Radek's blog

charles bridgeThough NYU is pretty limiting when it comes to the choice for study abroad, I am very happy with my decision to study in Prague. At first, I was debating between Paris and Prague and chose the latter because of classes. When I arrived here, I discovered my classes were canceled and was pretty upset about it because it made me second-guess my decision to study in Prague. Clearly, I gave it some time and really grew to like the people on my program.
I liked learning about Kafka’s life in Prague. I’m not a philosophy major but I did take a class on him this semester and knowing him simplifies the understanding of his works. Some of the most rewarding aspects of this experience were my trips outside of the Czech Republic. Cairo was hands down the most educational, culturally enlightening experience I have had.
It’s funny because prior to coming to Prague, even when I had been home in Chicago for a month, I was not missing New York. Now, I am craving it. I miss that city and everything it has to offer so much and didn’t realize this until I was gone. I’m sure the same feeling will come into fruition about Prague in the months to come.

Overall, I have mixed feeling about the course. I liked the diversity of assignments but often wanted more “open topics” than specified ones. I feel like I had many experiences that were not conducive to talking about considering each assignment.
I think the amount of work was appropriate, however, since this is a blogging class minus the classroom, I sometimes would forget to blog. It would have been helpful to have maybe a monthly email reminder to the class just saying, hey these blogs are do on this date and that.
I think my favorite topic was the departure/arrival posts. In hindsight, it is interesting to look at the class’s expectations of the places they are studying in comparison to their thoughts now.

helpful tipsThings to be weary of in Prague:
• If you are studying in the spring, the weather is rainy and cold until the end of march
• Avoid getting into tiffs with Czech bouncers (I have witnessed numerous fights ending in black eyes and bloody noses)
• Try not to venture in Wenslecas Square at night (unless its for sausage). Hookers will follow you and shady old men will try and usher you into strip joints.
• Yoga is awful here. The one Bykram class I took was more about survival than exercise.
• Don’t try and ride the subway for free. Both times I attempted this, I was fined 700crowns (35USD). Not worth it.
• Though I have made an effort, Czechs are rather stand-offish
Things to be excited about:
• The nightlife is great
• The classes are…a joke. Literally. One of my finals is a two paged double spaced essay on the subject of “arrest” (it’s a Kafka thing).
• The city is beautiful, especially when the weather is great
• Try and live in Slezka—it’s definitely the nicest dorm
Things to Czech out:
• Marksmen island—here there is a great Italian/French restaurant and during the day, you can rent paddle boats
• The local beer garden, Riegrovy sady is next to Slezka and you can enjoy a 25Kr (1.25USD) famous Czech Gambrinus and challenge some local Czechs to a game of foosball. On a night with nice weather, you may just want to stay here as the open half-acre of benches and beer make for a very social, friendly setting.
• Definitely go to the quieter, more intimate setting at café Sudicka, a wine bar/restaurant that has quasi-quality glasses of Moravian Czech wine for 20Kr (1USD).
• Lavka, a smaller, less ear-blasting nightclub than its five-story neighbor, Karlovy Lazne is my favorite club. Stride into Lavka like you own the place; be sure not to speak English and the bouncers will most likely not charge you the 100Kr (5USD) entrance fee. Once inside, either go downstairs to get a 30 Kr (1.50USD) beer and dance to the retro hip-hop remixes with a packed room of Czechs and foreigners alike, or talk it up outside where a more chill, less packed atmosphere of the same crowd views the Vltava river and Charles bridge while sitting at circular wooden tables and chairs on the large, narrow patio.

My hometown, ChicagoDe Botton’s chapter “On Habit” got me thinking about my hometown of Chicago. I’ve lived there my whole life and clearly fall under De Botton’s category of usualness—that I have become so accustomed to Chicago I am rarely amused. Though the same is not true for New York (I always seemed thrilled and adventurous here), it is for Prague. Perhaps certain cities people live in can remain impressive where as others don't. My sister, for example, has lived in London for the past five years and still loves it, finding new places to hang out and is constantly excited by her residential neighborhood. But I have lived in Prague for a fraction of this time and I do not share this excitement. The initial flame has gone down. When I walk into Old Town Square, I am still moved by the aesthetic beauty, but it’s a different feeling than what I had previously experienced. I used to just stand for 10 minutes at a time, floored at how cool the Church of our Lady Tyn was, but now I walk past it in a hurry to avoid the seemingly Time Square crowd. This is not to say that Prague becomes un-impressive over time, but I have reached a point of subconsciously submitting myself to not look at it as a new place because I am used to it. It’s important, as De Botton points out “to notice what we have already seen” because if we don’t, we become bored and ill thrilled in the place we reside. Though De Botton just states this truth that Xavier de Maistre emphasizes, the idea seems forceful. How do you make yourself excited by a place when interest becomes peripheral? To make or force this upon yourself seems a difficult task. Arrival for me is the essence of excitement. The first time you see a place is arguably the best. But how do you reignite that interest when you’ve seen something so many times?

Cafe room of Dobra It’s annoying that I found my favorite place in Prague a month before I’m leaving. Around the corner of my dorm, there is a tiny unnoticeable sign outside of a shop that sells what looks like to be useless trinkets. The sign reads “Dobra Trafika”. Intrigued for some reason, I decided to walk inside. There I found teas, magazines, cigars and other things you would find in a convenient store (minus the tea), but what struck me was the interior. Everything seems so deliberately placed. The walls are dark read, the teas are held in little glass cases and in the back there is a cozy space where nice (which is unusual) waiters greet you with a menu. The room is small, about 5 tables and a couch. But it is the perfect place to go to chat, play board games, or do work. The menu is the best part, especially if you are a tea or coffee aficionado. There are over one hundred coffees and teas from around the world. I’ve now tried pretty much all of the green teas and my favorite is ‘vanilka sencha’ or vanilla green tea. Usually I’m one to douse my tea in honey and sugar but this tea is extroadinary and doesn’t require it. And for 44 crowns (2.20USD), I get it a lot. They also have this breakfast plate that is a thin layer of him followed by a thin layer of cheese (almost carpaccio thin by the way) and then topped with two fried eggs. And that’s 47 crowns (2.35USD). One night, I went to Dobra with a few friends. It was four of us sitting at the table with the couch and at another table were three Czechs, two young and one elder woman. They were drunk, got up and started dancing. Suddenly, the young girl came over to our table and asked my friend, Mark is he would waltz with her. Mark agreed and we laughed as we soberly watched Mark and this drunk girl dance to music that wasn’t there. Sometimes Dobra is live and at other moments it is empty. Either way, the atmosphere is so homey (I’m aware that word is overused but I cannot seem to think of a better one) that it’s difficult to deal with the 11:00P.M. closing time.

Kafka, in Berlin a few months before his deathIt’s interesting that Kafka is so associated with Prague, when in reality Kafka didn’t really enjoy living here that much. In fact, the “happiest” Kafka ever was when at the very end of his life when he moved to Berlin for a few months prior to dying an early death. In “Letter to my father”, Kafka writes a letter to his father explaining his grievances about how he was reared as a child. The discussion of religion comes about throughout the text, but one in particular instance Kafka laments that it was his father who hindered his practice of Judaism. When people talk about the Jewish quarter in Prague, Kafka is often included in that situation—the old/new synagogue prides itself on having Kafka be a visitor. Kafka grew up right in Old Town Square around the corner from St. Nicholas Church where hundreds of years ago, public hangings occurred. As a child, when Kafka was complaining one night for nothing but attention (he was about four years old), his father put him outside of the apartment for hours. Kafka claims that it was this rearing that led him to hate his father. Prague was kind of a “home-base” for Kafka. Since his relationship with his family wasn’t good and he lived with his parents almost his entire life, getting out of the country was a heavy weight lifted. Another issue in Kafka’s life that he writes is the relationship he has with women. He fell seriously for two, but could never commit for what I believe to be selfish reasons—that he didn’t want to interrupt the work of his writing (which at the time he felt was crap) and that a commitment so strong was bound to break. Learning about Kafka’s history do make his works easier to understand. For some reason, it always seems easier to understanding something complex when we know the person who created the complexity. But the downside to this is that I know dislike Kafka. The tribulations he expresses to his father seem like something a bratty kid would say if he couldn’t get more ice cream—that and the letter is 90 pages. Clearly, Prague would not be the same without Kafka, but I doubt the reverse is true.

Some of the most interesting people I have met in the Czech Republic have been my RA’s. Martin, 21, is from the Czech Republic about an hour outside of Prague. Once, he was telling a group of people who live in Slezka (my dorm) that on Easter, it is a tradition in most towns outside of Prague to beat women with a small stick so that they become more fertile. We were laughing in disbelief. Martin continued, telling us that the women subjected to this Easter beating (they don’t actually hurt the women-or at least I don’t think they do) are allowed to douse the men who taunt them in water. But only before 12 p.m. After that, “it’s best to just stay in doors,” Martin says. For my roommate’s birthday, Martin made Alex homemade schnapps. According to Martin, this is common of Czechs even nowadays because alcohol was limited during the communist regime. At 5’10”, and that’s pushing it, Martin is rather scrawny compared to most Czech males. I can’t see him being a bouncer and frisking people at Karlovy Lazne, a popular nightclub. Recently, he just passed his medical exam to become a doctor after failing it the first time. Most people refer to Martin as a “space cadet” which makes complete sense because even when people ask him questions, only half the time does he respond the first time. Lenka, another RA, and I made marina sauce last week but failed to understand that a little bit of tomato pesto goes a long way. After using a whole can, Lenka and I attempted to make the sauce a little less tomato-ee, but I assumed it failed. When I came back to the kitchen an hour later, she had eaten the entire pot. Lenka prefers speaking and writing English to Czech.

The Terezin Ghetto, 1942The drive in to Terezin had a distinctly ominous feel. The fortress was even unnoticeable until we were driving next to it, but even 50 yards away Terezin was invisible. Built in the 18th century, Terezin was primarily used as a prison that held army offenders and people involved in the national liberation struggle in Central and South-eastern Europe. But after the Nazi occupation of the Czech lands in 1939, it was set up as a concentration camp. Terezin was more of a holding cell where over a five year period, tens of thousands of Jews and other innocent civilians of minorities passed through Terezin for a brief period before going to other camps like Auschwitz. Though this camp was not remotely as brutal as the ones prisoners were sent to after, being at Terezin had a much bigger effect on me actually being there than from what I had read in books. Considering the night before I was celebrating my 21st birthday with my family and friends, going to Terezin called for a completely different set of emotions. It was a Wednesday and me, my dad, and his girlfriend of eight years, Jodi were the only ones there aside from a school bus full of high school Italians. It was desolate and as we walked through the sleeping quarters and as we were told the terrible conditions people were forced to live in, I became somber. It amazed me to know that some Czech doctors in the Red Cross came to Terezin during the war, volunteering their skills under the condition that they could not leave Terezin until the war was over. In the museum part of Terezin which was a short, five minute car ride away, we watched a video of the Nazi occupation. Hitler would film staged soccer which he would then show the world that he was treating Jews humanely.

Will TizardI always assumed that how a guidebook describes a place is how that place really is. I failed to take into account or think about how they are written and by whom. Last week, Will Tizard, editor of Time Out Prague came to my Travel Writing class to discuss his career as a guidebook writer. “We are given a stipend and a set time to finish a project by,” Tizard stated when asked how exactly does a guidebook writer work. Not every hotel bed is slept in and not every museum is visited. There is not enough time or money. The once glamorous life of a guidebook writer I had so prized in my head has now been reduced to average Joe, but just getting by. I read the majority of the guidebook after this class because I really wanted to understand Will’s impression of Prague. Subjection always comes through in writing even if the assignment is an unbiased description. In the beginning, he describes young Czechs out on the party scene as “a fashion shoot for Cosmopolitan or GQ.” Though I haven’t had a reason to disagree with a guidebook before, I am jealous of the impression Tizard got from young Czechs considering fashion is “nonexistent” as my writing teacher says and deodorant is an afterthought. I can’t blame him though. Until Tizard’s presentation in class, I had no idea that guidebook writing is a one-man job, at least in his case. He described his work as a “cult”, that it’s a way of life. Since he is never “off duty” when he is doing a project, staying at the Four Seasons does equate to rest and relaxation.

Nara ParkI have a confession: I cannot deal with heat. Actually, let me rephrase that, my body cannot deal with heat. Homeostasis is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit; I start sweating at about 50 degrees below that. In the summer time, I’m that gross person you accidentally brush by on the street who leaves a mark of perspiration on your arm.

So last August, in the 95-degree heat of Nara, Japan, I reduced myself to walking around the city wearing as little clothing as possible without being naked. My best friend and college roommate, Gordie and I were backpacking through Japan and the blister inducing weather was already in effect. On this particular day, my outfit consisted of flip-flops and plaid shorts. Going commando was necessary. I have studied the Japanese culture and language and am well aware that dressing like this in Japan is extremely disrespectful.

Nara is a beautiful but small city about an hour outside of Kyoto via train. Known for its eight famous temples including Heijō Palace, which once stood as the capitol of Japan from 710-784, the city is now a cultural tourist getaway. After checking in to Asukaso, a traditional Japanese-style inn with bed mats on the floor, we wandered our way to the famous Nara Koen (Nara Park). There we observed the over 1200 Sika deer, which look like normal deer apart from their white spots and fed them some rice crackers which vendors sold at the park’s entrance.

The park flourishes green, shades some areas with dispersed short leafy trees, and runs for many acres. A few hours into feeding deer, mixed with multiple deer chasing me because I could not provide them the quantity of rice crackers they wanted, Gordie and I decided we should head back since the sun was starting to go down.

We exited the park on a side we did not enter. Since we were map-less, and did not recognize the road in front of us, or the hill we stood on, I stopped an older looking Japanese man to ask for directions.

“sumimasen (excuse me)” I said, surprised that my attire sparked no negative reaction. “hai (yes)” he replied. “anatawa asukasonoryokanga dokodesuka (do you know where the asukaso inn is located)?” I asked. “eetoo hai. Imawa Sokoni bokuwa anatatotomodachiwo arukimemasu (ummmm… yes. I will walk you and your friend there now),” he replied “arigato gozaimasu, demo anatawa ishyouni ikazunisumu (thank you very much, but you really don’t need to go with us),” I said. “Ishyoo ikimasu (let’s go),” he said with determination in his voice. Clearly we had no choice.

“The Japanese believe that turning down someone’s request causes embarrassment and loss of face to the other person.” Apparently, this holds true for directional requests.

He began to walk in front of us. I looked at Gordie and gestured to him that this elder man, significantly balding and leaning on a walking stick, with teeth that were far and few in-between and perhaps even dentures, was going to walk us back to our inn.

The elderly man maintained a lead the entire 20 minutes. His cane seemed more of a ploy than a necessity. We were out of breath at the speed he walked. He halted in front of Asukaso, turned to us and held a bow for about three seconds, and then we bowed for the same amount of time but at a lower angle. This process was repeated three more times before I thanked him profusely.

I worried that the bowing etiquette I just performed was incorrect. There are various types of bowing in Japanese: informal, formal and very formal. Since I couldn’t distinguish exactly what type of situation this was, I decided the best way to pay my respects was to bow longer and lower, considering I was his inferior.

The following day was just as hot as the day before but I did add a skimpy navy blue tank-top to my outfit. It was soaked in sweat by now and it was only midday. After seeing a great exhibit at the Museum of Photography in Nara, Gordie and I decided to wander down the winding roads with hobbit-looking houses that fled from the museum. We hit rural Nara quickly. The winding roads began to have less and less homes and soon enough, we were sure we were unable to direct ourselves back to the museum. 20 minutes later, we were standing on the sidewalk of a highway.

Random automobile dealers and repair shops, a gas station and a few vending machines lined the road. At this point, we stopped walking and looked around. About 20 yards away I could make out a yellow school bus that seemed to be stopping. As the bus came to a full cessation of movement, at least 30 screaming 11-year old Japanese girls all with identical white button down shirts and short, above-shoulder length hair, had their windows open and were ecstatically taking pictures of Gordie and me.

“anatawa rosutowo imasuka (are you lost)?” One of the girls yelled from the bus. Katakana is the alphabet the Japanese use for foreign words that phonetically sounds like a word you might say in English. I could make out the word “rosuto” because the Japanese do not have a word for “lost.” This is not something that happens to them. “hai. Bokutachi rekiranni Naranotohidesu (yes. We are looking around for Nara town.” I said. “basuga kimasu (come on the bus)!” a few of them shouted.

The bus driver opened his door. We bowed to him as we got on. As we stepped up, giggling and camera clicks were the only two noises I heard. Gordie and I found our seats, looked around and noticed that every one of these girls was staring at us. I was unable to discern whether they were fixated with me being a foreigner or me being a foreigner wearing a fraying, navy blue tank-top with plaid shorts and flip flops. The bus ride took a silent 10 minutes. At our stop, many of the girls stood up and one said, “koko (here)” signaling Gordie and I to exit the bus.

Recognizing the area, we got off with eight of the Japanese girls.

“arigato gozaimasu (thank you very much)” I said. “machunokotoga tekudasai” (wait please)” one girl said.

She pointed to her camera and asked her fellow classmate to take a picture of Gordie and me with her and the rest of her friends.

After we parted, I noticed the schoolgirls outfits were un-tucked, something that is forbidden while they are in school. The emphasis on conformity in Japan is something I cannot relate to as an American but the equal emphasis on respect is highly apparent to a tourist like myself. Respect is “unavoidable” here. It’s a code. And whether or not some rude American like myself chooses to dress in an improper manner, the code remains and is abided.