All-
So the trip is coming to a close, and I feel like there's so much I haven't written about yet, and so much I haven't done. I'm sorry I haven't written anything recently, but for the past few days my life consisted of writing and editing, which I don't think too many people want to know the mind-numbing details of that. So here's a whole lot of random thoughts I'm cramming in at the end.
First, in addition to cheap beer that can be purchased in your friendly, neighborhood college dormitory vending machine, you can also buy shots of absinth from street vendors selling hot dogs, brats, hamburgers, soda, and beer. And for all the press Amsterdam gets about being this liberal drug haven, pot's legal (ish) here, too. I think it's legal to possess a small amount and use it for personal recreational use, but any kind of distribution is certainly illegal. Yet somehow, everyone who wants it can get it. Hmmm...
Myself, I did not drink any absinth while I was here, which is probably a good thing. However, last night I went out with my roommate Alex and we met up with a friend of his named David. David was very gregarious, one of those life-of-the-party-type people, and decided to buy Ashley and me shots of some weird liquor that I hadn't heard of. He didn't really tell us much about it except that it's distilled from plums and it was 80 percent alcohol. When he came to the table with the shots, he sat the glasses in front of us and said, "Don't smell it." That's a good sign, right...?
The drink wasn't horrible, but I think I'm going to try to stick to stuff that won't potentially blind me.
David also had some coins from Cuba with Che Guevara's face stamped on them. It's the same image you see on all those stupid t-shirts, but it's such a different context. I thought that was interesting, that's all.
Onward...
In Prague, they don't really do coffee the way we do. They drink espresso, which is way to small an amount for me to really enjoy and it makes me way too jittery. But (and this is the other thing I love about our dorm), they have Nes-Cafe machines here, which are vending machines that give you this tiny little plastic cup of some weird coffee concoction that I would normally find abhorrant in the States. But here, four ounces of coffee-flavored water mixed with incredibly sweet hot chocolate is the desiel to my Euro-journalism engine.
(For those of you who have seen my Facebook account, you can tell I'm really proud of that Euro-journalism engine joke...)
Also, I've managed to figure out the communication thing on a very basic level: I've reverted to this mutant form of sign language whenever I speak. I think it helps me get what I want, but I'm sure everyone else thinks I look like an idiot. I had to do my laundry again (by the way, thanks to John and Barb for the awesome washing machine for which I have newly-found appreciation), and asking for the key went like this:
1) Rub clothes vigorously to indicate that you want to clean them.
2) Take room key out of pocket and put it between your fingers like you're unlocking a door
3) Shrug shoulders when the lady at the desk rolls her eyes
I do it for everything now, even when I'm talking to Ashley or Israel or Zach or Mary, and they all are convinced that I am an ass.
I think there are two big things I've noticed, and one was pretty obvious. American culture is incredibly pervasive. There are McDonalds scattered across the city. Our music (or the Brits' music, to be fair) is played more regularly at bars, clubs and restaurants than a lot of Czech music. It's not uncommon to walk past people speaking Czech, but wearing those faux-vintage t-shirts with American catch phrases on them (I actually saw an Atlantic City, NJ shirt, and I got excited...it doesn't take much). A lot of people, especially younger people, speak English well enough for me to function on some semblance of a normal level, which I found very interesting.
Martin explained that to me a little. He said that in Czech elementary schools, children start taking a foreign language in their fifth year of grammar school. Before Communism fell, everyone had to take Russian. But after 1989, the year Martin entered 5th grade, students (and presumably their parents) could choose which language they wanted to study, and many picked English. I didn't follow up on why he or the others chose English, but I'm sure I'll have time to ask them when they get to Missoula.
Here's the second thing I've noticed:
When I was walking through town in Pilsen, Martin and I passed a momument thanking the Americans for liberating the city from Nazi control in 1945. It wasn't something I expected to see at all, especially considering later that night I'd be asked to answer for Bush's radar site proposal, which many Czechs strongly oppose. Actually, I had to answer for a lot of things about my country. Though most of the questions regarded our political climate, people also wanted to know why America has such a problem with obesity, or why we have to pay for college, or what's up with not having beer in the vending machines?
And I did that to the Czechs about their culture and society. I did that to Alex, quizzing him on Belarus (Belarussian?) politics and media. We all instantly asked one another to be experts about our respective homelands, but I'm not sure it's a reasonable request. Sure, I'm interested in U.S. society and politics, but not everybody is. We're not diplomats or experts in sociology or international retlations. We're all just normal, everyday people leading normal, everyday lives; and I don't know about the rest of you, but my day-to-day life in the States isn't anything terribly extraordinary.
So that's pretty much it. If I had it to do over again, the only thing I think I'd do differently is I'd bring a guitar. This is by far the longest time I've gone without playing since I was nine years old, and I miss it terribly. Besides the fact that I like playing, it would've given me some sense of normalcy and home in a place so foreign. And I bet the Czech women totally would totally dig it.
I definitely want to come to Europe (and Prague) again, though I think I'll bone up on languages a bit more the next time. And I have to go with someone. It's pretty draining having to go through the entire day always feeling like a total outsider, and beside just being able to share an experience with friends I care about, my traveling companions (especially Ashley) have provided an outlet for my thoughts and a sanctuary for my insecurities.
Thanks to everyone for keeping up with the blog, and for commenting on my inane ramblings. To all of you in Missoula: Union Club, Monday, shortly after 11:00 p.m. To the rest...
Na zdraví-
S
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
You can"t always get what you want...
I know this trip is supposed to teach us about reporting, minority issues, cultural differences, etc. But a lot of it--for me, anyway--has been a lesson in patience and acceptance, especially in the little things throughout the day.
Like this morning: I wanted to get a pack of gum, which back home may be the most simple purchase a person can make. Go into a store, grab the kind you want, pay, leave. But here the shops keep the gum behind the counter, so the process here involves pointing at the rack, a series of pleading expressions and saying 'toto, prosim' (that, please), waving my hand left or right to guide the clerk, who was clearly getting sick of my antics. She finally picked up some weird orange-flavored gum and handed it to me. I paid, thanked her, and left.
I don't know if you know this, but I'm a little sick of companies feeling the need to mess with things that have seemed to work well for years. Coke went ahead and made that 'Black Cherry Vannila' crap, and now you can buy chewing gum that tastes like anything from oranges to strawberries and cream to pina colada, even. What was wrong with mint?
Anyway, that's the deal with being in another country and not knowing the language. Things don't always go exactly how you planned, and it doesn't do any good to get upset. Of course, this was just a pack of gum, and I doubt I'd make a big deal about it even if the woman behind the counter could have understood me. But there are other instances, though none of them are terribly life-altering situations. Still, we've (I've) gotten so accustomed to being able to get exactly what we want exactly when we want it, and not being able to throws you off a bit.
And again, it's the little things that by themselves wouldn't be a big deal, but going through day after day of not being able to communicate even the simplest things is just weird.
But I've been doing stuff other than just looking like an ass and getting bothered by a pack of gum...
Saturday I went to the Národní (National) Museum, which is a lot like the Natural History Museum in NYC. Unfortunately, all the signs were in Czech, so all the stuff that I normally would have found fascinating was kind of lost. They offer those little audio tours in English, but getting the little headset costs more than the entrance fee, and I had a problem with that. Luckily, I'm a huge nerd, so not being able to understand Czech wasn't a problem when I got to the animal exhibits because I recognized a lot of the Latin names for animals, and the spellings for a lot of different minerals and precious stones isn't all that different in Czech, so I managed to at least know what I was looking at a lot of the time, even if I couldn't put it in any context. Among the highlights:
They had an uncut, unpolished diamond. 3,000-some-odd karats. Seriously, this thing was the size of a grapefruit.
Butterflies and moths: First-off, I had no idea there were so many, or how colorful they could be. Some of the butterflies were this deep shade of royal blue surrounded by black lining, which gave the wings the appearance that they were a set of enormous eyes, the kind you'd see in an anime cartoon. And some of the moths were as big as my face, which was...disconcerting.
From what I could gather, one exhibit consisted only of artifacts found at the Prague Castle, from early stone and metal tools to ornate swords and battle axes to even the skeletons some people and horses buried on the castle grounds. Again, I had no way to put any of this into context, but as I moved through the exhibit I saw the map of the excavation area look more and more like Prague Castle, so I used my substantial powers of deductive reasoning to come to that (probably wrong) conclusion.
I took a bunch of pictures of the building itself, a neo-classical structure that dominates Wenceslas Square. The inside was even more incredible than the outside. I swear that when I return, I'll upload all these pictures and you can see all this stuff I've been talking about.
Yesterday, we visited the newsroom of the Prague Post, Prague's English language newspaper. The editor-in-chief (Frank) met with us for about half an hour and discussed some of the challenges he's had over the past few years working as a journalist in the Czech Republic. As I've said in an earlier posting, it's common practice here to let sources read stories before they go to print, which isn't at all how things are done back home. He also said a lot of government organizations and departments aren't really accustomed to dealing with the press, and don't see talking to the press as an important part of a democracy. Rather, they view the media ask kind of a pest, something that if they ignore will just go away. Not that some in our government don't see the press in the same way...
Frank said that he tells anyone who applies to work at the Post to forget everything they know about journalism, and I think with good reason. In the States, we've had 218 years of evolution with the media's role in society, and we're still not sure exactly what we (the media) should be doing or can be doing. And early in our democracy, Congress passed the Alien and Sedition Acts, which by today's First Amendment standards are absolutely abhorrant. Here, there's no tradition of the press "keeping them honest," as Anderson Cooper says. And it's not just on the media's part and the government's: Frank said a lot of people don't expect the press to hound the government, make them explain how and why they're doing this or that. It's a different world, to be sure. I'd really like to come back to the Czech Republic in 20 years, or 50 years, or even 100 years, and see how things have changed over time in regards to the media.
As far as my story is coming, Martin and I have been e-mailing drafts back and forth, and tomorrow we're going to meet up so we can do some editing and finalizing of the majority of it, though I want to do at least one more interview before we go. But I swear I'm getting work done. Really.
Take care, thanks for all the comments.
S
Like this morning: I wanted to get a pack of gum, which back home may be the most simple purchase a person can make. Go into a store, grab the kind you want, pay, leave. But here the shops keep the gum behind the counter, so the process here involves pointing at the rack, a series of pleading expressions and saying 'toto, prosim' (that, please), waving my hand left or right to guide the clerk, who was clearly getting sick of my antics. She finally picked up some weird orange-flavored gum and handed it to me. I paid, thanked her, and left.
I don't know if you know this, but I'm a little sick of companies feeling the need to mess with things that have seemed to work well for years. Coke went ahead and made that 'Black Cherry Vannila' crap, and now you can buy chewing gum that tastes like anything from oranges to strawberries and cream to pina colada, even. What was wrong with mint?
Anyway, that's the deal with being in another country and not knowing the language. Things don't always go exactly how you planned, and it doesn't do any good to get upset. Of course, this was just a pack of gum, and I doubt I'd make a big deal about it even if the woman behind the counter could have understood me. But there are other instances, though none of them are terribly life-altering situations. Still, we've (I've) gotten so accustomed to being able to get exactly what we want exactly when we want it, and not being able to throws you off a bit.
And again, it's the little things that by themselves wouldn't be a big deal, but going through day after day of not being able to communicate even the simplest things is just weird.
But I've been doing stuff other than just looking like an ass and getting bothered by a pack of gum...
Saturday I went to the Národní (National) Museum, which is a lot like the Natural History Museum in NYC. Unfortunately, all the signs were in Czech, so all the stuff that I normally would have found fascinating was kind of lost. They offer those little audio tours in English, but getting the little headset costs more than the entrance fee, and I had a problem with that. Luckily, I'm a huge nerd, so not being able to understand Czech wasn't a problem when I got to the animal exhibits because I recognized a lot of the Latin names for animals, and the spellings for a lot of different minerals and precious stones isn't all that different in Czech, so I managed to at least know what I was looking at a lot of the time, even if I couldn't put it in any context. Among the highlights:
They had an uncut, unpolished diamond. 3,000-some-odd karats. Seriously, this thing was the size of a grapefruit.
Butterflies and moths: First-off, I had no idea there were so many, or how colorful they could be. Some of the butterflies were this deep shade of royal blue surrounded by black lining, which gave the wings the appearance that they were a set of enormous eyes, the kind you'd see in an anime cartoon. And some of the moths were as big as my face, which was...disconcerting.
From what I could gather, one exhibit consisted only of artifacts found at the Prague Castle, from early stone and metal tools to ornate swords and battle axes to even the skeletons some people and horses buried on the castle grounds. Again, I had no way to put any of this into context, but as I moved through the exhibit I saw the map of the excavation area look more and more like Prague Castle, so I used my substantial powers of deductive reasoning to come to that (probably wrong) conclusion.
I took a bunch of pictures of the building itself, a neo-classical structure that dominates Wenceslas Square. The inside was even more incredible than the outside. I swear that when I return, I'll upload all these pictures and you can see all this stuff I've been talking about.
Yesterday, we visited the newsroom of the Prague Post, Prague's English language newspaper. The editor-in-chief (Frank) met with us for about half an hour and discussed some of the challenges he's had over the past few years working as a journalist in the Czech Republic. As I've said in an earlier posting, it's common practice here to let sources read stories before they go to print, which isn't at all how things are done back home. He also said a lot of government organizations and departments aren't really accustomed to dealing with the press, and don't see talking to the press as an important part of a democracy. Rather, they view the media ask kind of a pest, something that if they ignore will just go away. Not that some in our government don't see the press in the same way...
Frank said that he tells anyone who applies to work at the Post to forget everything they know about journalism, and I think with good reason. In the States, we've had 218 years of evolution with the media's role in society, and we're still not sure exactly what we (the media) should be doing or can be doing. And early in our democracy, Congress passed the Alien and Sedition Acts, which by today's First Amendment standards are absolutely abhorrant. Here, there's no tradition of the press "keeping them honest," as Anderson Cooper says. And it's not just on the media's part and the government's: Frank said a lot of people don't expect the press to hound the government, make them explain how and why they're doing this or that. It's a different world, to be sure. I'd really like to come back to the Czech Republic in 20 years, or 50 years, or even 100 years, and see how things have changed over time in regards to the media.
As far as my story is coming, Martin and I have been e-mailing drafts back and forth, and tomorrow we're going to meet up so we can do some editing and finalizing of the majority of it, though I want to do at least one more interview before we go. But I swear I'm getting work done. Really.
Take care, thanks for all the comments.
S
Friday, June 8, 2007
A Blog in Verse Form
"A Tale of Laundry Lament"
(Or: An Ode to My Washer Back Home)
When first I packed to leave for Prague,
I thought I'd brought enough.
But even so, the point was moot,
For my suitcase was stuffed.
Ten pairs of socks, about twelve shirts
Some kahkis and some jeans.
Some underwear to round it out,
That's all I thought I'd need.
"I'll find a laundromat," I said.
"I've used those things before."
But how convenient when I found
A washer in my dorm!
So when the time had fin'ly come
For me to do laundry,
I strolled downstairs, but unaware
I needed to get a key.
Getting the key: a simple task.
Just ask at the front desk.
But for one thing I overlooked:
I still cannot speak Czech.
Though my gesturing and pleading
Were met with no success,
A fellow student's translation
Aided me in my quest.
With key in hand, I made my way
Down to the laundry room.
I threw my clothes to the machine
And thought they'd be done soon.
I took a shower, changed my clothes,
I even shaved my face.
I thought it had been long enough,
But still I had to wait.
I checked again at half past four,
Was it done? Nowhere near!
But rather than just sit around.
I went and had a beer.
An hour later, still it washed,
This machine so foul and vile.
I think somehow I must have pressed:
"Never-ending spin cycle."
But finally, my clothes were clean,
And me, I was tired.
And I could not muster the strength
To bother with the dryer.
So now I'm sitting in my dorm,
Clothes hanging like damp flags.
A part of me can't wait to get
Back home to our Maytag.
Seriously, people: this washing machine must have been powered by a single AA battery.
So, some little things I've noticed along the way:
No, they don't call it a Quarter Pounder. Here it's a McRoyale. (For those of you who don't get the reference: In the movie "Pulp Fiction," there is a long dialogue about how Europeans call a McDonalds' Quarter Pounder with Cheese a "Royale with Cheese" because many European countries use the metric system. Here, "quarter pounder" would be a meaningless phrase. Leave aside the embarrassing fact that I traveled halfway around the world to go to a McDonalds.)
The Internet Dungeon: That's Ashley and my name for Laser Game, the arcade where we check our e-mail on the gaming computers. It's located in a subterrainian labrynith beneath a shopping center, a good four stories below street level. It's this dark room with blacklights that plays techno and serves absinth, among other beverages. It was a little creepy at first, but the employees tolerate our pathetic attempts at speaking Czech before smiling and just speaking English to us, and they don't charge a whole lot, so we like it.
OK, that's all. Again, it's great to hear from all of you, and I'm so glad people are actually reading this. Have fun back home.
S
(Or: An Ode to My Washer Back Home)
When first I packed to leave for Prague,
I thought I'd brought enough.
But even so, the point was moot,
For my suitcase was stuffed.
Ten pairs of socks, about twelve shirts
Some kahkis and some jeans.
Some underwear to round it out,
That's all I thought I'd need.
"I'll find a laundromat," I said.
"I've used those things before."
But how convenient when I found
A washer in my dorm!
So when the time had fin'ly come
For me to do laundry,
I strolled downstairs, but unaware
I needed to get a key.
Getting the key: a simple task.
Just ask at the front desk.
But for one thing I overlooked:
I still cannot speak Czech.
Though my gesturing and pleading
Were met with no success,
A fellow student's translation
Aided me in my quest.
With key in hand, I made my way
Down to the laundry room.
I threw my clothes to the machine
And thought they'd be done soon.
I took a shower, changed my clothes,
I even shaved my face.
I thought it had been long enough,
But still I had to wait.
I checked again at half past four,
Was it done? Nowhere near!
But rather than just sit around.
I went and had a beer.
An hour later, still it washed,
This machine so foul and vile.
I think somehow I must have pressed:
"Never-ending spin cycle."
But finally, my clothes were clean,
And me, I was tired.
And I could not muster the strength
To bother with the dryer.
So now I'm sitting in my dorm,
Clothes hanging like damp flags.
A part of me can't wait to get
Back home to our Maytag.
Seriously, people: this washing machine must have been powered by a single AA battery.
So, some little things I've noticed along the way:
No, they don't call it a Quarter Pounder. Here it's a McRoyale. (For those of you who don't get the reference: In the movie "Pulp Fiction," there is a long dialogue about how Europeans call a McDonalds' Quarter Pounder with Cheese a "Royale with Cheese" because many European countries use the metric system. Here, "quarter pounder" would be a meaningless phrase. Leave aside the embarrassing fact that I traveled halfway around the world to go to a McDonalds.)
The Internet Dungeon: That's Ashley and my name for Laser Game, the arcade where we check our e-mail on the gaming computers. It's located in a subterrainian labrynith beneath a shopping center, a good four stories below street level. It's this dark room with blacklights that plays techno and serves absinth, among other beverages. It was a little creepy at first, but the employees tolerate our pathetic attempts at speaking Czech before smiling and just speaking English to us, and they don't charge a whole lot, so we like it.
OK, that's all. Again, it's great to hear from all of you, and I'm so glad people are actually reading this. Have fun back home.
S
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
A very, very long blog
Whenever I write about sports (which isn't often), there's always the overwhelming temptation to compare the game to a battle or war. And why not? There's strategy and maneuvering, attacks and defenses, and a delicate balance of overwhelming force and stealthy precision. And that's to say nothing of the fans at the games: sweaty men full of piss and vinegar and adrenaline and beer, all of them roaring as one in a voice that echoes the battle scenes in 'Braveheart.'
But it's such a nonsensical comparison when you think about it. A football game is just a game, the outcome of which rarely matters once the players leave the field. The outcome of war, however, is perhaps the thing that matters most to our species as a whole. It ends not only lives, but can also end a way of life, and be a defining time in the history of a nation or of the world.
So why get so excited about something that doesn't really matter? Why pour all that emotion into 162 games only to watch the Phillies choke at the end if their failure has little or no effect on a fan's day-to-day life?
I think it's a granfalloon: an artificial association people make with one another in order to feel united. (Granfalloon is a word Vonnegut made up. I don't think Meriam Webster has recognized it yet, but I keep trying to get it to catch on.) It's easier to be a part of a group that like the same sports team, or listen to the same music, or read Harry Potter books than it is to find someone who has similar philosophies or principles or core beliefs. That's not to say we don't develop meaningful friendships that are originally based on silly common interests. I just think it's interesting that when we are getting to know a person, we try to find out what they like, not what they are like.
But I digress. I haven't even mentioned the game. We followed Jan (our Czech professor) from the tram stop to the football (soccer) stadium, which isn't very much like a stadium I've seen at home. It was small (my guess was that it held about 6,000 people), and there weren't a lot of bells and whistles that American stadiums have: the specialized eateries, the cotton candy vendors, the 'brew pub' area. There was beer and sausage. And chicken wings, if you wanted to hunt around for them. But mostly beer and sausage.
At about half time, it was mostly beer.
I don't really like sports, and I understand football about as well as I understand astrophysics, so I can't give you a play-by-play of what happened, other than to say Jan's team (Bohemia) lost 1-0. What struck me most was the way the fans cheered. At almost every sporting event I've been to in the states, there's a PA system or a big TV screen giving people prompts on what kind of cheer to do. Here, there was none of that, just a collective consciousness of the crowd that knew when to say this or that, when to start singing the fight song, or when to taunt the other team as one. I didn't understand any of what they were saying, but I understood the crowd's ability to communicate within itself. To me, that was more impressive than the entire game.
Onto Pilsen...
To see the Czech Republic from the train window was incredible. The landscape reminded me of Vermont: green hills full of trees and grass rolling by the windows, but it was broken by cities here and there, many with abandoned factories that reminded me of Rust Belt towns straight out of a Springsteen song. The ride took an hour and a half, and when I got off the train I suddenly realized that if Martin didn't meet me in a situation, I would be very screwed. One of the lines from Paul Simon's 'You Can Call Me Al' ran through my head: 'He doesn't speak the language, he holds no currency. He is a foreign man.' For me, at that time, 'foreign' meant 'totally helpless.'
But Martin met me exactly like he said he would, so there was no problem. We went straight to work, going first to a special school for Roma children to interview the director there.
A word about Romas and education: Most Roma kids go to schools for the mentally challenged. Their parents put them there sometimes because they will be around people like them, or sometimes because the work load is easier than it would be at a normal school. But in a school for the mentally challenged, in a country where the majority is white, about 80 percent of the students at the special school were Roma. I won't draw any conclusions from that until later in the project...
The interview with the director went very smoothly, I thought. He was candid and interesting to talk to, though he was speaking to me through Martin. Interviewing via interpreter is a new challenge for me. Martin and I work well together, but I don't know what the source is saying, so it's hard for me to formulate follow-up questions. Also, having to go through an extra step to get information back and forth throws off the rythym of the interview, so it was much more of a formal question-and-answer session than the conversations I'm used to having with sources.
At the end of the interview, I asked the director if he would please write down his name and his official title at the school so that I could be sure to get it right in our story. At that point, he became very wary of me. He would not let us leave until we assured him that he could proofread our article before we published it. I tried to tell him that we would be happy to send him a copy of the article, but that we wouldn't be able to make any changes unless there were factual inaccuracies, but Martin told me that it's legal here in Czech to proof an article that you will be quoted in. I would soon learn that people are usually very hesitant to give their names at all, let alone asking for an advance copy of the article. I wasn't prepared for this, and I don't know what we'll do about it.
After a couple more interviews, Martin and I did some sightseeing. We visted the main cathedral in town, the original part of which was constructed in the 13th Century. We also climbed the steeple, which was about 100 meters high (a little shorter than the Statue of Liberty). The climb wasn't bad, and the view from the top was terrific, but I negleted to tell Martin about my fear of heights until we were on the viewing platform and I was pressed against the wall, as far away from the edge as I could get. The descent was even worse: the stairs were steep, and the wood creaked with each step. Martin just walked down the way you would on any set of stairs, but I clung to the railings, took one step at a time, and had to stop along the way a couple of times just to calm myself down. When I finally reached the bottom, Martin was standing there laughing at me. Apparently I can get in front of 500 people with a guitar no problem, but a flight of stairs makes me sweat. Go figure...
After that little ordeal, we started bar hopping around Pilsen. Because it's the home of Pilsner Urquell, bars have access to the beer in different stages of completion. One bar served it filtered, but not pasteurized. Another served it unfiltered and unpasteurized. The more raw the beer, the cloudier the texture was. And, I thought, the better the taste.
Tuesday saw more interviews and more beer, and a visit from President Bush, which many of Martin's friends weren't too happy about. I was disappointed that I wasn't here in Prague to see the reception the city gave him, but that's just as well. I think it might do me good to not think about \nU.S. politics for a little while. But while we were out Tuesday night, one person came into the bar with a George Bush mask on. When they learned that there was a real live American in the bar, everybody wanted to know what I thought of him. It wasn't exactly the venue to say EVERYTHING I thought about him, so I just told people I didn't vote for him, and that seemed to be the right answer.
Today we woke up early to catch the bus back to Prague so Martin could visit the American embassy to get his visa. I've got class in an hour, so I'm going to grab some lunch beforehand. Hope all is well with you folks. Keep writing comments, I enjoy hearing from all of you. And thanks for sitting through this long blog entry. Hope it kept your interest.
Na zdraví!
S
But it's such a nonsensical comparison when you think about it. A football game is just a game, the outcome of which rarely matters once the players leave the field. The outcome of war, however, is perhaps the thing that matters most to our species as a whole. It ends not only lives, but can also end a way of life, and be a defining time in the history of a nation or of the world.
So why get so excited about something that doesn't really matter? Why pour all that emotion into 162 games only to watch the Phillies choke at the end if their failure has little or no effect on a fan's day-to-day life?
I think it's a granfalloon: an artificial association people make with one another in order to feel united. (Granfalloon is a word Vonnegut made up. I don't think Meriam Webster has recognized it yet, but I keep trying to get it to catch on.) It's easier to be a part of a group that like the same sports team, or listen to the same music, or read Harry Potter books than it is to find someone who has similar philosophies or principles or core beliefs. That's not to say we don't develop meaningful friendships that are originally based on silly common interests. I just think it's interesting that when we are getting to know a person, we try to find out what they like, not what they are like.
But I digress. I haven't even mentioned the game. We followed Jan (our Czech professor) from the tram stop to the football (soccer) stadium, which isn't very much like a stadium I've seen at home. It was small (my guess was that it held about 6,000 people), and there weren't a lot of bells and whistles that American stadiums have: the specialized eateries, the cotton candy vendors, the 'brew pub' area. There was beer and sausage. And chicken wings, if you wanted to hunt around for them. But mostly beer and sausage.
At about half time, it was mostly beer.
I don't really like sports, and I understand football about as well as I understand astrophysics, so I can't give you a play-by-play of what happened, other than to say Jan's team (Bohemia) lost 1-0. What struck me most was the way the fans cheered. At almost every sporting event I've been to in the states, there's a PA system or a big TV screen giving people prompts on what kind of cheer to do. Here, there was none of that, just a collective consciousness of the crowd that knew when to say this or that, when to start singing the fight song, or when to taunt the other team as one. I didn't understand any of what they were saying, but I understood the crowd's ability to communicate within itself. To me, that was more impressive than the entire game.
Onto Pilsen...
To see the Czech Republic from the train window was incredible. The landscape reminded me of Vermont: green hills full of trees and grass rolling by the windows, but it was broken by cities here and there, many with abandoned factories that reminded me of Rust Belt towns straight out of a Springsteen song. The ride took an hour and a half, and when I got off the train I suddenly realized that if Martin didn't meet me in a situation, I would be very screwed. One of the lines from Paul Simon's 'You Can Call Me Al' ran through my head: 'He doesn't speak the language, he holds no currency. He is a foreign man.' For me, at that time, 'foreign' meant 'totally helpless.'
But Martin met me exactly like he said he would, so there was no problem. We went straight to work, going first to a special school for Roma children to interview the director there.
A word about Romas and education: Most Roma kids go to schools for the mentally challenged. Their parents put them there sometimes because they will be around people like them, or sometimes because the work load is easier than it would be at a normal school. But in a school for the mentally challenged, in a country where the majority is white, about 80 percent of the students at the special school were Roma. I won't draw any conclusions from that until later in the project...
The interview with the director went very smoothly, I thought. He was candid and interesting to talk to, though he was speaking to me through Martin. Interviewing via interpreter is a new challenge for me. Martin and I work well together, but I don't know what the source is saying, so it's hard for me to formulate follow-up questions. Also, having to go through an extra step to get information back and forth throws off the rythym of the interview, so it was much more of a formal question-and-answer session than the conversations I'm used to having with sources.
At the end of the interview, I asked the director if he would please write down his name and his official title at the school so that I could be sure to get it right in our story. At that point, he became very wary of me. He would not let us leave until we assured him that he could proofread our article before we published it. I tried to tell him that we would be happy to send him a copy of the article, but that we wouldn't be able to make any changes unless there were factual inaccuracies, but Martin told me that it's legal here in Czech to proof an article that you will be quoted in. I would soon learn that people are usually very hesitant to give their names at all, let alone asking for an advance copy of the article. I wasn't prepared for this, and I don't know what we'll do about it.
After a couple more interviews, Martin and I did some sightseeing. We visted the main cathedral in town, the original part of which was constructed in the 13th Century. We also climbed the steeple, which was about 100 meters high (a little shorter than the Statue of Liberty). The climb wasn't bad, and the view from the top was terrific, but I negleted to tell Martin about my fear of heights until we were on the viewing platform and I was pressed against the wall, as far away from the edge as I could get. The descent was even worse: the stairs were steep, and the wood creaked with each step. Martin just walked down the way you would on any set of stairs, but I clung to the railings, took one step at a time, and had to stop along the way a couple of times just to calm myself down. When I finally reached the bottom, Martin was standing there laughing at me. Apparently I can get in front of 500 people with a guitar no problem, but a flight of stairs makes me sweat. Go figure...
After that little ordeal, we started bar hopping around Pilsen. Because it's the home of Pilsner Urquell, bars have access to the beer in different stages of completion. One bar served it filtered, but not pasteurized. Another served it unfiltered and unpasteurized. The more raw the beer, the cloudier the texture was. And, I thought, the better the taste.
Tuesday saw more interviews and more beer, and a visit from President Bush, which many of Martin's friends weren't too happy about. I was disappointed that I wasn't here in Prague to see the reception the city gave him, but that's just as well. I think it might do me good to not think about \nU.S. politics for a little while. But while we were out Tuesday night, one person came into the bar with a George Bush mask on. When they learned that there was a real live American in the bar, everybody wanted to know what I thought of him. It wasn't exactly the venue to say EVERYTHING I thought about him, so I just told people I didn't vote for him, and that seemed to be the right answer.
Today we woke up early to catch the bus back to Prague so Martin could visit the American embassy to get his visa. I've got class in an hour, so I'm going to grab some lunch beforehand. Hope all is well with you folks. Keep writing comments, I enjoy hearing from all of you. And thanks for sitting through this long blog entry. Hope it kept your interest.
Na zdraví!
S
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
A change in plans...
So I know I promised a blog about the football match, and I swear that will come in some form or another, but right now there is work to be done, and interviews to be had. Or made. Or done. Whatever.
But I am alive and in Pilsen. Martin and I drank a lot of Pilsner Urquell last night. Dad, you would have loved it.
More later, I promise.
S
But I am alive and in Pilsen. Martin and I drank a lot of Pilsner Urquell last night. Dad, you would have loved it.
More later, I promise.
S
Sunday, June 3, 2007
One for the road...
Just a quick one today, I have to catch the train to Pilsen in about 20 minutes...
The vending machine in the dorms has beer in it, 20 crowns. It's not cold, but--and I don't know how else to emphasize this--YOU CAN BUY BEER IN A DORM ROOM VENDING MACHINE HERE!
Aside from discovering all sorts of new things to see and do without even leaving my dorm, I spent yesterday at a football (football=soccer) game. I took a lot of notes, so that'll be the subject of the next substantial blog.
On Saturday night, Ashley and I went to a little bar near our class building called Duende and had beers there for a while. Surprisingly, we met an American there who was practically in love with us when he learned that we were from the University of Montana because he loves the poetry of Richard Hugo, former creative writing chair at UM. But rather than discuss poetry, he told us why Jersey girls were so much better than New York girls. He got no arguments from me.
Some personal notes:
Josh and Dad: I have raised my glass for both of you. Several times, in fact.
Kate: I was looking for a map of the subway, and found that the travel notebook you got me already has one. Stupid Sean...
Curt and Terri: Glad to see you're enjoying these, I hope to keep doing this in some form or another when I get back to the states.
John: There was a restaurant nearby that had about 4 or 5 Northern Pike dishes. Weird, methinks...
To all of you who think Ashley's blog is cooler: You are jerks. Especially you, McKee.
OK, that's it. Gotta jet.
S
The vending machine in the dorms has beer in it, 20 crowns. It's not cold, but--and I don't know how else to emphasize this--YOU CAN BUY BEER IN A DORM ROOM VENDING MACHINE HERE!
Aside from discovering all sorts of new things to see and do without even leaving my dorm, I spent yesterday at a football (football=soccer) game. I took a lot of notes, so that'll be the subject of the next substantial blog.
On Saturday night, Ashley and I went to a little bar near our class building called Duende and had beers there for a while. Surprisingly, we met an American there who was practically in love with us when he learned that we were from the University of Montana because he loves the poetry of Richard Hugo, former creative writing chair at UM. But rather than discuss poetry, he told us why Jersey girls were so much better than New York girls. He got no arguments from me.
Some personal notes:
Josh and Dad: I have raised my glass for both of you. Several times, in fact.
Kate: I was looking for a map of the subway, and found that the travel notebook you got me already has one. Stupid Sean...
Curt and Terri: Glad to see you're enjoying these, I hope to keep doing this in some form or another when I get back to the states.
John: There was a restaurant nearby that had about 4 or 5 Northern Pike dishes. Weird, methinks...
To all of you who think Ashley's blog is cooler: You are jerks. Especially you, McKee.
OK, that's it. Gotta jet.
S
What's the point?
First-off, housekeeping. Ashley had to change the URL on her blog, so that's why there's been no new posts there for a while. I changed the link on this site to her new URL, which is ashleymckeeinprague.blogspot.com Hope you all check it out, she's got a lot of interesting observations up there.
As I've been talking to people about the Roma, I've noticed people are more willing to say things here that at home would instantly be labeled as "racist." More and more discussions I've been having recently have led me to question not only what I'm doing here as a journalist, but what role journalists should play in a democratic society dealing with racial tensions.
In the States, we've come a long way from Manifest Destiny, from Jim Crow, and even from the L.A. riots following the Rodney King verdict. But still, America's immense wealth remains disproportionately in the hands of white Americans, while blacks are disproportionately left to the floodwaters in the Lower Ninth Ward.
Why? Why 40 years after the Civil Rights Movement does the United States still operate under a system of de facto segregation in many neighborhoods? Why do Native Americans have unemployment rates that would cause a revolt if they affected mainstream society? And, perhaps most importantly, why isn't mainstream society appalled?
Following those questions, what do you do about it? And, as an objective journalist covering issues with a wide range of views and opinions and prejudices and injustices, how should my writing contribute to the debate and the solution? Should I just tell people that there are a lot of problems? I think everyone knows that. Should I try to explain the basis of those problems, the events and institutions and attitudes that shaped race relations today? Certainly, because understanding how we got here is essential to figuring out where we're going.
But I think that's where a lot of journalism stops. We find problems, we find underlying factors behind those problems, but we rarely go one step further and try to find solutions. We may interview people who have their own solutions, but we don't come out and say "¨This is what needs to happen."
Of course, to do so would entirely compromise our objectivity, which is precisely why most journalists go to that extra step, instead leaving it to editorial writers and columnists who are sometimes more concerned with making a name for themselves than proposing real solutions. Or we leave it to academics who have written extensively on social issues, who have made a life out of studying the. But I think sometimes academics come off as people in an ivory tower who are out of touch with realities on the ground. So why not journalists proposing solutions, journalists who day in and day out talk to the people who are dïrectly affected by the tense relationships in modern society?
I doubt I know the answers to any of these questions. It's just a laundry list of things running through my head as we get more involved with this project. Hope it hasn't been boring to all of you.
Na zdraví (cheers).
S
As I've been talking to people about the Roma, I've noticed people are more willing to say things here that at home would instantly be labeled as "racist." More and more discussions I've been having recently have led me to question not only what I'm doing here as a journalist, but what role journalists should play in a democratic society dealing with racial tensions.
In the States, we've come a long way from Manifest Destiny, from Jim Crow, and even from the L.A. riots following the Rodney King verdict. But still, America's immense wealth remains disproportionately in the hands of white Americans, while blacks are disproportionately left to the floodwaters in the Lower Ninth Ward.
Why? Why 40 years after the Civil Rights Movement does the United States still operate under a system of de facto segregation in many neighborhoods? Why do Native Americans have unemployment rates that would cause a revolt if they affected mainstream society? And, perhaps most importantly, why isn't mainstream society appalled?
Following those questions, what do you do about it? And, as an objective journalist covering issues with a wide range of views and opinions and prejudices and injustices, how should my writing contribute to the debate and the solution? Should I just tell people that there are a lot of problems? I think everyone knows that. Should I try to explain the basis of those problems, the events and institutions and attitudes that shaped race relations today? Certainly, because understanding how we got here is essential to figuring out where we're going.
But I think that's where a lot of journalism stops. We find problems, we find underlying factors behind those problems, but we rarely go one step further and try to find solutions. We may interview people who have their own solutions, but we don't come out and say "¨This is what needs to happen."
Of course, to do so would entirely compromise our objectivity, which is precisely why most journalists go to that extra step, instead leaving it to editorial writers and columnists who are sometimes more concerned with making a name for themselves than proposing real solutions. Or we leave it to academics who have written extensively on social issues, who have made a life out of studying the. But I think sometimes academics come off as people in an ivory tower who are out of touch with realities on the ground. So why not journalists proposing solutions, journalists who day in and day out talk to the people who are dïrectly affected by the tense relationships in modern society?
I doubt I know the answers to any of these questions. It's just a laundry list of things running through my head as we get more involved with this project. Hope it hasn't been boring to all of you.
Na zdraví (cheers).
S
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