to power in the tenth century.

Time for Vienna. Well, time for me to panic about potentially missing my train to Vienna. Cause I got on the metro, got off at the train station, looked around and recognized nothing. I was at the train station on the other end of town…Shit. Shit shit shit—and only 25 minutes to go. Lucky for me Budapest’s trains were running late, so I arrived with 2 minutes to spare—technically: the train didn’t actually leave for another 35.

I arrived in Vienna in the late evening and headed straight for my hostel. While my hostel in Budapest was no-frills, Wombat’s in Vienna was a through and through backpacker’s hostel. After a shower I hopped down to the bar for the free beer every guest is afforded and to mingle with these, these…

Backpackers and the backpacking culture is strange, y’all. These young travelers thing they’ve found i-t IT, you know, that while everyone else is slugging out a job or in school they are L-I-V-I-N.

It’s mainly the superiority factor that gets to me—look, these people have just as little clue as to what the hell they’re doing with their life as their more settled contemporaries, only they have a credit card (or more often a parents’ credit card) to allow them to get shit-faced every night in the beautiful bergs of Europe. All they have more of is dirty underwear.

I’m not trying to discredit traveling, or traveling to gain experience about the world. Clearly that’s a part of what I’m doing. It’s just these backpackers think that the drunken adventures they’re having far away from home are the end-all be-all. Hell, maybe for them, twenty years from now, maybe it actually will be. As for now their smugness smacks of misappropriated arrogance.

I struck up a good repore with a couple from Seattle and a loud-mouthed Kiwi girl until I decided to pass out.

So: Vienna. The thing about Vienna is that it just bleeds money out of you. There’s heaps of worthwhile museums and they’re all ten euros a piece—after the relative cheapness of Prague, I was losing cash everywhere. “Et tu Kunsthistorisches Muzeum? Et tu Haus der Musik? Then fall Avimaan’s wallet!”

There’s too much to list here from the museums, but Vienna is certainly a music lover’s hotspot. One exhibit housed musical instruments from the middle ages and Renaissance, with an accompanying audio guide that would play samples. If and of y’all want to get me a belated Christmas present, I really, really, really want a hurdy-gurdy.

The Haus der Musik was also really amazing not only for its in-depth look at Viennese composers (you know, Mozart, Haydn, Strauss, Beethoven [sorta]), but for their analysis about how we experience sound and music. One exhibit used a special scale to explain why we naturally hear common intervals instead of less common ones ( hearing A and B as a root and major 2nd as opposed to a root and minor 7th, for example). Another exhibit showed how technology allows us to combine sounds based on their sonic qualities, so I could recite a Shakespearean speech that was half my voice and half a swarm of bees. Good times. I’ve always thought of myself as half-Indian and half-swarm of bees anyway.

All during my time in Budapest it had been exceptionally cold. I mean, I was used to Prague’s low 40’s, but that had been very manageable. I hadn’t once needed my gloves. Suddenly I wished I had them every damn moment in both cities. Where did this come from? In fact, when I came strolling out of the Great Market Hall in Budapest I was initially confused by this fine white dust whirling about me. Snow what?

But wait: there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Doesn’t snow, like, come from clouds? Can we get a ruling on this? Eventually a foggy smear of clouds seemed to form, almost as if the snow had been sucked up in reverse.

That same barely-there snowfall continued in Vienna until the second night of my stay, when I exited the Haus der Musik into a winter wonderland. Vienna under two inches of snow…I bought a Doener Kebap (the German/Austrian equivalent of a taco, so to speak, since it’s Turkish), and strolled the gardens. I still needed gloves, so I got the next best thing—hot wine. Hot wine is like an alcoholic pair of mittens.

But that night, after another inch or two—I used to call certain plays in Ultimate Frisbee “premature ejaculations.” This is when a guy would only need to make one smart throw to set someone up for the easy score, but instead went for the blaze of glory…and, well, went for it too early. This befell Vienna and its snow. Europe has been pining for snow for months now: the skiing industry’s been put over the rack due to the complete lack of snow up till now, it’s been dry as a bone for a while.

And it was as if Vienna was trying to will its winter magic out, to save the ski season. But by midnight the snow had regressed to a freezing rain. It could not be sustained. Vienna had shot its messy white load out too early, and by the next morning most of the snow was gone.

In conclusion, traveling alone is like cooking for yourself: you can add whatever ingredients you want, you can follow the recipe, you can be an absolute mess. Eventually I wished someone like Tim was there so the jokes I made were to someone else instead of to my own brain. Oh well. My brain always thinks I’m funny at least.

Home (Well, Abroad) Alone

2006-12-25T11:01:00.000+02:00

I didn’t tell anyone about my 22nd birthday. It was the last day Winedale ’05 was in England, and people were tired from the night before’s performance at the Swan, or busy shopping for souvenirs, or getting gussied up for the banquet that night. I figured I had known a bunch of the folks for over a year and if they remembered my birthday great, and if they didn’t they didn’t.

I thought of my birthday precisely three times that day: right when I woke up, while I was writing a poem in Covent Gardens around 2:30, and right before the banquet as I sipped on a Guinness. And it was a marvelous day without centering it around myself.

So I felt like I could weather the storm of a holiday passing by myself. Christmas is Christmas, but (A) They celebrate it here on the 24th, not the 25th, and (B) There’s too many bizarre rituals surrounding the Czech celebration to make me really feel like I’m missing out on something. For example:

In the week proceeding Christmas, dozens of little stands selling carp bubble up across the city. Not ready-to-go carp (the traditional Czech Christmas cuisine), that wouldn’t be tradition. Instead they have blue plastic ponds with fat, pea-brained carps swimming one foot laps endlessly. Endlessly, that is, till someone chooses said carp for said Christmas dinner. Then the carp is fished out with a net, weighed while it struggles in the horrible freedom of air, then whacked to death with a blunt piece of wood. Sometimes a stick, or a club. But really any piece of wood hefty enough to brain a carp will do.

Grace and I were standing six feet away watching this spectacle and were rained down upon by bits of debris at the gory death. Debris of what, I’m not sure. Messy shards of carp. Good fun.

But soon this Christmas became truly solitary since all the people close to me here left single-file down the calendar. Tommy to Toronto on Thursday, Tim to Buffalo Friday, Grace to Nottingham on Saturday, and Avimaan alone by Sunday. Well Baaaaaaaaaaa Humbug, y’all, I could manage.

Sunday I walked through a large, forest-like park while listening to the whole of my Winter Mix (see below), then planned my upcoming trip. Read some, wrote some, followed football games online. My friend Rach called. And Kveta, precious and kooky Landlady Kveta, brought a giant Christmas plate meant to feed three (because she didn’t know my roommates had left).

And Monday morning, when I woke up, I was unsure whether it was Christmas or not. Was it yesterday or today? Turns out it didn’t really matter to me that much. Though it might sound sad, if you turn your back to the holiday season you don’t miss it too much. Most anything can be inflated with all the world’s importance or deflated to meaningless.

Alright, maybe that’s getting a bit philosophical on this here Christmas day, and I ain’t looking for that. I set off this evening for a four-day tour of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Look out, and Merry Christmas to people who actually celebrated it.

Wintry Mix for 2006

2006-12-21T15:47:00.000+02:00

Winter is probably the easiest of the seasons to identify sonically: it's brooding, or somber, or baleful, or crystalline, tinged with yearning and longing for days and love past.

So on this, the Winter Solstice, when I had already taught a whole two-hour class before the sun rose, I give you my Winter Mix for 2006. It's surprisingly uptempo for its wintry ways, if not upbeat. The first three songs in particular are a relish to listen to in headphones, and the Hartford/Leadbelly cover of Maggie's Farm is up there with the bees' knees.

I parred this down to a CD friendly size, cutting the likes of Beck, Styx, more Joanna Newsom, and, unsurprisingly, a bunch of Hartford. The fact that only about a fifth of this mix is John Hartford is an achievement.

If you haven't heard of some of these artists, do give them a listen.

Winters Love 4:55 Animal Collective
Dear Prudence 3:56 The Beatles
Big Country 5:30 Bela Fleck and the Flecktones
Don't Stop Believing 4:10 Journey
The Greatest 3:24 Cat Power
Maggies Farm 2:48 John Hartford & Leadbelly
Daughter 3:50 Pearl Jam
Fairytale of New York 4:32 The Pogues
Sadie 6:02 Joanna Newsom
Red Right Ankle 3:29 The Decemberists
Hold My Hand 4:15 Hootie & The Blowfish
Landscape Grown Cold 2:20 John Hartford
Love Love Love 2:48 The Mountain Goats
Sample In A Jar 4:39 Phish
Crown Of Love 4:42 The Arcade Fire
America 3:37 Simon & Garfunkel
Howard Hughes Blues 3:01 John Hartford

The End of the Line

2006-12-16T13:13:00.000+02:00

So one of the wonderful things about Prague is its full transportation system, replete with three underground lines, twenty-six tram lines, and a plethora of buses. They're fairly clean, they run often, and they get you where you need to go...

Sorta. there's also strange gaps in the system: I can travel across town in 25 minutes, which is great, but to get from a spot in the Northeast to the Southeast might take an hour, which I could just about do walking. And if you hit the peek hours of human traffic, ye gods if the damn cars aren't packed to the gills! You'll get jammed in tight, the stench of humanity rife all around you.

(That stench being somewhere between sour vomit and feces, roughly.)

Trams do run all night, though, and that got me into a bit of a pickle last night. Having attended the Caledonian School Christmas party on the west side of town, I staggered out to catch a night tram to take me home. The 59 drops off about a mile away from my flat, so I got on.

Promptly after falling into a plastic chair I realized how heavily drunk I was. I'd been up since 7 and it was 2:15 now, and I had more than a few beers in me. Drunkenness sloshed weightily against my innards, and I pressed my eyes closed and leaned against the window to steady my mental ship.

I remember us crossing the Vltava, still 8 stops and 15 minutes away from Ruska, my stop.

The next thing I knew the conductor was shaking me awake and forcing me off the tram. I'd fallen asleep. Spent 50 boozy minutes bouncing through Prague, through its beating heart and filthy Center, through the close suburbs, into the outskirts then past them to, to, to...

I had no idea where I was. The stop said Nadrazi Hostivar, a far off outpost and minor train station. Train tracks randomly crossed in front of me. It was 3:20 and only a couple shady men where around. Frost sparkled on cars in the pale gleam of a streetlight. I shivered. Civilization was somewhere above the high-walled bridge in front of us.

Eventually a tram rattled up to us. The conductor fussily asked to see our travel passes, guessing rightly that the other two men were homeless shifters only looking to cruise in warmth. They were barred entrance but I got on wobbily, reeling more from exhaustion than alcohol at this point (though in truth, it was hard to tell--alcohol and exhaustion are indeed a potent mix).

There are so many strange facets to Prague, so many corners and neighborhoods and ins-and-outs that there's no way you'll ever see them all. English teachers actually get to see a fat lot more than most native Praguers, since we're scuttled all over the city to teach. And it was a bit strange to see this new strip of Prague, an undeveloped roar of the East, under the cold glow of a starless night. But by gum, I saw it. And I managed to stay awake for the subsequent 30 minute tram home. And managed to walk the uphill mile home. And made it to my stiff old bed. And as soon as I could, I crashed.

The moral of the story, if there must be one, is probably something like this: Night trams might seem like your friends, but sometimes they'll leave you drunk and in the middle of nowhere at three in the morning. Friends like that you can only trust up to a degree.

The Things Canadians Don't Know Shocks Me

2006-12-12T23:49:00.000+02:00

Unfamiliar to them are douche bags and Bisquick.

Really. It's like I have to teach them English too.

Update: And swingers! Who are these people?

Christmas Craziness in Chechia

2006-12-10T19:42:00.000+02:00

"So I have question for you on Christmas," Hana Vrbkova, my student and a gynecologist's assistant asks me. "What day is Christmas on?"

She smiles at me slyly, like she knows she's going to get to say her punchline. "The 25th," I say.

She laughs and shakes her head. "No. Christmas is twenty-four." (Hana is a pre-intermediate student).

"Well, some people celebrate on the twenty-fourth in America, but...," I search for proof why I am right, because, clearly, I am right. "Aha! Christmas is a celebration of Jesus' birthday, which is on the 25th, so--"

"No," Hana interrupts. "Jesu was born on 24."

I try to placate her. "Like at midnight?"

"No. Between eight and ten."

As an English teacher you learn to let things slide if your students insist on them. Case in point, a student of mine insisted that the Czech alphabet was the same as English's. "It's sort of the same," I try to concede. "But you have six more characters, so it's not quite the same." Marek shakes his head. "No. They are the same." Whatever Marek. I don't care if you think 32 equals 26. Christmas, though, is more important. I look at Hana's calendar. They get off the 25th and 26th as well.

"What are those holidays then, Hana?"

"The 1st and 2nd day of Christmas," she says assuredly, and I decide to give up the argument. If you believe there is a second day of Christmas two days after your official Christmas and one day after actual Christmas, well, I don't know what to tell you.

On a related note, last Wednesday was St. Nicholas Day, an unusual combination of holiday and child torture here. This is the basic premise:

St. Nicholas goes around to every house to find out if children are naughty or nice. If they're nice they get chocolate and fruit, and if they're bad they receive coal or a potato. Not too unfamiliar to American Santa Claus, right? Well--

St. Nicholas is accompanied by an angel and the devil. The devil's sole job is to scare the crap out of kids. Which he does with an incredibly high success rate. Children are scared to high hell about the possibility of the devil putting them in a sac and taking them to Spain to do God knows what.

Absolutely no one has good memories about St. Nicholas' visits when they were kids. This is the Dresden Firebombing of a Czech toddler's life--announcements of the impending St. Nick causes explosions of tears, excrement to be accidentally released, children to hide for cover. And the only reason they keep doing it is because "My father did it to me, so I will do it to my son."

Adults and older children dress up as the threesome of holy figures and go to parties. Fine. But the importance of St. Nicholas' Day isn't parties, it's causing some poor 4-year-old to wet their pants.

The God of Small Things

2006-12-09T11:51:00.000+02:00

My father told me I should only bring two books with me to the Czech Republic: books are bulky, uneconomic for packing, and you'll only use them for short periods of time, like extended literary prostitutes.

I heeded his advice. I only brought nine books. And feeling a little out of sorts this weekend, unable to delve into the explosive obtuseness of Gravity's Rainbow just yet, I busted out my ace in the hole. For the fourth time I read The God of Small Things.

Arundhati Roy's novel is one of those rare stories that gives you more and more each time you search through it, since its first reading is so...well, new. The language of The God of Small Things is like no other book's, incredibly unique and poetic. I know some people might find it overwrought or a little cutesy at times, but each time I go back I'm blown away by Roy's dynamic choices with words and structure.

This is Roy's only work of fiction and in my head I equate it with John Hartford's first album, where the talent is brimming but he's more outwardly ironic, not overcharged but at least noticeable. I feel that about The God of Small Things as well.

I quake with rage at the third to last chapter every time. I'm full of deep, "What's wrong with the world?" sighs. And I see the beauty in the small things. That's why Roy's book gets an unprecedented 11 on the Avimaan Recommendation Scale ( Interviewer: But Avi, why don't you just make ten the best and have The God of Small Things score a ten? Avimaan Syam: [pause, blank look and snapping chewing gum] This recommendation scale goes to eleven.)

So After a Few Months, Is Europe the Shizznit?

2006-12-05T22:00:00.000+02:00

Not bad, not bad.

I have a Flickr site here, with some pics from travels and old school alike. Pretty hodge-podge, really. And I do consider it on some level ironic that I'm writing a novel told through rolls of film and with treatises on photography when I am in fact a pretty mediocre photographer. The thumbs you see here are mainly my roommate's though--freaking Tom Thumb.

I'm waiting for it to snow and get postcard pretty to take more photos of Prague. And of course, Europe has many nice hot alcoholic drinks, like mead and grog, which can turn a not bad day into

A Thumbs Up Day!

300 pages (Officially today, Hiya!) into a novel of photographs has made me think about the subject a lot. Take the two photos above: Does one look candid? The other forced? Do you know where they are? You might know who one thumb is, but what about the other? What's in his glass, what does his shirt say, who/what/when/where? Whoa doggies--I've thought about that shite so long my mind is in need of redeveloping.

Books I’ve Read on My Journey, Volume Two

2006-11-27T12:52:00.000+02:00

If On a Winter’s Night A Traveler by Italo Calvino

An enjoyable, rollicking tale that hops from chapter one to chapter one of many imagined books, Calvino’s novel is a wonderful treatise on the expectations and interweaving of readers, but done so in a way that you—as the actual reader—are sent on interesting journeys the whole way through. The range of stories segmented here shows just how masterful Calvino is with style and storymaking. 8.85 on the recommendation scale.

Native Speaker by Chang-Rae Lee

A very interesting book about growing up Korean-American. The style’s fairly strong, and Lee clearly thought long and hard about what he wanted to say on the subject. But…a lot of Lee’s answers are too easy, sometimes—not in solutions to the story’s problems persay, but in the actual construction of the novel. The jobs people have, for example, or his description thereof, seem like the easiest option, not always the best. Still, as Generation 2.5 as opposed to second generation, I connected with a lot of what he had to say. It was a first novel after all, and I think you can hear the MFA program in it kind of, but not bad at all. 7.1 on the scale.

Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris

I’d been going on sort of a heavy kick of books so I pulled this collection from the Caledonian library. Very good for commuter reading, if anyone eles possibly spends more work time in transport than actually teaching. Sedaris’ style is pretty firmly established at this point, and my general problem with collections like this is more the length and repetition: twenty-five essays with the same shape, the same feeling at the end, etc., is a bit much. Sedaris can be pretty damn funny though, no denying, and for a quick read its fine. Also it did have this amazing piece of dialogue in it:

“This coffee’s like sex in a canoe!”
“What?”
“It’s fucking near water.”

Oh, 6.4 on the scale, and 4 of it was for that quote. Zing!

Rock ‘n Roll by Tom Stoppard

A hearty thanks to James Loehlin for gifting me Stoppard’s latest play. As Stoppard mentions in his intro, the play borrows heavily from Vaclav Havel’s writings, and it’s interesting to see the “other” side of the resistance from Milan Kundera’s disenchanted view. The play moves fast, spans over twenty years, but each scene is so exquisitely constructed: Stoppard is a master of these things by now. A very good luck at time’s effect on one’s views. 8.1 on the rec-o-scale.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

I’m not sure if I’ve read a book where magical realism was used so effectively—in Bulgakov’s satire on disappearances occurring under Stalinist Moscow, the devil and his miscreants come to town under the guise of black magicians. Unsurprisingly, chaos ensues. The devil’s stay is also wound around a novel written about Pontius Pilate by one of the character’s in the book. I think—for a book to be absolutely special, above and beyond—it has to be kick-ass and heartfelt. Or by the end we need to have felt that it was both (meaning it doesn’t have to be heartfelt the whole way). The Master and Margarita is super close to that, and I can only think of two books and one graphic novel that have achieved both for me. Maybe if I was Russian, or Christian, it might have hit home harder. Still, an absolute kick-ass novel, and one I’d recommend to anyone looking for madcap fun, and Rushdie’s Satanic Verses is based on this book’s model, if anyone’s interested. 9.75 on the recommendation scale.

A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian by Marina Lewycka

The title alone was very intriguing, and I’d heard some good things, so I checked out this tight little tale about a Ukranian lady disrupting an English family of Ukranian heritage. Think Cold Sassy Tree except British, and with Ukranians, and funnier. While the book was enjoyable, it’s quite obviously written by and for middle-aged women, which was kind of weird for me. I mean, looking down at my body, I’m neither middle-aged nor a woman. In a certain sense it seemed like really well-done Chick Lit, something a mom might nod to and chuckle and say, “That’s so true!” It’s be a very good airplane book, for example. 5.37 on the Avimaan Syam Rating Chart.

A Million Little Pieces by James Frey

My roommate found this on the floor of a hostel in Finland and passed it on to me, and how could I turn down a book of such controversy? I can understand why the book was so popular—though it’s 500 pages you just fly through it and it’s gritty style. Some scenes are chilling and others just mind-boggling and his style is punchy, raw in the way Eggers’ could be sometimes. But after I read the reports on what’s falsified…it’s as stunning as anything in the purported memoir itself. Nearly everything in the book is fake—he said he went to jail when he didn’t, he overblows every incident, he saws he got a double root canal without anesthetic when he didn’t, etc. Look, I believe any book, nonfiction or fiction, requires the reader to put a great deal of trust in the author. When that trust is broken, the reader doesn’t know who to believe, or maybe why they should keep reading, or how valid this world they’re entering is. As good as James Frey’s book seems, I can’t recommend it to anyone, because just like a memoir a recommendation is steeped in trust. ; You’re trusting me to tell you which book is good. That’s why A Million Little Pieces is the first book to be UNSCORABLE on the Avimaan Recommendation Scale. Read the stunning amount of lies here.

Thanksgiving

2006-11-25T22:42:00.000+02:00

Tim and I weren't going to miss it. No stinking way. And if the only way was for us to do it, though we'd never, ever been in charge of the situation, so be it.

Thanksgiving. It's a make-or-break holiday; reputations are born in November kitchens.

From the beginning their were problems, the ridiculous, cliched type of problems people encounter on their first foray into the Feast. The turkey wasn't defrosted enough. The power kept going out. Alyssa's pie fell over as she was pulling it out of the oven. And we're doing this all in the fucking Czech Republic, where people think of holidays as a day of rest. Bloody hell.

But we got through it. I rocked the mashed potatoes, made the stuffing, set up the veggie sampler. Tim concentrated on the bird and the gravy. Friends started filtering in and though we were late, we got it done.

I'm not sure what age most people change from Thanksgiving attendee to Thanksgiving preparer, but it's nice to know that we're capable of such adversities, and we can in fact flourish. Well, maybe not flourish exactly, but get drunk and eat a lot of food we made. At least we can do that.

The Bedbug Platform

2006-11-23T14:17:00.000+02:00

I have two small purplish dots on my right cheek. The first is a remnant of my battles with bedbugs: I got bit three times on the face, and the most prominent one stayed on as a relic of my insectian war.

But then I got a little zit under the bite, and this bump is lingering too (Apparently the bed bugs have struck deeper than I thought!). Now it looks like I have two zits. I was OK when people thought I had one, cause I knew it was a bite. Two, though, is displeasing. I would rather people did not think I had two zits.

This is why I'm running on the platform to eradicate all bedbugs from the face of the planet forever. I know it's a controversial issue, but I'm ignoring smaller issues such as the war in Iraq, human rights, social security, and taxes to take on an issue that counts: Kicking Some Bedbug ASS!

And yes, Will Smith will be my running mate, since I need someone to both kick the tires and light the fires. Harry Connick Jr. will be the head of Homeland Security. Syam-Smith '08!

Krakow

2006-11-20T14:29:00.000+02:00

I think it’s a common discovery for most people going abroad: the friends you make in places new are nothing like friends you had in places old. It’s strange at first, since those past friendships established track roads in your minds to the way budding relationships were supposed to go—what it’s understood to ask about, inside jokes, activities partaken in, etc. And these new friendships, well, they rarely stay on the tracks we know.

Tim is one of my few good friends over here, and we certainly contrast in certain areas: he’s a marketing major from Buffalo, loves hockey, not interested in literature or drama, might have been in a frat if he had gone to UT. And it’s easy to find these differences first, if you want to. But he’s very trustworthy, we can tell stories to each other and laugh about the right people together, and drink and watch baseball/football together—I think our common background growing up in houses full of boys and sports is what brought us together.

When you need to, you can be very selective about what type of person becomes your friend. When you need friends, you’re more open. And I’m really glad I’m friends with Tim, and that I decided to journey to Krakow with him. This is contrasted all the more by the fact that we bought group tickets with people from the Caledonian School, who were numbering 20 in total. Why anyone would want to travel in a horde of people is beyond me: you see less, you argue more, you connect less with each of the people you're with. I say 5 should be the limit for traveling parties, 2 and 4 the most ideal numbers.

The train ride to Krakow initially seemed like it would be a disaster. Steve, the Scotsman who had bought are group tickets at a reduced rate, managed not to reserve them. There was a chance we’d be sleeping in the aisle. Eight hours loomed in front of us terribly, but they passed rather drunkenly, and the seats sorted themselves out more or less—we split a coach with some seedy Polish guys who wouldn’t let us sleep as we didn’t let them sleep. I met a swell new teacher at the Caledonian School (one of our hundreds), and we passed the times rather amicably together with some vodka.

When we pulled into Krakow at 5:45 in the morning Tim and I bolted from the group. He had a few hours of passed-out sleep under his belt and I had none but we wanted nothing to do with the group. They were a slow-turning, massy wheel and we were a pair of skates speeding off in the distance. Most everything in the town was closed so early on a Friday so we wandered to our hostel, to reenergize before tackling Auschwitz.

Auschwitz is…Auschwitz does what it’s supposed to. I think the best term to describe how I felt afterwards is punchdrunk. You’re just so mentally battered, and there’s so, so much of it, this death and pain and cruelty is constructed into and over everything and…afterwards your mind is numb save for this depressing, inconceivable truth that humanity is quite capable of such evil. Tim was almost angry at them, the Nazis, for what they did. We both felt physically ill at the end.

One of the most disturbing things about Auschwitz and its mammoth sister extermination camp, Birkenau, is that they’re really quite beautiful. From the right angles Auschwitz looks like the main green of a quaint college campus, and the woods surrounding Birkenau are quite stunning. Only then there’s the electrified barbed wire, and the crematoriums, and “Arbeit Macht Frei.”

One last thing on Auschwitz: though the museums incorporated into the cellblocks are quite modern, the whole place is unheated. It was literally five degrees cooler in the buildings than outside, as if they wanted you to be chilled to the bone by what you saw.

The bus back to Krakow was similarly unheated, and a thick fog had descended over Krakow by the time we returned. We took deserved showers then went next door to Chlopskie Jadlo, what Time referred to as “The Outback Steakhouse of Poland.” Well, it wasn’t so kitschy, but the food was great and a guitar-violin duo serenaded us with hot jazz and folk tunes. By eleven, with more than a few drinks and no sleep in me, I was more than ready to pass out.

The next day we took at a more leisurely pace. We walked around Wawel Castle, which guidebooks describe as “eclectic” but Avimaan defines as “piecemeal.” Tim was gifted a Rick Steves’ Guidebook by his parents last year and used it faithfully throughout our journey, and it was actually a very handy guide for what’s worthwhile and what you can see on your own versus using a tour.

Over the course of the next two days we also wandered around:

(A) The Jewish quarter and its fantastic market.
(B) A “Milk bar,” the name for government subsidized cafeterias. Mmm.
(C) The church John Paul the Second used to preach at and the street he lived on.
(D) The main square, large enough to rival Mexico City’s zocalo.
(E) Café Camelot, where we were served hot beer spiced with vanilla and ginger.
(F) Around KL Cracowia’s stadium, looking for free entrance into the game.
(G) The old Jewish ghetto, where parts of the wall are still left standing.
(H) The university, with as many students as UT.

The other parts of the weekend were filled with American indulgences we can’t get in Prague: a Pizza HUT serving pan pizza and replete with a salad bar (If you’ve never had European pizza, let’s just say it’s a flat disappointment). We watched some football games and drank beer till our heads hurt and our pillows brought sweet, sweet sleep.

All in all Krakow and Poland were great. It’s funny, but I felt far more at home in Krakow than Prague: it’s more inviting, smaller and super-easy to walk around, got a great nightlife, etc. It’s much less seedy. It might get boring after a little while, something that’ll never happen in Prague. But all in all, I give the Poles and their perogis two hearty thumbs up.

Dead Weight

2006-11-16T12:28:00.000+02:00

Our golden retrievers died within a year of each other. Goldie after Christmas one year, Penny the next Thanksgiving. It was my first taste of death’s iron-blood flavor, and I reacted to it then as I have since—dumbly, unsure of what to do or say or think. Unsure when I can go back to acting like normal.

Penny in particular was a hefty dog, solidly over seventy despite how much we tried to run her in the Texas heat. She was a big dog, even as the lymphomas sucked the life away from her body.

-----

The next summer was the culmination of our brief cycle of deaths. In Kolkata this time, for Thama, my grandmother.

The whole trip was beastly. Escaping the stifling heat of a Houston summer for the muggy purgatory of Kolkata. Jetlag that kept me up past dawn. A dearth of toilet paper. And our eyes—all of our eyes—tinged with the yellowing knowledge of death. I was fifteen then, and any discomfort was like oil flashing out of the pan.

She did not leave her shadowy room much during our two-week stay. She didn’t leave her bed. I’m not sure I saw her anywhere else that trip. She was week, tiny, fragile: the cancer weighted in her stomach left her rooted to the spot, incapable of extended movement.

One of those nights in Kolkata, when I was the only one awake and couldn’t stand reading any more John Grisham (the only books in English on the shelf), I strayed out to the veranda and watched packs of dogs trolling for scraps. They were nothing, these dogs, these curs, they were beyond waste. They were dying machines trapped in a dying world.

The only noise in the house was the persistent hum from the humidifier in Thama’s room. I walked down the wall and peaked into her room. It had been painted darker than all the others, a chestnut brown, making visibility all but impossible at that hour. I knew her bed was to the right and her servant slept on a cotton mat by its side. Under the humidifier’s band of sound you could hear my grandmother’s breath, stunted, painful intakes that seemed like she was shocked by a ghost every ten seconds.

Eventually I could make out the insignificant form of my grandmother. She was never anything close to large, but age and death had pulled her down with disease till she couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds. That weight on the dogs was massive, overbearing, pushing hard at your thighs for pets-to-the-head or treats. On my grandmother this weight was nothing.

I closed the door. I stayed away. I slept till three P.M. everyday. There were many difficult things on that trip, and I was one of the most difficult. Now—now that I have a chance to go back—I’m not sure what to expect, how to act. I want my relatives to believe that I want to see them, that I don’t see their country and their relations and their heritage as some dead weight ascribed to my identity without me asking. It’s not. It’s not but I don’t know how to prove that. If all it took was me carrying seventy-five pound bags from Prague to Kolkata, I would do it. One on each shoulder.

But I’m traveling for a wedding this time. Celebrations and dancing, hugs and kisses, and the weight of souls gently, gently lifting up and away from our beings.

I can’t wait.

The Application Drain

2006-11-11T10:38:00.000+02:00

With the payment to Brown’ and Johns Hopkins’ online application forms, I’ve officially washed my hands of my M.F.A. applications. They are in other people’s hands: in Joe’s, who will match file and ship them off; in my professor’s who has yet to finish recs; in ETS, who must send my GRE scores to several more schools; and most importantly, to the admissions boards of these schools.

Applying is such a numbing drag. I’d forgotten. There are the endless forms to fill out, almost exactly the same yet uncopiable, and the same goes for the essays. Most of them are fairly similar, yet have some extra twist or variation that mean you can’t just duplicate them. You’ve just got to do them.

This is made all the more exasperating by the fact that MFA programs base their selection almost completely on your writing sample (short stories, or a short story and a novel excerpt). To quote my thesis advisor, who sits on the board of a top 5 MFA program: “The writing sample is 99% of the criteria used in making these decisions.”

So, you’ve got all these apps and essays and forms and GREs and checklists and envelopes and it all really boils down to the writing sample. Wouldn’t it be easier if we just sent that in, and went from there?

Ok, bitching done. But since I hate, hate, hate dwelling on things, I took the first two weeks after Internet was established in our flat and just ground my way through these. If you get past the fact that it’s a tremendous hassle to update your resume, it only really takes three to five minutes.

I’m applying to nine schools, which may seem like a lot, but of these nine the highest admission rate might be 10% at most. So no guarantees for sure, particularly because admission is based in something so subjective as whether they like your stories or not. But the same professor said this about my chances (paraphrased this time): “If a reader gets 500 essays, he can throw 400 out on the first read. On a second read he’s down to 30, and another read winnows it down to 15. Most admissions board readers will get to the same 15. From that 15 to five or ten, though, it’s a bit of a crapshoot.”

He said I should be in that 15. So, what I’m hoping for, I guess, is being on the top of that crapshoot. $500 for apps, $150 for GRE and sending scores, $50 for books and shipping, and essentially I’ve paid $700 for nine tickets to land on the top of the crapshoot. Hope my number gets called.

Random Facts about the Czech Republic, Volume Two

2006-11-08T15:17:00.001+02:00

--You can buy a roll of toilet paper for about a nickel.

--You can buy a pack of Kleenex for about a penny.

--Toilet paper and Kleenex have the same texture as paper towels.

--Road signs with a directional arrow for highways often indicate that motorists can get to the major cities to the East, West, North, and South by taking the next exit. I have yet to be on one of these magical highways, but look forward to their splendor.

--In the elegant words of Jeff, a veteran teacher: “Say goodbye to shitting solid for a year, boys, cause it ain’t happening.”

--I’ve got nothing against old folks, but hot damn if they aren’t out in force here! Even on a 6 A.M. bus there’ll be a seventy-year-old woman struggling with her cane to get up and down the steps. They love to go out and sit in the parks and chat. But the important thing about the elderly in the Czech Republic is that they are EVERYWHERE—they will soon over take us, they will eradicate the Iranian government, and pigeons, and then roaches. Fear the old Czechs, my friends, who have been battle-tested by Nazis and Soviets and Communists, and give up your seat on the tram lest they turn their feeble wrath on you.

--On the topic, there are an inordinate amount of people on crutches (well, European crutches). And Europe ain’t exactly accommodating to the handicapped—they’ve got to struggle up masses of steps and the like on canes and crutches.

--Czech elections are held on Fridays and Saturdays, which unsurprisingly causes low voter turnout since a lot of Prague leaves for their weekend cottages. They say whenever the weather forecast is good for the weekend then the number of voters plummets.

--Man, I consider myself far from a pervert, but let me say this about Prague: Sisqo must be Czech, because this town is full of thong-the-thong-thong-thongs. You don’t even have to look for them. They protrude from jeans riding low. They are everywhere. I think eventually control of the Czech Republic will come down to old people versus thongs.

--On a related note, PDA. I mean, if two people love each other or attracted to each other, sure, whatever right? But teenage couple fucking go at it here, everywhere—these kids are just mauling each others’ mouths in train stations, on the street, wherever.

--Most everyone in Prague owns a cottage somewhere else in the country, and most every weekend they go out there to pick mushrooms, or pick apples, or just relax.

--The amount of graffiti is just shocking. It’s everywhere, on buildings centuries old, on new buildings, on churches and porno stores. What’s worse, none of this graffiti is well executed—it’s pointless, crudely-crafted tagging. No one seems to care. One of my students, Libor, said that Czechs have been so desensitized to crime, corruption, and bad things happening to them that it’ll take generations before their country is corrected socially. A grim proclamation. Come to think of it, graffiti might eradicate both old people and thongs. Let’s just hope they don’t form a coalition—that might get ugly.

--November is called Listopad. I just wish it was called Launchpad and December was McQuack.

Harlem Gospel Choir in North Bohemia

2006-11-06T10:57:00.000+02:00

"How you doin' OSEK!" Sister Bea yelled to minimal reponse. "I said, 'How ya feelin OSEK!"

What Sister Bea did not understand is that--though we were in the town of Osek--calling out for Osek was like Aerosmith coming to Houston, performing at The Woodlands Pavilion, and saying "How ya feeling THE WOODLANDS! We are so happy to be rockin THE WOODLANDS!" Osek is a small berg twenty kilometers from Teplice, an hour or two from Prague, and of the 700 or so in attendance, maybe 20 were from Osek.

The main reasons I decided to go to this concert were (A) It was in a part of the country I hadn't seen before, and (B) My student Richard invited me. To call Richard a student sounds funny because he's my parents' age, with children a little younger than me, but he likes a lot of different music and we got to talking and I was very flattered he invited me along.

Richard, his wife Jana, their friend Vira, and I drove from north of Prague to Osek, which is quite close to the German border. Though the landscape was beautiful, it could have been far more astounding if the weather wasn't awful. It was a cold, constant rain, the kind that doesn't smack at you but comes in soft, ceaseless swarms. It was one of those oil and water skies in front of us, and I figured once we passed into it we would be in the clear. But then we were just in water.

On the walk from the parking lot to the church, the wind was so hard that Richard's umbrella was snapped and destroyed, hanging limply like a kite.

We had to get there early to get seats (as opposed to standing the whole concert), so we sat waiting for the show for an hour. The church is not heated. It was below 40 outside. It was below 40 inside. We drank hot tea from a thermos at the beginning, but by the end its effects were long gone.

The Harlem Gospel Choir is a pretty talented group: astounding vocals, of course, and pretty cool arrangements. They played a Stevie Wonder medley that was the bomb-diggity. The thing, though, is that a gospel choir is supposed to be a show more than a music performance. The Choir wanted to get the audience on their feet, singing, dancing, interacting.

The Czechs were not having it.

"How many of you speak English?" Sister Bea called. About ten people raised their hands, none of which included the people in my row, all of whom spoke English. "Oh dear. How many of you speak Czech?" Slightly fewer raised their hands, and the whole church laughed. I would guess that 500 of the 700 spoke some passing form of English.

The Czechs are pretty restrained when it comes to outside displays of religious or political views, though: most don't like talking about it. And the Harlem Gospel Choir had quite an uphill battle to get the Czechs clapping their hands through the whole show (Oh, I'll mention this too: Czechs--pretty bad rhythm).

But the "show" aspect of things grated on me too. Sister Olivia said to the crowd, "Y'all are beautiful. go on, clap for yourselves, give yourselves a hand." Wait: what? I'm clapping for myself because you think I'm pretty? I do not need to clap for something like that.

Also of note was a particular song selection. I can only imagine the director breaking it down like this: "Alright, Brother Lawrence and Sister Maya are doing the Stevie medley and Sister Olivia's got Amazing Grace. Sister Theresa, though, we got something special for you--you're doing R. Kelly all by yourself." That's right. Sister Theresa believed she could fly.

It was a good time, and by the end of the show my feet and hands were frozen. We marched off into the blackness and they drove me back to Prague, listening to Czech bluegrass bands cover Johnny Cash.

Three months

2006-11-03T16:29:00.000+02:00

It's been three months. I wake up early, around 6:20, though I don't need to be up for an hour. My sleep cycle is finally back on track to American standards, so I don't need more than 7 hours max. A half hour later the dawn spills the first sparks of light onto the day and I look out my window: it's snowed overnight.

My roommates are up and I look out Emily's room, for she has a better view of the urban sprawl's first dusting of white. I make a cup of coffee with my French press, take it with a couple of biscuits and a banana. Back in my room I push open the double windows and stand barefoot on the ledge to take a photo.

It's been three months. I put on my boots over wool socks, button up the winter coat I found on my old flat's balcony. I hop on the number 10 tram, surprisingly uncrowded by the morning rush. I try to read my book but there's not enough sunlight. Snow files slowly around the tram and the riders watch, absently transfixed.

My first lesson of the day is with Centrum.cz, a company somewhat akin to AOL or Google. A "portal," they call it. We read through some advice requests I pulled off Slate, discuss them, then Patrick and Lenka write responses. We then run through some advanced conjunction exercises. I leave them at 10 to go to the Caledonian School to lessonplan for my 12 o'clock lesson.

Jake's been here three months too. He pours over a few of his own papers, his sideburns and wayward hair and military physique perhaps more Wolverine than Hugh Jackman. Three months and he still hasn't found a flat. He's been couchsurfing for the past two. I order an espresso and a piece of apple cake for 35 crowns. We talk about literature lazily, and I agree to poke my nose about for a room for him.

Get on the Yellow Line to Hloubetin. I stand the whole metro ride, reading You Shall Know Our Velocity! by Dave Eggers. Look up and I've missed my stop: I'll have to circle around, making me 10 minutes late. Damn Eggers. Hana and I read over some pre-intermediate crime stories, discuss the difference between pickpockets, burglars, and robbers, then I leave.

It's been three months. Walking back to the metro station I am caught in a flurry. It's the first snowstorm I've personally been in, and the wind changes directions frequently, angrily, restlessly, undecided on who should feel its wrath. I scroll through my iPod, put on the Beatles' White Album and try to decide which song is my favorite.

Damn, it's gotta be Dear Prudence. For an hour I am an itinerant citizen of Prague's underground, not seeing the light of the day as I am crowded in one train then move to one that's more crowded. Nevermind. Definitely While My Guitar Gently Weeps. People read a lot on the metros and trams here, but now--weary of Eggers and his pitfalls--I sink into Happiness is a Warm Gun.

I've been here precisely three months. November 3rd. And I now have a plane ticket to leave in precisely three months. February 3rd. Prague to London to Kolkata for an Indian wedding.

6 exact months is a coincidence. The wedding's shortly thereafter. Still, here I am, at the peak after a long trek, ready for the downstretch. Shit, I forgot about Blackbird.

I've been here three months. I've lived in three different flats. I've put down an uncountable number of beers, toasted with strangers and strangers masquerading as friends, with friends, with the lost and the nervous. I've taught hundreds of hours of English. I've been sick in various parts of the town, I've seen its beautiful architecture, walked over its bridges. And in three months I will slough off my heavy winter coat like a cicada coming out of its shell, ready for new climes. I will walk away from Prague as home forever.

I come out of the metro--it isn't snowing around the Flora station. The same old man who was drawing the street corner yesterday is doing it today, sans gloves. Will I miss it? Sure. Will I regret leaving after six months? Maybe, bur probably not. Three months is long enough to be unable to see the beginning correctly, to trust your memory of what you left and why. It really isn't enough time to make good friends or really sink your teeth into a town, to feel like you've got your hooks into it and vice versa.

Am I glad I came? Definitely. Absolutely. Oh man, it's definitely Rocky Raccoon, ever since the time my friend Delaney played it on her guitar in that unique, slightly squeaky voice of hers. But I think I know America is more home for me than here. Maybe it's my own fault for never expecting to make a home out of Prague: I brought a spartan amount of stuff compared to my comrades. Did I want to set up shop? Did I ever? Or did I just want to unroot myself from somewhere else?

I let Julia beautifully haunt my ears before entering my apartment. I take the money for Internet up to Kveta, our landlady, and then explain how my contract allows for me to leave early as long as I give her three months' notice. I hand her a signed piece of paper detailing my departure, along with a bogus story of how my father wants me to help him start a cafe (and I am a good son after all). This may seem lame, but Kveta looks on my roommates and I as her children, particularly me since I'm most helpful to her: I've pruned our backyard and carried a broken washer for her. She'll understand better this way.

I've been here three months. When I meet my father and brother in Heathrow Airport perhaps they'll be surprised by the hair that's grown back beyond my ears, by the ten pounds of fat and muscle that have been shed from my frame. Perhaps they will see the same boy, always the youngest, challenging. Perhaps they will see someone different, someone slightly hardened, slightly weary. Perhaps they will they see someone so, so damned happy to touch anyone of the same blood as he. Perhaps he will be that wizened, experienced man he hoped the trip would make him. It's only been three months, and yet a whole cavernous three months stands between him and that date. Who can tell which Avimaan will show up?

I make homemade soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for my roommates: I'm grateful that my chameleonic nature can attach to two such homebodies. I mix a bastardized version of warm Orchata for my sick roommate, Emily. For today, at least, it's Dear Prudence. The snow once more spills lazily from the sky. Yeah, Dear Prudence. Tomorrow, though, who knows what choices tomorrow will bring?

The Absurdity of the Prague Teaching Life

2006-10-31T19:09:00.000+02:00

Today I was supposed to teach 4 lessons: 3 ninety minutes lessons and 1 45 minute makeup lesson.

Lesson #1: Actually takes place, good times, good lesson.

Lesson #2: Cancelled in advance because of trip to Kenya. Fine.

Lesson #3: Cancelled 4 and 1/2 hours in advance, meaning I still get paid.

Lesson #4: Cancelled 10 minutes after I show up.

So, in summation:

Hours paid for (45 min = 1 teaching hour): 5

Hours actually taught: 2

Hours spent traveling: 3

On Thursdays, for example, I teach for 5.5 hours and travel for 5.5 hours. Good times. Good fucking times.

Anniversary

2006-10-28T15:04:00.000+03:00

October the 27th marks the one-year anniversary of when I started my novel. I still remember that night clearly. We had done a Modern Drama Reading Group at Dana Pitts’ house, just five of us plowing through Enemy of the People, a long though pleasurable affair that didn’t get out till one in the morning. I didn’t get home till two, but by four that same morning I had the first 9 pages of Ouroboros. By Saturday (two days later) I had twenty-five. In the first three weeks I had seventy.

(Progress has since slowed considerably.)

But the actual origin of Ouroboros was born two nights earlier, on a Tuesday, when my friend Mark came home with my roommate Suz and I to have a post-pub beer (Oh, to be unemployed in Austin again! You never truly appreciate unemployment till ya get a goddamn job!)

We were getting there, the three of us, when Mark, sage and loquacious photographer that he is, made the offhand comment that life behind the camera was like living your life through others.

What would be the opposite of that? I immediately wondered. The model, my mind reasoned, who has to live all these different lives that for other people. She’s different and yet the same, like the other side of an equation. For some reason, this stuck with me, and I began to make more combinations as I fell asleep on the living room floor. The builder and the architect, the murderer and the victim, the colonizer and the colonized, the black and the white, different sides of the equation…

The week before I had read White Teeth by Zadie Smith. In it she mentioned the term ouroboros, which I was forced to look up. Ouroboros is the figure of a snake eating its tail, forming a union through its own death, and for some reason it stuck with me: Ouroboros. It was important. I wrote down its definition in my journal, unsure why it had to stay near the front of my mind.

And this is how art works sometimes: for some reason, the next day, when I woke up, these two things were all I could think of. The photographer leading his life through others. Ouroboros. The model living others’ lives for them. Ouroboros. My heritage, my halfbreed heritage—which side of the equation did it put me on? Ouroboros. Why did they fit together like jigsaw pieces? I don’t know. But they did. Everything wanted to fit together so, so badly, and I began to type.

Now, it’s hard to imagine I’ve been working on it a year. Certainly factors have slowed me down: a job, teaching that university course, moving abroad and training here, inexperience, laziness, other mental factors. But it’s getting there. I can honestly say it’s getting there. The hardest part is that it just requires more work and revisions than you want to put into it—the first chapter, for example, has been edited five times, and several chapters have been completely rearranged and rewritten. Over thirty pages have been straight cut when I decided to go in a different direction. This is the process. In terms of length, I’m about 60% through. As for being finished with it, well, that’s another matter.

Whether this thing ever sees the light of day is beyond me. In truth that’s only a part of why I write it. It means a lot to me. It’s very autobiographical in its own fantastical way. So, without further a due, here’s the Prelude of Ouroboros as a sort of teaser. The rest of the book follows different patterns, and only intermittently returns to this style and theme. Please don’t think it’s always so esoteric, but I hope you enjoy anyways. It’s been a strange, wild year.

Prelude

And if all you were left with was a box?

When you’re not left with the clearest of moments. When all that remains of your neighbor, Claudia—who your parents encouraged you to call Grandma—is the jaundiced, dried-up rosebud she gave you the last time you saw her (because even if you didn’t know, she did). That and her four-leaf clover coffee mug. Or Uncle William, stolen by cancer, whose entire existence has been distilled into a mulberry sports coat that drapes below your knees.

Or your best friend from second grade, Will Monroe, in that tiny starfish of a scar on your forehead from when you both tried to head home the same soccer ball.

Or the handmade Valentine’s Day card from the first girl you swore you were going to marry, Michelle Bost, that know you can reread with an ironic smile and point out the subtle hints that your relationship would soon be downgraded to “friend” status.

Or:

—the shirt you got when you and your father went down to watch Spring Training, just the two of you, and he caught a foul ball bare-handed. He said it didn’t hurt at all. You know the shirt, it’s got too many holes in it now but you still wear it to sleep.
—the bits of hotdog your mother would mix into your mac-and-cheese.
—the air brush set you only opened twice, now stuffed in the back of you closet, next to a remote-controlled Corvette and that lacrosse stick you borrowed from Steve Dixon.
—how your kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Moore, taught you to hold on to your shirtsleeves when you put on a sweater so they wouldn’t get bunched up around your elbow. You reveled in this secret and always thought of her as your “school mom.”
—Craig Biggio’s Donruss rookie card, the corners bent from being looked at so much.
—the silver-chained necklace with a small pendant of Ganesha your father embarrassedly gave you for your 13th birthday. He walked away before you could thank him for it.
—your life lying not in the things all around you but in the invisible, interlocking web that connects them to you and other people, which is only able to be expressed through words like “borrowed” and “bequeathed” and “stolen” and “gave.”

And if you were left with a box?

Ten little Indians and then there was one.
He looks around and what’s to be done?
Ten little Indians and then there were none.
…………………………………………….

And if you were left with a box?

And think maybe you don’t know. Just maybe, maybe, you don’t.
Things would make so much sense in other, more fantastical ways.
There should be leaves after all. Certainly branches. Maybe an owl
Looking preciously out the hole in the trunk. And there is none of that.
Even the roots are conspicuously withered and threadbare…So…?

(“What the hell are you?” Frank Lee, your chemistry lab partner, used to ask. As if human wasn’t enough. As if saying halfbreed meant more. As if being from one definable race coming from one definable country gave you your own history book. So you called him a dog-eating communist, even though you knew he was Taiwanese.)

Look down at the cardboard wrapped in glossy tape.
Smoke a cigarette about what may be inside. Nod to yourself.
Close both eyes for a second then get out your scissors. Open gently,
Because this is a matter of extremity.

And if instead of a family you were left with a box? Rolls of film?

208 pages and counting. (cracks open Pilsner Urquell) Here’s to Year Two.

Dresden

2006-10-22T19:01:00.000+03:00

As we wait for the train to arrive in Prague, I sing happily to Tom. “We’re going to Dresden, Dresden, Dresden Germany, we’re going to Dresden. Oh I have reason to believe we all will be received in Dresden.”

“That’s pretty good,” Tom replies. “Did you make that up?”

Well, not really—Graceland, you know? But Tom doesn’t know Graceland. I pause as the train pulls in: maybe this journey isn’t a good idea. How can I travel with someone who doesn’t know Graceland? My traveling companion is 25 years old, he is the product of my third flat, and I decide to go on. Yes, I have reason to believe I haven’t been deceived by Tommy.

I must confess I didn’t know much about Dresden going into the trip—our main goal in traveling was to get out of the Czech Republic, since you’re only allowed to stay in the country for 90 days without a visa, and I was getting frightfully close. Dresden happens to be the biggest city close to Prague: two and a half hours there, two and a half back, a short jaunt over the border and a stamp in your passport.

And this too I must confess: Dresden rocks. Rocks! It’s an incredibly interesting town, a very artsy city, the cultural center of what was East Germany, and, of course, the site of the famed bombings of ’45.

Like many large European cities, Dresden is divided by a river (the Elbe). We got in to town around 6 and made our way to our hostel, located in Neustadt. Neustadt is the hipper part of town, located near the university, and everywhere you look there’s posters for theatre and readings and exhibits. All of Europe seems to have this semi-goth/semi-grunge/intellectual/I’m-a-drunkard movement going on, and there were lots of these folk in Dresden. Also, there were many cute girls with scarves and striped socks riding bicycles. Between glammed out Czech girls and cute German girls on bicycles, I must defer to the Deutsch.

Upon our arrival we were accosted by a young American girl who we were happening to share a room with. If you can guess what a twenty year old girl from Michigan named Brittany might be like, that was her. Bright-eyed, hopelessly naïve, lugging her Nalgene around everywhere. She wasn’t someone who understood the silence that exists between people. Several quotes from this Brittany:

“You don’t sound Texan at all!”

“I can’t stand Germans after a while, they’re so reserved.”

“All the people from Wisconsin have sticks up their asses, and there aren’t many people in Iowa so we don’t really talk about them.”

It was nice to sample different beers—there is a huge difference between Czech and German beers, and both are very proud of their brews. The thing about Czech beer is that there’s more or less only one type of beer: pilsners. Now, of course they make some good pilsners, Pilsner Urquell is THE pilsner, literally, it’s made in Plzen. But damn if I don’t need some variety after a while! The only other beer in the Czech Republic is a “black beer,” or a dark beer, but it’s a very sweet drink aimed at girls. It’s the equivalent of a Smirnoff Ice or something.

And that’s why Germany was so nice: Hefeweizens. Mmm. Good, flavorful dark brews. I still sorely miss the taste of a Shiner, but I got to drink a couple of beers in Germany that were similar and quite delicious.

A couple other notes from the night in Dresden:

1. It’s amazing what a good bed can do for you! The bed I sleep on at home amounts to little more than couch cushions. This was a real bed. Sweet.
2. Another difference between Czech and German beers—one gives you hangovers, one doesn’t. Oh yeah, hangovers. Huh.
3. OK, and I’m not making this up just because I have a deep love for couscous. They have African specialty restaurants that advertise couscous; there is actually a restaurant called the COUSCOUS HAUS! I refrained from going only because I eat couscous on a daily basis. But this is how I knew Dresden was a good town.

The next morning we went to see the sights, at a leisurely pace. We crossed the river to the “old” part of town. And this is where Dresden becomes interesting. Because there are old parts, beautifully old ramparts to the castle that house museums now and so forth. And then there is the reconstructed old.

The main square of Dresden was put into the ground in ’45. The beautiful old church, the Frauenkirche, was turned to rubble, as were the surrounding buildings.

In the past ten years, Dresden has been reconstructing those buildings. Not just building new ones, but building them to replicate what use to be there. I find this incredibly fascinating—what will reconstruction fix? Will it make people believe that it’s really the same town? No. Will it make people forget the war? No. What, what then?

These buildings are so new despite the old designs given to them. It’s impossible to ignore their newness. Nowhere is this problem more prevalent than with the Frauenkirche. The church was finally rebuilt last year, and is indeed beautiful—one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve seen in Europe, in fact, over most of Prague. So that’s saying something. They used what old bricks still existed, but otherwise it’s new.

The inside is similar…they added every ornate flourish that used to exist in the church, only everything is also newly made, so it looks lavishly overdone. It is what the church used to be, but it doesn’t ring true anymore.

This is the eternal trap for Dresdenites. Do you let the past be erased by bombs, and build a new future? Or do you try to preserve the past in some sort of false present? Perhaps wars and bombs make these questions unanswerable.

The rest of the day we kept on our feet, saw the German Transportation Museum randomly (saw the first motorcycle ever made!), wandered between churches and other things. Tom got tired because he operates on naps, so we made our way to the train station and back to Prague.

It’s difficult and semi-expensive to leave for a weekend to another country, especially if you head west from the Czech Republic. In a month or so I’m hoping to go to Krakow. Over Christmas break, who knows? Hopefully somewhere warm, right? For reasons I cannot explain I wanted to see Dresden, and yes, we were well received.

Books I've Read So Far on My Journey

2006-10-19T13:02:00.000+03:00

Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem
Lethem’s book is a twist on the gritty detective story, with the protagonist a low-level mobster with Turret’s. The plot itself is not much deeper than a regular detective novel, but the style is engaging, the characters are entertaining, and the Turret’s angle is very interesting. Fun if not too deep or moving. 6.5 on the recommendation scale.

The Tin Drum by Günter Grass
A large, frenetic tale that is written as the autobiography of Oskar Matterath, a thirty year-old who willfully stunts his growth at the age of three. Oskar grows up in Germany during both World Wars and these events, obviously, color his childhood. The tale is twisted, strange, fantastical, absorbing, and the style is great—you get the feeling that Rushdie read a translation before going at Midnight’s Children. It wanders at time, lags a bit, but is a wonderful, engaging novel. 8.3 on the recommendation scale.

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera
After absorbing a book based on German history, I figured I ought to plunge into the works of the country I’m living in. Kundera’s works are like philosophical candy—he offers simple treatises about, obviously in this case, laughter and memory, and proves his points with examples through stories. Not only are these stories and his style remarkably straightforward, they often have to due with sex. I feel like there’s sort of two ways of looking at the world at any given time—that it’s impossible or very simple. Kundera, his country’s history heavy on his mind, only sees one. 6.2 on the recommendation scale.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
This was my first foray into Joyce and I found it very interesting. For several reasons it took me a while to get into it—that I’ve been on a modern kick for quite some time now, that I’m not Irish Catholic, that the structure and style of the story don’t really reward an adult reader till the fifth section, in my opinion. As a wannabe writer there are certain sections towards the end that make me say, “Yes, yes, exactly!” But otherwise I was sort of bored by my wading through it. 5.7 on the recommendation scale.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
I went back to the other Kundera book I’d read as a sort of comparison. Though similarly structured and similar in style, Lightness holds up much more than its Kunderian brother. Why? Kundera gives us much more time with the characters, dotes on them, attempts to explain them and their problems, that by the end we understand the philosophical point while feeling empathy for the characters. This is simply not the case with Laughter and Forgetting, where characters don’t really exist beyond the points Kundera is trying to make. 8.7 on the recommendation scale.

Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov
There are certain writers who, beyond meaning or subject matter, are flat-out style masters. For me, personally, Rushdie falls in this category. Arundhati Roy. Jonothan Safran Foer. And Vladimir Nabokov, whose wit and playfulness astounds me every time I read him. His puns, his gigantic, precise vocabulary, most everything he uses fits perfectly—and English was his third language! This I find amazing, that he wrote his books in English despite knowing Russian and French first. Pale Fire is the concocted edited version of an epic poem by a fictional poet, and the edited notes take on a story far greater than the 999-line poem. Nabokov doesn’t necessarily hit your heart with each book, but in terms of style and enjoyment, he’s certainly a master. 9.4 on the recommendation scale.

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
This is only the second Murakami book I’ve read, after the tight and totally engaging Norwegian Wood. I’ll says this about Kafka, it is as equally engaging, something you don’t want to put down because you want to know how its bizarre events are combined. The ending effects were disappointing to me, though—why go out of your way to make fantastical events seem real, or weave suspense into the reader, if you’re not going to fulfill their expectations at the end? Murakami gets really wrapped up in his metaphors, and his introduction of talking cats and time-traveling and mysterious phenomena—while fanciful and initially enjoyable—falls flat when their use is random. I’m still going to give the Windup Bird Chronicle a go. 4.3 on the recommendation scale.

If On a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino
Unfinished as of now, but can't imagine the last fifty pages bringing it below an 8. Very heady.

On Age

2006-10-13T16:21:00.000+03:00

The whole last year I was in Austin, a recently graduated mess of a 22 year-old, I was positive I was in fact 23. Maybe this has to do with the fact that most people graduate at 23, or turn 23 shortly thereafter, but I graduated and then turned 22. But whenever anyone asked me my age, I had to hesitate: I felt 23.

Of course I came here, an older mess of a 22 year-old, and turned 23 a couple of weeks later. Only now I feel like I’m 22 all the time. To this I have only one word to say: TARNATION!

This conversion seems to have to do with the fact that I am once more the youngin at my place of work. Most teachers at the school fall in the range of 25 to 27. Which isn’t a huge difference. But it’s a difference. I was flirting with this British woman named Sara last week when it sort of came down to the fact that she was 27 and gorgeous and I was, after all, 23. Not in words so much, just in any potential seriousness in the situation.

It’s something I’ve been used to my whole life, as a younger brother: I was Luigi to my brother’s Mario, Tails to his Sonic, Earl to his Toe Jam. And every job I worked at shoe stores, bakeries, etc., I always found myself as the youngest, which I’ve found I play both in my advantage and hide in its comfort. The youngest is always the darling, always precious, give lots of leeway, but never taken seriously.

It’s a little bit frustrating here, since I sort of came to have this new, adult life (Or did I come to put off adulthood? Um, shit.) and I wish I wasn’t firmly entrenched on the young side of the line. But such is life. It’s not like they’re pinching my cheeks or anything. That’s the funny thing about experience—you don’t want to believe that you need it till you have it. Then you understand.

Canadian Thanksgiving

2006-10-12T22:54:00.000+03:00

So I live with two affable and mild-mannered Canadians, Tom and Emily. They keep low on the weekends and we share the grocery bill and cook together sometimes so yeah, things are pretty casual and hunky-dory between us.

So, generous people that they are, the two Canucks invited me to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with them this Monday. I readily agree—someone else cooking your food is not something you should frequently, if ever, turn down. “So, does Canadian Thanksgiving have a special name or something?” I ask.

“Yeah,” says Tom from Toronto. “It’s just called Thanksgiving.

Oh. Right. Whatever. We have potatoes and steamed broccoli and a roasted chicken picked up from the store. Also some wine and dessert. A good time is had by all. “It’s weird that you have chicken for Thanksgiving,” I comment and pat my sated belly.

“We usually have turkey too. We’re not that backwards,” says Emily of Alberta.

Oh. Right. Whatever. It wasn’t an ornate affair, nothing lavish was whipped up, but it was nice to sit down and have a good, relaxing, and tasty meal. And it was ridiculously easy to make, too. Hopefully—once we get more acclimatized to our schedules—we’ll be able to do this more often, and not just on made-up Canadian holidays.

I speak maroon

2006-10-12T22:53:00.000+03:00

I went to a little dinner party the other night hosted by two vegetarians. The menu was simple and successful: salad, rice, couscous with cherry tomatoes (which I was expressly asked to bring), vegetable curry, and a delicious coconut pie. Some wine, as these soirees necessitate.

And while the food was sumptuous and the company swell, what made the night truly memorable was one of the host’s revelations about herself.

First, a little background information about Jessica: she’s 27 and hasn’t lived in the states since she graduated high school. She’s the coordinator for TEFL classes at the Caledonian School, picks up languages like they were pennies on the street, and her personality is…flighty sounds way too negative, but she certainly is fluttery, and she isn’t so much spacey as operating at her own frequency. So much I thought before this revelation.

Jessica has synethesia, a condition in which one’s senses never fully separate (as other youngins’ do) and thus are connected in day-to-day life. For example: letters and words have colors. “It’s great because Julie’s name looks blue and purple and her voice is in that color too,” Jessica says of her roommate. Yes, she sees voices too.

Some words have tastes. The word metro in Czech, for example, tastes exactly like steam in her mouth. To paint what a song looks like would take several walls. Certain people she can’t stand because of the way their voice looks. Everything she says amazes us. Naturally we have her go around the room and describe our names. Alissa is white and yellow, Luis is green. “Avimaan, oh you are so red. So red,” she says. “A’s are red and so are M’s, so, yeah, very red.”

We go back around for our voices. Julie’s voice is blue-purple rhombuses, which delight Jessica on a daily basis. Alissa, who speaks slowly, rolls out in thick yellow boxes. I speak in incredibly smooth, maroon ovals. This sounds good to me, a man of red, speaking in a stream of well-crafted maroon ovals, if only in this bizarre woman’s head.

The only other time I had encountered such a condition was in Allan Moore’s Top 10. She showed us some small paintings she had made of things she heard: a drum beat, two cases of a didgeridoo. We get so used to the way life works, oftentimes we don’t or can’t even think to realize to try and soak in all we can. Even in Prague, after a couple of months, you’ve seen enough ancient architecture or beautiful Czech girls that you don’t bother to let your breath be taken away. You needn’t waste your breath, perhaps. But learning about Jessica’s synesthesia, I’m wondering if I’m taking in as much as I can.

The Unbearable Itchiness of Being

2006-10-06T18:27:00.000+03:00

I pointed them out to Tom, my flatmate. “I haven’t even noticed any mosquitoes,” I said, running my fingers over my newly-bumped biceps. “But those suckers got me pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “Though maybe you’re just not used to European mosquitoes or something.” Tom’s an environmental scientist, so I believe him. Fucking European diseases—the bane of Native Americans past, the bane of native Americans present!

The next day I found I’ve been rocked several more times around my ankles. Ok. And the next day I’m bitten all over my calves and knees. Goddamn. But I still couldn’t grasp it…

Now, I’d like to think I’ve suffered through some diseases. In India when I saw six, I drank some unfiltered water and got dysentery. Unseemly pain continually passed through my system. And I’ve had my waves of flus and fevers, and when Coach Dixon had to pull pebbles out from the skin flaps of my scraped up knee, I didn’t flinch. So, yeah, I’d like to think I can put up with some pain.

But the bed bugs tested me. Oh yes.

Once I spent the night at a girl’s place (our first time together), and when I woke up at 5 A.M. she was gone. She was sleeping on the couch. Apparently she couldn’t take my snoring. Now regardless of how she should’ve/could’ve dealt with the problem, there was something absolutely defeating about my situation upon waking—I can’t control what I do in my sleep. If I snore, I snore. If I dream, I dream. If I kick, I kick. So be it.

This is what I wanted to say to the bed bugs—it isn’t fair. I am asleep, you cannot do things to me while I’m asleep, you can’t attack when I am defenseless. It is wrong. Naturally, it should be wrong.

They ate slowly into my sanity. I would wake up to find two new bites and would claw for hours at old bites or imagined new ones. I would twitch on the tram, thinking they had followed me on. I was helpless, and I was helplessly naïve to think maybe they would go away or that I could wash them away. Oh no.

The trouble originated in the mattress my landlady, Kveta, dug up from her basement supply to give to me. In retrospect, it must have been festering down there for several years at least. But they were there, waiting in that baby-shit-brown mattress, and once they were in the mattress it was only a short time till they were in the sheet, and from the sheet to the pillows, and from the pillows to the couch, and from all of these places to me…

Now I like Kveta, my landlady, a lot. She is very earnest and charming and a twinkling little old lady. But elderly incompetence is only endearing when it doesn’t affect your well-being: from being in Prague I’ve learned so much. “Ali, I think it is stress,” she tells me when I show her a few bites. “I have been to doctor and he says. I have same like you. I show you.” She shows me her horrifically scabbed shins. I don’t have such heinous scarring. I have fucking bed bugs. “I can give my medicine when you want.”

But we changed mattresses and we changed the sheets. For one night there was nothing. I thought I had them licked, those invisible bastards. But the next afternoon I spent five minutes napping on my couch, face pressed against the green cushion. Ten minutes later I pass by a mirror and—

I’m not sure what’s better, having an Orion’s Belt of zits across my cheek or an Orion’s Belt of bed bug bites. Either way, I decide as I trudge off through the first nasty tentacle of Prague’s winter, I have hit rock bottom.

Drastic measures are taken. After waking Kveta and showing her the excess of bites, she finally believes me. We throw out the couch. We throw out the rug. The next day we tossed the bed as well. “I think is allergy,” Kveta told me again. “But we will see. I have another flat, but you will be alone. I think is better, if you are not alone, yes? Do you understand?”

I don’t particularly want to live alone. I liked this room, I really did. For a little while later we would play the game of wait and see (which I’d already been playing for too, too long). And though the bugs may have been eradicated their itches stay with me, beyond the reach of an anti-histamine’s help, and I can’t help but realize that this, this, is the unbearable itchiness of being.

Memoir Villanelle to a Wallet

2006-10-01T15:54:00.000+03:00

How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?
You’ve opened economy’s gate for ten hefty years
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

Through winters and summers, through springs and falls
Holding cash for the Times or Rushdie, creamless coffee, so many beers
How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?

Bought by my grandmother in one of Cincinnati’s malls
You survived the washer’s cycle, my fat ass, the pickpockets’ leers
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

You were always ready for weekly ATM installs
The additions of credit cards, coins, receipts, bits of cheer
How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?

My grandmother knew what thoughts hemp recalls
The sturdy nature that surpassed your fibrous peers
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

Your back is ripped and tattered, your frame as weary as Saul’s
You’ve been through my nostalgia, an extra sense after eyes and ears
How many worthy notes have lined your pocket walls?
And now, now you are mute when the waiter calls.

After ten years of its ever-withering, charmed life, I finally put my wallet to rest. It was too bulky here in the Czech Republic, where oftentimes you have to carry your wallet in your front pocket lest it be stolen. It was a thirteenth birthday present, and I snickered then because my grandmother bought me a hemp wallet (and she knew what hemp was!).

But it served me faithfully, and like a good pair of shoes you never think about a good wallet—it does its job so well it incorporates into your very life, your being. So, my old, now departed friend, I hope this villanelle does you some justice. I’d feel hard up if it didn’t.

How I Know I've Made It

2006-09-29T12:58:00.000+03:00

If you Googled, say, “Avimann Syam,” they would ask you if you didn’t in fact mean “Avimaan Syam.” Yes, apparently I’m so important to the Google Empire that the world at-large must be able to access websites about me at all misspelt costs.

It’s irrelevant how I found this information out. Suffice to say, I now have proof that I’ve made it. I’d like to thank Google, my parents, and the Academy.

If You Want it to Be

2006-09-27T13:16:00.000+03:00

On Saturday I saturated myself in the intellectual offerings of the city. After spending the mourning preparing and sending off my recommendation forms for grad school applications, I visited the touring World Press Photo exhibit. The pictures were emotionally impacting to say the least—extended, painful documentation of Katrina, the earthquake in Kashmir, tsunami aftermath, African genocide, Lord, it was enough catharsis to last me a lifetime. If you just look at what’s wrong in this world…that’s where the John Hartford philosophy comes in. Yeah, life is extremely complicated. But it’s also really simple. Sometimes you need to channel yourself in different ways.

As I am writing a novel based on photos and rolls of film, I was interested in how and when documentation occurs. This is what I think is so interesting about photogs—they are putting their lives on the lines to be conduits of information. Can you imagine a photography exhibit all about photographers, cameras, flash meters, etc.? Now that would be bizarre.

To complete my double-dip into Prague’s cultural parlor, my roommate Tom and I went to the Prague Symphony’s live score to Charlie Chaplin’s “City Lights.” I had never seen a full-length Chaplin movie, and I must say it was an amazing experience. The boxing scene is reason alone to see “City Lights,” and the ending was truly, truly beautiful.

Perhaps this dichotomy exists in all nooks of this world, proving the Hartford dichotomy, but is made all the more poignant in Prague—Friday night my school had an open bar for all the teachers, starting at five; on Saturday I soaked up all my mind could take. Both are there for us all the time, the bottle of booze or the book. And what’s the solution? What? I think I have it—put your hands together! Allllllllllllright.

My Landlady

2006-09-24T15:20:00.000+03:00

Kveta knocks on my door. She wants me to tell Tom, my flatmate, that a man will be coming at an undeterminable time in the next two weeks to open his keyless closet. She says this in broken English before finishing with her trademark, “Do you understand?” eyes twinkling, half-smile of hope on her face.

I give her the thumbs up and nod my head a lot.

Ten minutes later Kveta knocks on my door again. She wants to know if I can move a small fridge for her. She has me scope it out, then says we should wait for Tom, but I insist I can do it and we stuff it into her son’s Volkswagen. Afterwards, Kveta tells me a lengthy story about how her first boarder was also a Texan and the best and nicest boy she ever met. “Do you understand?”

Thumbs up on this one. We Texans are good fellas, so much I know.

Ten minutes later Kveta knocks on my door again. She hands me a plate with a chocolate roll cake on it, a thanks for my heavy lifting.

Yes, Kveta, if you speak to my sweet tooth we will always understand each other.

Kveta (pronounced Kuh-vee-et-a) Benesova is my landlady, and one of the sweetest ladies you’ll ever meet. I would place her in her sixties: she’s not much more than five feet, she’s got strange sores on her shins, and one half of a gold tooth up in her gums. If we get right down to it she’s probably more Teletubby than human.

Landladying is not in her blood. Her father was the architect of the entire block I live on, predating the communists, but when the Soviets took over they threw him into jail for being an upstart intellectual, where he passed away. After the Velvet Revolution, the state gave the property back to his family, and hence back to Kveta. The bed I sleep on used to be her son’s, however many years ago, and the rest of the furniture is quaintly dated to years before I was born.

Strangely layered upon this is the fact that Kveta told my other roommate Emily and I that she works as a night nurse. If you own a block of property and you’re a grandmother and you’ve got weird sores on your legs, what on earth are you doing as a night nurse? “Do you understand?”

Sometimes you just smile and nod your head.

Kveta tells us she wants us to feel at home here. She does not just want us to be boarders, but really feel at home. But what does it mean to feel at home? Is it a comfy bed, a lover by your side, the security of friends and fathers and mothers next door? Is it just a key in your pocket? Maybe. I tend to think of it as something more mental and personal—feeling at home means you don’t feel the pressure to act for anyone. This is why “going home” sometimes doesn’t feel like home—we must perform for our parents, or their friends, or even our friends.

But with someone so disarming as Kveta, so naturally trusting and trusted, so old yet as hopeful as a toddler, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be able to feel at home. And hopefully, hopefully, you’ll understand.

The Alphabet of Little Misses

2006-09-20T11:50:00.000+03:00

Now I ain’t saying I’m homesick. Naw. The funny thing about moving to a Western city in Eastern Europe is that you get used to things so fast—having to carry everything in your front pockets, not using credit cards, not being able to read menus, Mohawks and dogs everywhere—that you don’t think twice about what routines they replaced. Still, there are certain items and activities that will pop into your head once a day or so, like a synapse cracking and releasing some indulgent memory into your mind, that stay with you. So, after a couple of months, here’s what I’ve been missing:

A—acting. I wish I had more creative outlets here (though it’s helping me be quite productive on my novel). Especially jealous of friends back home who are in The Storm. Austin is a very close second.
B—banjo. A casualty of the Traveling Light Doctrine.
C—coffee, like, real coffee. You can get all kinds of espressos, cappuccinos, Turkish/Algerian/Irish/iced concoctions, but there’s only a couple of places that offer the real deal. And they jack up the price. Same story if you want to buy it for your home.
D—driers. They just make sense.
E—electronics. In certain ways I’m glad I didn’t bring all the widgets I’ve accrued, that I can’t access all of the Internet every second of my life. On the other hand, I wish I could still turn the volume up on my speakers and rock out to Styx while I’m showering.
F—free water—ahh, the bane of Europe. Want some water? Sure, just give me a couple bucks.
G—graphic novels. Joe used to buy at least once a week, and I would devour them after he did. What on earth is happening to Y the Last Man?
H—heat. A Texas boy likes Texas weather, I guess.
I—intellectual conversation. I’m sure tons of this exists in Prague, but I’ve yet to sniff out much of it. The closest I got was 5 Caledonian teachers agreeing that Love in the Time of the Cholera was “the shit.” That’s not bad.
J—Joey. Sometimes a best friend and a roommate are hard to replace. Actually, they are always hard to replace. I miss you and the Coco LaFleur Suite, dawg.
K—Kinky and cowboy politics.
L—Longhorns, both burnt orange and of the animal variety.
M—Mom’s cooking. Oh, she’s good with the Indian stuff and the baking. What, I can’t have one sentimental one? Sheesh.
N—Nissan Sentra. I miss my old junker of a car, Keane-O, and being able to get exactly where I wanted. Public transportation in Prague is amazing, but the inability to get exactly from point A to point B gets to you after a while.
O—Outreach, the Winedale spinoff. I miss working with those kids.
P—peanut butter. Again, good ole PB qualifies in the you-can-get-it-if-you-pay-an-arm-and-a-leg category.
Q—Q-tips: when I found a jar of my new roommate’s, I actually whispered to myself, “This is going to be the greatest experience in my life.” And it was up there too.
R— running. If you go jogging on the streets here you’re stared at like you’re some kind of pariah. Running? On the streets? Must be an expat or a gypsy.
S—Shiner. Oh my sweet, sweet love, where are you now? Also, an obligatory shout-out to the Sunday Shakespeare Reading Group.
T—Texas, Texas, yeehaw!
U—undergarments, or the lack thereof. There’s nothing like an unfurnished basin to feel completely free, but it’s chilly here, especially come Winter, and you gotsta gotsta wear underwear. Heavy Sigh.
V—Verizon. Everything over here is text messaging because it’s much cheaper. Can’t I just make an irrational call to my friend for five minutes discussing former baseball player Delino DeShields or why John Hartford is my personal Jesus? Can’t I just drunk dial some chick without have to worry about getting reamed financially? Text Messaging is so 2003.
W—Winedale. Easiest one on the list.
X—as in bans, as in no smoking. Prague is a smoker’s town—pubs and bars have no ventilation, and after a while you’re just stewing in it.
Y—Y’all. Double meaning here: (1) the people who I’ve given this blog address to, and (2) the Texas twang, the actual word. Even the kids from the Midwest smirk at me for using this one, and it’s beyond a lost cause to the Czechs. But no other words makes sense to me.
Z—Zappa and all the other music I didn’t bring. Why didn’t I bring any jazz? Prague is a city for jazz.

Like I said, not homesick. Just yesterday it hit me that I’m living in Europe. Europe! Somehow this had escaped me. My writing’s going very well and my new flat is very, very comfy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get hankering for downing a PB&J with a Shiner while watching a show at Winedale. Far from it. Y’all take it easy now.

Slavia v Tottenham

2006-09-19T13:41:00.000+03:00

Last Thursday some friends from the Caledonian School and I took in the UEFA Cup match between Slavia Prague and Tottenham. As Steve, a large and shaggy Scotsman, explained, “This game is absolutely massive for them—this is the biggest game you’re going to see in Prague all year. Absolutely massive.” (It’s nice to know that people actually sound like video game commentators.)

Tottenham Hotspur (yes, named after the Shakespearean character) are from London, so not only was the game big because of its continental importance, it was important because it was bringing over a bunch of rich and loaded Brits to the city: the pound gets 40 crowns over here, which gets you two beers, so they have no problem spending their arses off.

The atmosphere was amazing, like no other sporting event I’ve ever experienced. We were sitting a section over from the Slavia ultras, their most ardent supporters. This is the group that stands the whole game, is all decked out in the team’s red and white colors, and generally initiate mayhem. Observe:

1. Cheering: I think the group had about ten different songs/cheers that they cycled through, all intricately layered between claps and songs. I’m not sure what they’re saying, but if the FCC expects me to keep this blog at a PG-13 level, I probably shouldn’t hazard any guesses. A teenager with a bullhorn led them throughout.
2. Toilet Paper: the commencement of the game means you should throw lots of toilet paper at the field. Makes sense to me.
3. Signs: There were all kinds of great banners for the Slavia Fans. My personal favorites include “Slavia Intellectuals,” “Slavia Girls,” and “Friends of Alcohol.” Isn’t it nice to know there’s somewhere that the drunks, a gender, and the academic elite can all meet and unite under one cause? Right on Slavia, right on.
4. Fires: And they start fires when they need to. This is when things got kind of crazy. During halftime they have these little kids playing a game on the field, and half the people are either pissing or buying more beer, and all of a sudden the cops start pouring onto the field. Now, when I mean cops, I mean jacked Czech dudes covered in SWAT gear just waiting for the chance to beat the shit out of some people. We started smelling something burning and about a hundred of these riot cops come out from nowhere, prepared to escort some firemen into the stands. For five minutes, it seemed like they were about to before, thank goodness (I suppose), they left. But as commentator Scotsman Steve put it, “I really think this stadium is a lawless land. I really do. I think they’re only preventing people from attacking the field and that’s it.” (Thanks for that input Steve, now back to the booth.)

But you look at some guy pissing against a tree while a cop ten feet away does nothing and you get Steve’s point. This place was wide open, and it was a good thing the Slavia ultras and the Tottenham supporters were on opposite sides of the pitch. There are no vendors roaming the stands, no one checking your tickets—the cops watch passively as people commit knick-knack crimes, waiting for them to do anything really wrong.

As for the game, it was alright—a bit of a drab affair, with the lone goal a smart strike from Jermaine Jenas in the 30th minute. Tottenham certainly deserved to win. It makes me wish that American sports could figure out how to introduce such originality to their games, instead of the canned, commercialized getups we often get. Oh well. There is a bar that gets NFL on Sundays, so I’m trying to layer my football (American and European) as best I can.

Flip-Flat

2006-09-14T11:24:00.000+03:00

After three weeks in my new flat I decided to move. Now, if you remember the ghosts of blog entries past, you will remember that I was also itching to get out of my last flat as well—that one was different though, one that was set up for me through the Caledonian School and so out of my parameters. This one I found.

It’s funny because you’d think that if you have the cash you’d get the flat you want here in Prague. Not so in the expat community. Almost every flat is sent through expats.cz and any room you’re looking at puts you up against 10 to 15 other flatseekers. Not exactly an enviable position. So when I found a room I pounced on it.

All the details about this flat are top-notch: insanely close to Wenceslas Square; huge room; a dryer; a balcony. I saw all this and went hook line and sinker for the room. It was a whopper.

But it never settled in me. Even though my room was gigantic I felt trapped in it—the biggest drawback to the room is that I had to go through either of my roommates’ rooms to get to mine, something that played havoc on my psyche in the mornings. I rise early, regardless of the time I went to sleep. These guys, my roommates, well…

There are several categories of people who come to teach English in Prague:

1. Lovers: They move for a long-term relationship, or they move to find a long-term relationship, or they move cause they’re looking to bang a lot of Czechs.
2. Retirees: explanatory, I feel, though a strange lot.
3. Twenty-Somethings: Gap year? Meaning of life? Anything, to anyone? We’re young and open to anything and maybe not ready for commitment.
4. Partiers: Why teach English in Prague? Um, cause you can get your ass fucked up for dirt cheap in Prague? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAmen.

So, guess which group my roommates fell into? Not one night passed without a joint and some brew-dogs. The kitchen was a nightmare, and they ate out so often as to never put anything more than a Mars bar in the refrigerator. One roommate, though 24 and a very smart guy, might be lucky to make it to 30 the way he goes at life: a pack-a-day man, beers, X sometimes, lots of booze—he wakes up everyday coughing and spluttering so hard you think a lung might fall out.

The bottom line is that these guys are cool but they like to party any chance they can. And they’re dirty (buying toilet paper fell directly on me, which is kind of messed up when you think about it—do they just not shit? I hate using the acronym, but my feelings are best summed up by WTF?). And I can’t do this in Prague. It’s SO, SO EASY to do nothing but get drunk every night in Prague. But that’s not why I came here.

Another new teacher, Tom, was living in a flat on the edge of Vinohrady that had a room. It’s nowhere near as nice as what I’ve got, but it’ll do, pig, it’ll do. Tom seems like exactly the roommate I need: mild-mannered, into chess and films and environmental science, interested in learning. It’ll be much more quiet if a little longer journey out there. My new landlady is so nice she baked apple strudels for her entire building. Holla.

In a certain way this whole minor fiasco marks all the scary things about moving to a place like Prague to teach English. How can you tell if someone is cool enough to live with in such a quick time? How can you tell if any of these people can be trusted? What are you doing here, and is that what you’re supposed to be doing?

Things will settle down. They have to. Or I, unfortunately, will explode.

Now Up

2006-09-07T10:21:00.000+03:00

September 1st brought the end of our TEFL course and we, we proud and tired Caledonian TEFLers, we were glad to be done. O me O my, this much for sure. It’s not so much stringent as it is an intense first month in the city, forcing your personal compass to be constantly rooted to the Northern Star of TEFL. To be done with the course was to be cut from the umbilical.

The end of the course dinner and drinking binge was a little lackluster—only three of us ventured out past twelve for various lame reasons. But we three, we celebrated. Oh yes. We toasted each other till we couldn’t be toastier. But it wasn’t till Monday, when I booked it out of Prague, that I begun to settle down.

Now let me say this about Prague: great city. Beautiful city. Cheap beer, millions of places to go, great public transportation, etc. But it is a major capitol. It is the big city. And you (or at least I) can only live that life for so long without getting out for a little while. This is where Cesky Krumlov comes in.

Cesky Krumlov is located in the southwest of the Czech Republic, and its main tourist draw is the second oldest and largest castle in the country. Its architecture predominantly harkens from centuries Renaissance and older—a nice little berg, for sure. But my friend David and I weren’t just looking for town, we were looking for country. We were looking for the nature.

Funny thing about Czechs speaking English: when they want to say they went out to their cottages in the country, or went mushroom picking (which is huge—HUGE—here), or went biking, they say they went “in the nature.” It sounds funny at first, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. What’d you do this weekend? Oh, you know, went out in the nature, relaxed, chilled, swam. No biggie. Think I’ll go out to the nature next weekend too.

So that’s what David and I were looking to do—get out into some beautiful nature. We hiked ten kilometers the first day and about twenty the second, played chess in between. We start work next Monday so this is all the vacation we’ll have for a while. It was a good time for me to really think about WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING HERE. This is a sub sect of the quandary of WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING WITH MY LIFE. I feel like I’ve only got one really good friend here amongst a bunch of so-so friends. And I’ll tell you this much for sure—you think you can tell an American from a European, but you can’t. Oh no. No sir, no maam, you can’t. You’re in a language wasteland, blind to spot speakers of your tongue. Like I said, the TEFL course has required our undivided attention. It’s a month later and I’m only just wiping away the cobwebs.

So time and the future are sitting like big soft-boiled eggs in front of me. Hopefully I peel these suckas correctly, dig?

Very Kafkaesque

2006-08-27T17:34:00.000+03:00

I went to the Franz Kafka Museum today, located near the burgeoning tourist trap of the Charles Bridge. Outside the museum, oddly enough, is a fountain with two men replenishing the water with their genital watering cans.

I wasn’t expecting much from the place, especially considering it only cost 60 crowns (less than three bucks). But Yao-za, this place was a post modern playhouse erected to the literary giant of Prague. In a hall dedicated his book The Trial, part satire/part nightmare about the impossible tyranny of bureaucracy, one walks down a cramped hall of filing cabinets from head-to-toe, with several drawers pulled out to give information on the work. Incessant telephones ring in the distance, adding to the effect.

Even more captivating was an expressionistic video dedicated to The Castle. A projector played onto one screen, but mirrors encapsulated the viewer, so spindling lines extended into infinity. The video itself was designed to make you think about what you usually don’t see—we tend to focus on one image, or one set of patterns, and miss a great deal (or so the concept goes). The video played on this theme, having villages slowly melt into ominous fortresses, turning sunrays into storms. Words vanished in and out of my peripheral vision. And in the end these words flashed across the screen:

“You don’t live in the village.
You don’t live in the city.
You are nothing.
But unfortunately, you are something.”

Honestly, I was having a hard time keeping it together during the video, and I think anyone on psychedelics would have straight lost it. It was that intense.

I’ll leave you with this quotation from the museum, which I’ve been pondering since this afternoon:

Literature is at its most potent when it disjoints the powerful fictions that govern men’s lives. A powerful fiction is a discourse which time has converted into an unquestionable truth, whose fantastic origin has been forgotten.

Random Facts About the Czech Republic, Volume One:

2006-08-25T13:40:00.000+03:00

—Grocery stores expect you to bring your own plastic bags into the establishment to take away your goods.

—Rollerblades are still the shit over here.

—Foosball is the national pastime.

—The Czech language has seven different cases and, depending on word endings, a sentence can mean very different things. For example, the sentence “The hunter killed the bear” can be changed in meaning to “The hunter was killed by the bear” by only changing the last letters in the words bear and hunter (word order intact).

—Lots of cammo.

—There’s a sizeable Vietnamese minority from the days when communist countries traded peasants like Donruss baseball cards.

—The Czechs don’t believe in dryers. You will not find a single flat equipped with one.

—Czechs really do hate gypsies. Apparently I look like one.

—Although pitchers are nice, there exist “giraffes” here, a contraption shaped like a bong that contains 4 liters of beer.

—Socks and sandals, socks and sandals, why on earth would you ever wear socks and sandals? I cannot think of many greater social taboos in the States than socks and sandals. My friend Zach once gave a speech in Academic Decathlon about the subversive effects of such a combination.

—Everyone owns a dog and all the dogs are incredibly obedient—they take them on trains, trams, and buses, they muzzle them, they let them walk around without a leash. The only unruly dog I’ve met was an American’s.

—More weirdness to follow…

“Wanna Watch Scary Movie 3?” Or the Paradox of Compassion

2006-08-25T13:36:00.000+03:00

My two current flatmates are 31-year-old Americans whom moved across the pond to be closer to their girlfriends. This, in and of itself I think, sounds alternatively ludicrous and hopelessly romantic. Tom says that all his old co-workers cooed their little brains out over the lengths he went to be near Tanya, in Dresden, by moving to Prague to teach English.

Tom and Tanya, for all Tom’s craziness and inability to shut up, are a great couple. You can see the way they fold into each other, wrapping themselves in the blankets of each other’s loquacious natures. Though drastic, Tom made the right decision cutting off 8 hours of his travel time to see “the love of his life.”

Paul is his antithesis.

You can see the wobble in his house of cards by the weakly formed lattices I present: he’s 31 and Taiwanese, his girlfriend 20 and Dutch; they met in a chatroom; they’ve seen each other only once in person, for a period of two weeks. It should come to little surprise that Paul got the hatchet soon thereafter moving to Prague. This, unfortunately, beset total devastation on flatmate Paul, compounded by the fact that Paul is struggling in the TEFL course.

Now I like Paul. Paul is more or less a nice guy, a guy who certainly didn’t deserve the IM dumping he received. Having been there before, I more than sympathize with the dude. But the problem that follows for me is this: Where do you draw the line for compassion?

Because although I like Paul, I receive no stimulation from being around him—intellectually, conversationally, entertainment, etc. We have almost nothing in common, and if coincidence had not struck as flatmates, we would never have struck up much of any relationship, but we bummed around town a couple times together and eventually I became his most sound source in the city.

Now before I sound like a selfish asshole, let me line up my defense, please, give me so much—I wish the best for Paul. I’ve gone on hour-long walks to help him sort his head on the matter. I feel for him, I really do. But the fact of the matter is, I don’t really want to spend time with him.

The evidence against: Last Saturday Paul had two friends he had met the previous year visit him from Brno (the Czech Republic’s second biggest city). After his shower he put on a bathing suit (which he sleeps in), and suggested that his friends watch a movie with him. His first two suggestions were the Chronicles of Narnia and Scary Movie 3. Not exactly Czech chick flicks.

Afterwards he bragged, actually bragged to Tom and I, “It was pretty sweet that I slept with two Czech girls this weekend.”

Tom was having nothing of it. “But you didn’t do anything did you? With either of them?”

“No. But it was still pretty sweet!” Yeah, welcome to 8th grade, Paul, good luck copping a feel. He’ll also talk haltingly through a chunk of exposition than stare at me expectantly, or say, “What do you think of that?” He’s kind of like the puppy that starts following you home from school, except not a puppy, and not particularly cute otherwise, and he won’t bark when you ask him. And also he’s a particularly flatulent dog (Ok, Paul is not flatulent).

Oh, and: chews with his mouth open; slightly racist; doesn’t like hippies.

Look, suffice to say, Paul and I ain’t best buds. We cannot pass the time yakking about sports or books or movies or or or or etc—and now he’s suggesting we take a trip to Vienna. A 5 hour train ride back and forth with Mr. Chen, the inability to go to a bar with a guy who doesn’t drink, offering him a backboard to hit against yet receiving nothing…no thanks. But I feel compassion for him in his time of need. But what, WHAT, do you do when you want to help someone but don’t enjoy their company? How do you buoy their flagging feelings, or do you let them sink into an abyss of depression? Where do you draw the line between someone else’s interests and your own?

I’m not sure how many people I’ve even given access to this blog, but if ye have a suggestion, feel free to drop a comment in the box, ye mateys.

Up on the Hill Where They Do the Boogie

2006-08-21T16:16:00.000+03:00

In case y'all were wondering if I brought my dancing shoes to Prague...

Hook A Right After the Soviet Box Factory

2006-08-19T12:03:00.000+03:00

An hour before sunset I walked a mile West from Velka Ohrada (my apartment complex into an amazing valley covered in a forest far more homogenous than this here halfbreed—trees dipped, dripped, thistled, wavered, needled, swayed. The valley dipped down two hundred yards then back up three hundred on the other side from me, and a picturesque country home was nestled below.
And this was less than a mile from the industrial Soviet complex that I and thousands of other people live in—right outside of it! This is something Europeans understood long ago but we Americans, in our insatiable need to develop, lost—we kept pressing nature westward and away, into vacation spots hours from our homes.
Oh but this, this was something you’d expect John Muir to photograph in the Pacific Northwest, just right here! Add this to the cobblestone streets and wonderful public transportation and the fact that you can buy a beer in six different places on one block and you start to see why everyone falls in love with Prague.
It’s not all walks in the park so far, I still no so few people and only one person I’d really call a friend, but I’m getting there. I got to do as much as I can to soak up this great weather before winter comes and turns me into an Avcicle.

The Hits

2006-08-13T13:34:00.000+03:00

Last night I went out to a 80's and 90's video party discotheque. The music was predominantly American and British, and I feel that it's important to note that the song that brought the house down was Europe's "The Final Countdown." Second was the Beastie Boys.

I was out till 4 at this place, with some Czech friends I had met earlier in the day. And yes, the Czech women are beautiful. Barbara, you don't need that boyfriend in Frankfurt, O Barbara, I'll dance with you all night long, O Barbara, Barbara!

TEFL Tantrum

2006-08-09T21:09:00.000+03:00

We’re more or less in the same boat, we TEFL students, flinging ourselves dumbly into a city unknown. We gravitate towards each other because we simply have no one else to be with: we work together eight hours a day and congregate in our fee time together. We open up wholly to each other, hoping that the similarity in the pumping of our hearts is a good basis of friendship. This is when people found out about the open flat in Paul and I’s flat.

John and Paul lived together in Hotel Dum (pronounced Doom). John and Paul both disliked Hotel Dum. Both John and Paul wanted to move into Flat Paul and Avimaan.

Well well well. Tom first. Tom is a former waiter from Columbus who moved to Prague to be close to his fiancée, Tanya, who lives in Dresden. Blonde, goateed, a laid back guy. A good man on all accounts, and someone you’d definitely want as a roommate (You can see where this is going…).
To John: the youngest in our class and a college debater from Indiana. And you can tell. Smugness and sweat seep out of his pasty pores. The sarcasm that the rest of us shed in our late teens is a second skin for him. Upon hearing of our empty room, Indiana John says so much to me: “You might not want me there, but you don’t have a choice. I’m going to force my way in there, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He’s joking, sure. Kinda. Half-joking. Half-he’s-like-this-all-the-damned-time. You want to feel sorry for him till you speak to him again.
John further exasperates the situation by “calling” the room before Tom, slotting himself into our extra room as if it was Shotgun in a car.

This does not sit well with Paul, who is old enough (31) to be done with dealing with juvenile bullshit. “I do not want that guy in here,” he tells me in his halting tongue. “That would not be very good. That would suck a lot.” Ever the man of initiative, Paul pulls his power play and asks Tom to move into our flat. He’s more than down. Paul’s more than down. I, too, am more than down, but state my ambivalence towards Tom and my disappointment at the pain John will potentially feel. I’ve watched enough Sopranos to know how much to say.
And with the exchanging of spare keys, Tom is installed in our chateau in Nove Butovice. “Tommy, where were you all night?” John asks gleefully the next morning. “Long night out?”
“I got invited to move into Paul and Avi’s,” he says.
Arched eyebrows and a “Cool, cool” are all we get from the normally loquacious John. And yeah, it’s nice to hear him shut up even for a second, and I would have gone batty living with him. And he’s going to have to fall, and fall hard. It might surprise people who have known me a long while, but at work and with these strangers I’m praised for being ever calm, unflappable, and very easy to get along with. And item number one for getting along with people is being receptive to their ideas, feelings, and requests. And John’s going to have to learn that by the rest of the class collectively dissing him. Which sucks. But damn it, sometimes that boy needs to shut his fool mouth.

Touchdown

2006-08-07T21:55:00.000+03:00

Hansi navigated the yellow school bus (decorated with Little Nessie the dinosaur on its sides) through the complex towards my flat for the next month. “You’re flat is just ahead,” he said.
To call this apartment complex industrial would do it no justice, oh no—this complex was a product of the Steel Curtain, designed to house thousands of Czechs in these boxes. It is a giant square comprised of many smaller squares, housing several thousand people at least. This, I thought, this is my home?
After a disorienting first day, however, things have become much clearer. Yes, I do live in a mammoth apartment complex, but the bus stops 100 yards away, and the bus takes me straight to the metro station, and the metro takes me where I need to go. So: the public transportation system is really superb and easy to navigate, and as long as you don’t mind walking you cover everywhere in central Prague in a day. I have been all over—up high, down low, but never too slow, oh no, not when there’s so much to take in.
To the stereotypes of Prague. Yes, the architecture is astounding, on almost every street, the city was a middle aged mother when America was a bratty infant. It shows, it does. Yes, the beer is cheap, a buck at most, and very good. No, you don’t need to know Czech to get around, but telling them ‘Hello’ in their native tongue does a world of good.
We started teaching today, and despite stopping absurdly early my instructor said I did well. The students I have are Pre-Intermediate, which means they’ve had about a year of the language. The emphasis on our language teaching is to have them do as much as possible: speaking, reading, writing, etc., because when the teacher talks the student doesn’t. Simple enough.
My class is a fairly mixed bag of Americans and one Canadian. My one flatmate is Paul, a 31-year-old Taiwanese guy who used to teach in the Bronx. He’s particular but easy to get along with. He has a lady he loves in the Netherlands, much like Tom, 31 and in love with a lady in Dresden. A very laid-back hombre, he is. Most of the class is over 30 actually, oddly, the average age around 32, I’d say. The youngest guy is like Jerry Fugit at his most annoying (for those of you who know Jerry, and out of no disrespect to him—nothing but love, Jer.) There’s one other guy in the class, David, who seems to be similar to me in terms of interests and where he is in his life, which is nice—I had found it strange otherwise to be befriending people at other stations in their lives. Far be it from me to demand conformity or people like me, it was just surprising to be so unlike even most of my fellow teachers.
So do not worry for me (even you, Mom). I may not have seen the sun yet in this city but I’m still loving it. A leap of faith means you expect someone will be there to catch you or that you’ll grow wings and fly off. I’m not there yet, but I’m flapping. Oh yes. I am one flap-happy guy.

Prophetic Endings to Texas

2006-07-29T18:53:00.000+03:00

1. Leaving Winedale: After many heartfelt goodbyes, the Syam family has to return to the parking grounds to find my father’s missing cell phone. Afterwards, I take a piss behind our van, only to be caught in the security guard’s headlights. After scurrying back into the car, I realize that my last contribution to Winedale is urine.

2. Leaving the Buis' house: As I pull my keys out of my pocket the bottle opener keychain falls off after two years of trusty service. Joey later interpreted this as a sign I might give up drinking but hell, I ain’t no teetotaler. I’m not sure what it’s a sign for, but it’s a sign, no doubt.

3. This Week in Houston: If there were ever a deterrant for living in Texas, it’s Houston. Houston really is the anti-Austin, as much as I hadn’t believed it before. They are making the highway 6 lanes both ways throughout the city. SIX! That is, for you liberal arts majors out there, twelve lanes across—not even Marlon Brando’s beltline was so big. And since I’ve been here it’s either Cost-Co, or Best Buy, or REI, or some other chain store to visit and drive me batty. I need my city to have some personality, something Houston’s sorely lacking.

4. Leaving Friends: I prefer to think of it as prolonged absence. Then disappearance. Then wistful recollection supplemented with lighthearted mockery. Who are we kidding, though? I’ve been gone for a long time.

Formation

2006-07-19T08:15:00.000+03:00

There are two types of books that can be described as formative. The first gifts new impressions on its reader: new ideas, new concepts, new modes of storytelling, etc. For me as a writer, these books often equate to a thought something like “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Formative Books of the First Kind for Avimaan:

1. The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
2. Everything is Illuminated, Jonathon Safran Foer
3. The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie
4. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

But it’s the second kind of formative that really makes books, novels, literature, creation, life itself special. These are the works that don’t give you impressions but impress upon you. They are rare indeed, these rattlers, these stories that change the way you perceive yourself or others. Last week I was blessed enough to have been so impressed by a graphic novel, It’s A Bird.

Now, It’s A Bird is an experimentally genius graphic novel. It imagines art and the page of a comic as few have before. But that’s formative in the first. Upon reading It’s A Bird a second time though, the arc of the main character, a writer offered but against the job of writing the Superman comic, who struggles with disease and death in his family, really affected me.
It hit home personally because of the way the writer failed in his interactions with others: his pride, his silence, his refusal to cope through others. Maybe it’s because I’m at a sort of crossroads in my life, but rereading the graphic novel, I kept thinking, This is me. These are my faults. The way he managed to cope with his problems spelled out to me what I should be doing with my own, and why my own actions were stupid and selfish.

Sometimes we get lucky, and a piece of art challenges our concept of who we are, personally. This is the second kind of formative.

The Double-Edged Sword Exists in a Round Ball

2006-06-26T22:08:00.000+03:00

At this point I've watched, say, seventy-five percent of the World Cup. Which is awesome from a soccer perspective, clearly, and I've gotten to listen to a lot of Spanish commentary, which is far superior to their American counterparts. As for work, well...

I had a good schedule going in the mornings. That's when I wrote. Since the Cup, however, that time is given up to soccer. And while I have many hours to many days to write, what's the more surprising is the welling up of ideas. When things are going well you dredam of your characters, you think of your stories all the time. Lately I've been thinking about soccer and how I should be writing. This is not so good.

So. World Cup=good. What the World Cup does to you=not so good.

The Price of Books

2006-06-04T00:56:00.000+03:00

I spent the better part of this morning and afternoon cleaning and clearing: selecting clothes to be sold to Buffalo Exchange; selecting clothes to be donated to Goodwill; selecting books that I no longer needed to live with.

This last job was relatively painless because I created a simple criteria--if I knew I would never read a book again, it was gone. This led to some darn good books leaving the fold (most notably Mailer's Executioner's Song), but it felt right, good.

I took the 15 or so books to Half-Price, having never sold there before so not knowing how much to expect. The sum total for Mailer, Rushdie, Eco, Mark Bowden, and others: Eight dollars.

Yaoza. Yaoza. How much had they cost me? How much could I get on eBay? Why don't I use libraries?

In the end I took their offer, and used it to buy Ben Marcus' Notable American Women and Robert Coover's The Universal Baseball Association Inc. Such is my cycle.

Induction

2006-05-21T02:49:00.000+03:00

Reasons for starting this blog: To chronicle my thoughts over my impending travels and perhaps create some sort of cyber-linkage to you, and you, (etc.). To try out pieces of writing I'll be creating. To give this whole blog thing a whirl.

Where I'm calling from: Austin, TX

Where I'm soon to be calling from: Prague, Czech Republic

Why I'm leaving: Before you are reborn, you must die. So I'm killing off large chunks of my past in order to grow. Simple enough. Also, Prague kicks ass. Two in one, yeah?

What will happen: I will write and write and write: pens filled with grey ink will run their course and pass away in the loving care of my left hand. I will fly in planes and feel mildly sick. I will teach. I will drink. I will walk around at times and wonder what it's all about. and I figure I'll grin a lot, many times ironically, or in a bittersweet fashion. Maybe I'll luck into some things. Maybe I won't. And you--you'll look at the computer screen, read my contents, squint your eyes in imagination and maybe, just maybe, you'll see where I'm calling from.