Via Prague

So much for Schadenfreude ..

2008-10-06T17:45:29Z

The past week or so most people I encounter here have been somewhat blase about the financial crisis. In a few I've even detected signs of 'schadenfreude,' which is German for feeling pleasure in the pain, suffering or misfortune of others.
In some ways, I suppose it's natural. As a friend of mine in California used to say, albeit facetiously, 'If you can't laugh at the misfortunes of others, what can you laugh at?'
But that reaction is gradually and suddenly giving way to concern. Today European markets joined in Wall Street's woes. Markets over here were down some 5 percent. Last week, Czech banks were reporting that they were 'unfazed' by the U.S. crisis. But today, markets here are also down, recording heavy losses. The Czech daily Hospodarsky noviny has concluded, 'Times of Easy Credit are Over.'
Meanwhile, former Czech President Vaclav Havel, hero of the 1989 Velvet Revolution, has called the global financial crisis a 'warning.'
Havel, who helped end 40 years of Communist rule here and led the country through its transition to a market economy, told the AP that the crisis should remind people not to abandon basic human values in the struggle to prosper, and that unrestrained materialism is not what freedom and democracy are supposed to be about. Finally, Havel is reported as saying the global financial meltdown proves the world shouldn't put it's trust 'in the pride of economists who think they understand everything.'
I can't help but wonder if this last bit, about 'the pride of economists,' is a small dig at current Czech President Vaclav Klaus, who was prime minister in the Havel Administration. Klaus is an economist, and his far-right views -- for instance, he maintains that global warming is a 'myth' -- have often been at odds with the former president.
But that's speculation. Klaus has not been quoted in the media on the current crisis. Czech Finance Minister Miroslav Kalousek, who this week was given an award by the magazine Emerging Markets, has been reported as saying he's confident the Czech Republic will weather the storm.

The Saddest Lesson

2008-10-05T18:13:06Z

About an hour outside Prague, near the confluence of the Elba and Egre rivers, is the town of Terezin. It's a lovely town, with the autumn leaves falling in red and gold in the town square. A melancholy flavor fills the streets, particularly on Sunday afternoon, when the streets are quiet.
It's hard to believe, as you walk the streets, that such a place could have been witness to some of the most horrendous crimes of the Twentieth Century. Here, following the occupation of Czech lands in 1939, the Prague Gestapo Police set up a prison in a small fortress on the outskirts of the town. The fortress would become what was known as a transfer station, one of many in Europe, that were part of Hitler's Final Solution to the Jewish problem.
By the time the war ended in 1945, some 88,000 people passed through its gates -- many bound for the death camps at Auschwitz and Riga. In the end, a mere 3,000 survived the war. Of those who weren't transferred, many died because of disease and suffering under extremely harsh living conditions.
My student Marian and his girlfriend Andrea invited me along with some of their friends, Radek and Bara, to tour the fortress. I'd seen footage of such horrors on the History Channel, as I'm sure most readers have, but nothing prepared me for what what we'd experience that afternoon.
The fortress itself, built in the 18th Century, is spread out over rolling countryside, grass growing from the flat roofs. After paying at the gate, we passed the guardhouse, which served for censoring inmates' mail as well as for interrogations. Then a clothing warehouse, where new arrivals had to hand over their civilian clothing and dress in uniforms of armies defeated by the Nazis. And then on into the First Yard, divided into two blocks, with mass and solitary cells. Up to 1,500 inmates lived in this yard at any given time.
I'd heard from others who've been to concentration camps all the cliches about chills running down the spine. Walking into one of the mass cells, where the flat wood beds, a long single board that ran the length of the wall, five stories high, you do feel your eyes begin to mist. A single sink, rotted out now with rust, sits by the wall. 'Imagine,' says Marian. 'Up to 100 people were in this room and they had one sink.'
According to our brochures, the cells were often so crowded that each prisoner had less than one square meter of individual space -- which led not only to nervous tension but also helped spread disease. When it got too bad, to relieve overcrowding inmates were shipped off to the death camps.
We passed a delousing station and a 'model' barbershop, a mock room that was designed to show in propaganda films the high quality of hygiene maintained at the prison.
Later we toured blocks of individual cells. I got in one and, to my surprise, Marian shut the door. There was a single wooden bed in a tiny box. I could hardly stand up straight.
'How does it feel?' Marian asked.
'Let me out,' I said.
After passing through a winding corridor we arrived outside. It was a quiet, grassy hillside. A single plaque on the ground told us that it was here that once stood a mass grave. A total of 601 bodies were exhumed in the summer of 1945, and later reburied in the National Cemetery.
But amid these horrors, there were unexpected treasures. In one of the former mass cells, today is a gallery featuring the drawings of a young Czech student who was imprisoned at Terezin during the war. She survived and later became a professional artist. Her drawings, many of them simple pencil drawings, offer wistful, sometimes sad, sometimes insightful, portraits of everyday life in the prison. Evenings when the prisoners sat and talked, or the sick crowded around the cell's single, inadequate heater. One particular drawing struck me: A single person, their back to the viewer, is sitting on the ground by a tree. The inscription, in Czech, reads 'We just want to go home.'
Other such treasures awaited us in the museum, and later, when we toured the Ghetto museum down the street. Scores of artists, musicians and scientists were among those imprisoned at Terezin. While life was harsh and inhumane, many found time and resources to continue to create. Scores for operas ('Terezin Waltz,' I remember one of them being), hand-made cloth dolls, poems, letters, drawings, survive. They provide testament to the courage of people doomed and yet possessed with an indomitable life energy. Thousands of children also were imprisoned, many sent to death camps. And yet teachers held 'secret lessons' for the children, in hopes of providing them with some education should they survive the war (a few did). Some of the children's drawings survive, and are on display.
Marian and Andrea, as well as Radek and Bara, are all university students. They're starting back to school on Monday. Marian's a third-year law student, Andrea and Bara are area studies majors, and Radek is a 'first -year, second-time,' as he says with a smile, IT student. These events happened long before any of us were born, and all of them are too young to remember the Communist era that followed the end of the Second World War, but they all seemed affected by what they saw, just as I was.
In the end, it's a little overwhelming, the sheer volumes of names, of places, of dates and atrocities. You're both exhausted and melancholy, and the sunlight outside seems unnaturally bright, the streets so calm that Marian was moved to remark it felt like a ghost town.
'Next time we have to do something happier,' he says. The others are quiet, reflective. To break the strain, we make little jokes.
Throughout the day, something nagged at me, what I couldn't say. It was a peculiar form of loneliness, an elusive worry, a haunting restlessness, that I was unable to put into words. Walking along with the others, thinking about the day and how tomorrow they had school to go to, the week ahead and my lessons, and then it hit me.
Why didn't I do this before? How many days and nights, since I've come here, have I been content to just sit in a pub, going to the same places with the same people, doing the same things -- wasting time. What about all those people, the thousands upon thousands back there in that place. Children who never got to grow up; old people who committed suicide rather than spend the rest of their lives in prison. Writers who faced extermination with perhaps their best works still residing in them; countless many denied a future simply for being a certain race, or having certain beliefs -- marked for death before they were even born, before they had a chance just so they could fulfill the dreams of a maniac.
There were many lessons to be found at Terezin, but for me on this lovely fall afternoon, that was the saddest lesson. Not just that so many people perished, their lives unfulfilled; but that so many of us with the privilege to live fail to live fully and honorably.
My last image is of a score of music. The composer's name wasn't there, the exact name of the piece eludes me. But I remember looking at that piece, the last page of it open and on display under glass. I studied music at university, but it's been years since I read through a score. For a moment I tried to follow the notes of the piece, to try to summon in my mind the phrases the composer intended, to hear the music as it was meant to be heard. My eye fell on a line of sixteenth notes, slurred together, with a rest on the first sixteenth of each measure. But there was no marking which voice it was, and my skills were too rudimentary and rusty to pull the whole thing together. The notes connected like dots for a moment, but no melody, no music. I should have studied harder in school -- I could have heard that music, and saved it, saved for the lost one who wrote it that which too often expires on the breath, the inexpressible.
I supposed that's what I meant when I said the saddest lesson.

Another Czech joke

2008-10-03T13:18:16Z

A man walks up to a tabák in Prague.
'Dobry den,' he says to the clerk. 'One pack of cigarettes, please.'
When he gets the pack, the man sees a label on the side. 'Smoking causes cancer.'
He hands the pack back to the clerk and asks for another.
The second pack has a label that says,' Smoking can cause impotence.'
The man hands the pack back to the clerk.
'Hmm,' the man says. 'I guess I'll take the first pack.'

A Czech joke

2008-10-03T13:05:05Z

There once lived a beautiful young woman in a small village in Bohemia.
When the time came for her to marry, the young woman announced she didn't like any of the men who lived in the village.
So she proposed a contest. Suitors from all over the world were invited to come to the village, and they would be asked a question: What is love?
The one who answered correctly would win the hand of the lovely maiden.
The first who showed up was a Russian.
'What is love?' the Russian asked. 'Bah! It does not exist! It is only propaganda put forth by intellectuals to keep the middle classes in bondage.'
'Interesting answer, very strong,' the young woman replied. 'But no, that's not it. Next'
The next suitor was an American.
'Well, ma'am,' said the American. 'To me, love means we'd be together forever, through good times and bad.'
'That's very touching,' said the girl. 'Very optimistic. I'll think about it. Next.'
The next one was a Frenchman.
'To me, mademoiselle, love is the stars and the rain and the sunlight in your eyes!'
'Ah, how romantic!' cried the lovely girl. 'But, we'll see. Next.'
Up stepped a suave Italian.
'For me, love means we would go to bed and make love constantly!'
'How exciting!' mused the girl. 'I'll think about it.'
Finally, a young Czech man, who came from a nearby village, stepped up. He had just arrived in the village and wondered what all the fuss was about.
'It is a contest,' said the lovely maiden. 'Can you answer the question, what is love?'
'What is the prize?' asked the Czech, thinking about it.
'Why -- me.' The girl flashed her dazzling smile.
'Yes, yes,' said the Czech. 'And what other prizes are there?'
'You bastard!' cried the girl.
They were married the next day.

Excellent piece in NY Times

2008-10-02T11:39:35Z

This column, which appeared on Tuesday, was shared with me by Frank Tsongas, a former UPI and Radio Free Europe editor (and friend of former T-S city editor Dave Rosso). Thought readers who missed it might enjoy.

By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
Published: September 30, 2008
I was channel surfing on Monday, following the stock market’s nearly 800-point collapse, when a commentator on CNBC caught my attention. He was being asked to give advice to viewers as to what were the best positions to be in to ride out the market storm. Without missing a beat, he answered: “Cash and fetal.”

I’m in both — because I know an unprecedented moment when I see one. I’ve been frightened for my country only a few times in my life: In 1962, when, even as a boy of 9, I followed the tension of the Cuban missile crisis; in 1963, with the assassination of J.F.K.; on Sept. 11, 2001; and on Monday, when the House Republicans brought down the bipartisan rescue package.

But this moment is the scariest of all for me because the previous three were all driven by real or potential attacks on the U.S. system by outsiders. This time, we are doing it to ourselves. This time, it’s our own failure to regulate our own financial system and to legislate the proper remedy that is doing us in.

I’ve always believed that America’s government was a unique political system — one designed by geniuses so that it could be run by idiots. I was wrong. No system can be smart enough to survive this level of incompetence and recklessness by the people charged to run it.

This is dangerous. We have House members, many of whom I suspect can’t balance their own checkbooks, rejecting a complex rescue package because some voters, whom I fear also don’t understand, swamped them with phone calls. I appreciate the popular anger against Wall Street, but you can’t deal with this crisis this way.

This is a credit crisis. It’s all about confidence. What you can’t see is how bank A will no longer lend to good company B or mortgage company C. Because no one is sure the other guy’s assets and collateral are worth anything, which is why the government needs to come in and put a floor under them. Otherwise, the system will be choked of credit, like a body being choked of oxygen and turning blue.

Well, you say, “I don’t own any stocks — let those greedy monsters on Wall Street suffer.” You may not own any stocks, but your pension fund owned some Lehman Brothers commercial paper and your regional bank held subprime mortgage bonds, which is why you were able refinance your house two years ago. And your local airport was insured by A.I.G., and your local municipality sold municipal bonds on Wall Street to finance your street’s new sewer system, and your local car company depended on the credit markets to finance your auto loan — and now that the credit market has dried up, Wachovia bank went bust and your neighbor lost her secretarial job there.

We’re all connected. As others have pointed out, you can’t save Main Street and punish Wall Street anymore than you can be in a rowboat with someone you hate and think that the leak in the bottom of the boat at his end is not going to sink you, too. The world really is flat. We’re all connected. “Decoupling” is pure fantasy.

I totally understand the resentment against Wall Street titans bringing home $60 million bonuses. But when the credit system is imperiled, as it is now, you have to focus on saving the system, even if it means bailing out people who don’t deserve it. Otherwise, you’re saying: I’m going to hold my breath until that Wall Street fat cat turns blue. But he’s not going to turn blue; you are, or we all are. We have to get this right.

My rabbi told this story at Rosh Hashana services on Tuesday: A frail 80-year-old mother is celebrating her birthday and her three sons each give her a present. Harry gives her a new house. Harvey gives her a new car and driver. And Bernie gives her a huge parrot that can recite the entire Torah. A week later, she calls her three sons together and says: “Harry, thanks for the nice house, but I only live in one room. Harvey, thanks for the nice car, but I can’t stand the driver. Bernie, thanks for giving your mother something she could really enjoy. That chicken was delicious.”

Message to Congress: Don’t get cute. Don’t give us something we don’t need. Don’t give us something designed to solve your political problems. Yes, Hank Paulson and Ben Bernanke need to accept strict oversights and the taxpayer must be guaranteed a share in the upside profits from all rescued banks. But other than that, give them the capital and the flexibility to put out this fire.

I always said to myself: Our government is so broken that it can only work in response to a huge crisis. But now we’ve had a huge crisis, and the system still doesn’t seem to work. Our leaders, Republicans and Democrats, have gotten so out of practice of working together that even in the face of this system-threatening meltdown they could not agree on a rescue package, as if they lived on Mars and were just visiting us for the week, with no stake in the outcome.

The story cannot end here. If it does, assume the fetal position.

In defense of blogs (and 'poor writing')

2008-10-02T09:53:35Z

I received something of a jolt the other day, or rather, two. They came when I was checking up on the local news at the T-S website, which since leaving the paper four years ago, I've continued to do on a daily basis. The first jolt came when I noticed that one of the postings on my blog Via Prague had made 'Best of the Blogs,' and was featured on the editorial page. The second came when I read reader comments. 'I guess calling it a blog is an excuse for poor writing,' one (anonymous) reader observed. 'Worst thing I've read in this paper a long time. Painful actually.' Another reader, Jeff, concurred, noting it was 'surprisingly poorly written,' and noted I was a former T-S reporter.
I hate writing as a defensive exercise, especially in defense of 'poor writing,' of which there is no defense. And in defense of the blogosphere, trading barbs with people you're never likely to meet in person. Rather, I much prefer the Hemingway approach. Upon completion of his novel 'The Sun Also Rises,' in which several people recognized themselves in the characters and who subsequently threatened to kill the author, Hemingway announced that at such-and-such-a-time he would be hanging out having a drink at such-and-such-a-bar, and whoever wished to kill him were free to try to do so. No one showed, at least according to Hemingway. But -- not all of us are Hemingway.
Having said that, I'll admit I agree, at least this time, with my critics. That's why I was surprised the posting - 'Bombing is not the (only) solution' - made 'Best of the Blogs.' To be honest, I wasn't that hot on the piece either -- but wait. I've always regarded 'Via Prague' as merely a joural, a way to record passing thoughts, observations, mine as well as others. Here in Prague you can encounter fascinating people, fantastic liars and veteran bores from every corner of the globe. Most of the confidences you meet are unsought -- often you've already had a few pints of frothy Bohemian brew. Now and again you meet a certain remark, even made in passing, and for the hell of it throw it up into our new ether-eralized posterity.
The result -- viewed later -- can sometimes be profound, other times facile or cliche, and sometimes just nothing. Or it can be all of these things together, or you might later on find it useful in some other project. But that's the beauty of it. Since just what exactly a blog is, or is supposed to be, is still in its infancy, it continues to evolve. It's not hard-bound, like a daily newspaper, by certain obligations. Readers? Hell, what readers? Most of the hits I get are spam ads offering to enlarge my penis and sell me a college degree ('No Study Required!') So it's still hit and miss, but remember it's not as if anybody were paying us anything. The balance is, we're free to do what we want, with admittedly mixed results. I've already posted this damn piece three times, then thought about it, came back and added a new thought. But then, in my case, that's the advantage of being 9 time zones away from my base readership (not including the folks at Viagra, of course, another faithful 'reader').
I remember on the eve of leaving America for Europe, a lot of people patted me on the back reassuringly, sometimes enviously, and told me to make sure to 'interview' people 'over there' and 'get some new perspective on America,' some such truck. Naturally, or vainly, I agreed it was a good idea.
Mostly I've tried to include those I've talked to 'over here' in my efforts. Islam, my Bangladesh friend who was quoted at length in the unfortunate last posting, was actually cooking and leaning over my shoulder while I wrote his comments. Understand, his English isn't perfect, and I'll admit I quoted him literally, with all the mangled verb conjugations and prepositions, etc left intact. This was not to disparage him, but to try to capture the unique rhythm of his speech, which I think adds impact to his points. Think of Jim in 'Huckleberry Finn.' Imagine if Twain had corrected Jim's speech to sound like the Queen's English. The sense would have been the same literally, but the music of it would have been lost. I was trying to capture some of that same spirit in Islam. If I failed, I failed and take the blame.
Anyway, what I'm trying to say -- for those who speak only English -- is I didn't think much of the posting either. But think of Via Prague as an ongoing, extended dialogue, a story. And let's hope the next part will be better. If not, dear readers, I can be found hanging out a certain pub in Prague called Pilotu (or just ask for Pavel's bar in Vrsovice) and you are more than welcome to drop by (armed or unarmed, well, unarmed is best) and we'll settle our differences in person. The first pint's on me. And you can even try Islam's cooking. I recommend the curry beef and rice. If you're really nice, he might even let you use his computer.
In my defense, Islam read the reader responses and smiled. 'So --' he said. 'They think we are wrong.'
'Let's write another one,' I said, sitting down with a determined air at the computer in the kitchen at Pavels' where he works.
'No, no,' he said. 'Today we have not anything to say. We must wait.'
Grudgingly I realized, after a few vacant stabs at the keyboard, he was right. The critics had had their day. It's certainly not the first time. While working at the T-S, I recall a certain inmate (who insisted he was innocent) at the Humboldt County Jail used to leave messages on my phone telling me how bad my reporting of his case was.
'I wonder,' the inmate ruminated ominously. 'I wonder, Mr. Tressler, how you sleep at night.'
Not very well, but that could be for any number of reasons -- even poor writing -- but certainly not for any inmates parked in the Pokey, innocent or otherwise, and certainly not for critics. This is not just a turn of phrase: We're all innocent of at least one crime. I may be a 'former reporter,' but being a good writer is one crime of which I've sometimes been accused, but never convicted.

Bombing is not the (only) solution

2008-09-22T17:39:40Z

Islam and I watched today as the Pakistani army repelled two US helicopters which crossed the country's border in a so-called 'relief effort.' The two helicopters met with ground artillery and other displays of power by the Pakistani army, and to their credit, hovered for a moment and got their asses back across the border.
The US government, on approval of the Bush Administration, according to news reports, has been flying into Pakistan to go after the Taliban, which the Bush Administration has accused of allowing Taliban fighters to operate in the villages near the border. According to Pakistani officials, the actions were taken without prior notice given to Islamabad, which claims the actions are a violation of the country's sovereignty.
Islam, who first notified me of the blast at the Marriot Hotel which killed, among 50 others, the Czech ambassador to Pakistan, says increasing military aggression will only aggravate the situation. News reports, it should be noted, have claimed such attacks are efforts to undermine the new government, which, headed by the widow of assasinated Prime Minister BENGIR Bhuto, Asif Ali-Jardari, was elected two weeks ago.
'Bombing is not the only solution to stop terrorism,' Islam said. 'It can be negotiate, what they want, what you want. But not only one solution. ... Taliban is really ... James actually I know nothing about Taliban, terrorism is like worldwide now, some countries have terrorism groups and money is coming from other countries. And they are doing like this. Worldwide they are doing like this.'
'It's Ok. We will think about next time for why they are doing this.'

A newsroom on 9/11

2008-09-11T09:28:19Z

I know everyone's got to be sick of 9/11 and everything associated with it, so I'll make this short.
I remember the morning of 9/11 as well as anybody else, getting woken up by a phone call from a good friend at 6 a.m., then rushing down to the Times-Standard newsroom and turning on CNN. Usually everyone came in when they came in and went about whatever story they were doing. But that day we all had the same story. We spent the day, and into the night, in a fog, on the phone with the airport manager and sheriff's department and coast guard, all of which were engaged in monitoring the airport and coastline for any further attacks. I even remember making an obligatory trip to the Board of Supervisors' meeting, Third District Supervisor John Wooley calling the attacks 'horrific,' the other supes also grim and solem, receiving updates on the local situation. It was clear everyone's minds were anywhere but on the agenda.
If you readers have a copy of the T-S, Sept. 12, 2001, keep it. Go back through it, even the Sports pages. You'll notice EVERY SINGLE STORY in that edition is devoted to the attacks. Every story. I haven't been in the news business that long, just a few years, but I doubt that's ever happened before, or if so, not very often. So keep it, it's a collector's edition.
Looking back, it may strike some readers as funny -- all of this to-do when in fact we were, as usual, the Lost Coast, Behind the Redwood Curtain, worlds away from the disaster, from the columns of dust and smoke and screams arising and expiring from Ground Zero. We North Coast media were just like the rest of the world -- glued to the TV. But you could say the same for just about everyone, everywhere -- we became, for a horrible, long day, and days after, a generation of witnesses, bystanders, and yet, in a way, casualties as well.
In retrospect it's easy to seem like overreaction, melodrama. But it didn't feel that way then.
Here in Europe, I have many friends and acquaintances who also remember the day. One student, Marketa, said she was at work when she got a call from her son. 'Turn on the TV!' he told her, and for the rest of the afternoon all of her colleagues were sitting around the TV. Another friend, Karel, said he got a call from his mother, and at first he thought she was joking. My Irish friends, Dave and Orla, were on a trip in North Africa at the time. They were in an Internet cafe checking email and saw the news. At first, they thought it was a hoax, some hackers who'd managed to break onto Yahoo news. Then they checked a bunch of other sites and found out it wasn't just hackers.
As far as the newsroom on 9/11: how much it's changed since then. Managing Editor Connie Rux and her husband, Sports writer Jack Rux, have long since moved on. City Editor Cliff Larimer ('Get your head out of your ass, Faulk!' Tressler, get off your ass and get over to that courthouse!' Driscoll! What's with the bird lede?') has long since retired with his wife Betsy. Long-time reporter David Anderson, who had only a few months more to live, ambling in with his usual massive ease, and yet even he did a double take when we broke the news (he'd been asleep, he was already suffering from illness). The photo and editing and layout desks, working long into the night.
One last thing: I suppose on this day we should also remember the dangers of insularism. How often do we mark the anniversary of the victims of the 2005 tsunami in Indonesia, which killed far, far more people than the terrorist attack on 9/11? Or the victims of terrorist attacks in Spain or even London for that matter? I could go on and on, listing the world's atrocities, which occurred long before 9/11 and will continue to occur long after. That's not intended to be cynical. It's just a dead certainty.
I could say it keeps us journalists working. Now THAT would be cynical.

Thought for the day

2008-09-07T10:36:05Z

Joe Frazier, after winning a 15-round decision over Muhammad Ali in 1971, the Fight of the Century, reflected on the fight with reporters the next day.
'Ali kept saying, 'Don't you know I'm God!'' A tipple of laughter from the press. 'He kept saying that,' Frazier said. 'Don't you know I'm God,' in between punches. 'Don't you know I'm God! You must fall!'
Joe grinned.
'I just said,' Well, God ... you gonna get whupped tonight.'
Before the fight, Ali, who was seeking to regain the title which had been stripped from him in 1967 for his refusal to join the Army, had announced that 'if Joe Frazier beats me, I'll crawl on my knees across the ring and kiss his feet.'
After the fight, he was asked about why he hadn't kept his promise.
'I lied,' Ali said.

Czechoslovakia Does Not Exist!

2008-09-05T11:35:33Z

It's funny, but after four years of living here in the Czech Republic, every time I write a story for the Times-Standard, they still insist that I live in Czechoslovakia, or at least they insist on using it in headlines/datelines.
Once again, for the fiftieth time (and to readers, too, who have repeatedly made the same error) there is no such thing as Czechoslovakia. It was a country that existed from 1918 to 1993, when the Czechs and Slovaks amicably agreed to separate. These days the Czech Republic and Slovak Republic are both EU member states.
Sorry if it sounds like quibbling. Most Americans probably couldn't find Czech Republic or Slovakia on a map. But it's like referring to the Southern U.S. states as the Confederacy. It just doesn't exist anymore.
And I'm not trying to slam the folks back home. I'm sure my European friends here, their opinion aside, would not be able to name all 50 US states, or the countries that belong to the African Union, or the number of states in the Balkans, etc.
But c' mon, guys! At least get C.R. right.

expats, etc.

2008-08-29T13:27:25Z

You spot each other across the cafe and there's an instant recognition.
A sort of wary contemptuous body language, the worn look around the eyes, which are now scanning in different directions, scouting the bar for potential fresh, bright people -- new people -- the aloofness of step and soul.
You exchange brusque greetings, sometimes not even bothering with introductions. After all they would be superfluous and redundant.
'Right then, where y'from?' (We already know)
'So you living here?' (No, I reside on Pluto actually)
'What y' do?' (Of course you both teach a bit, drink a lot)
Such is why many expats tend to avoid each other. Henry Miller, during his Paris days, described a friend who like him had been in the city a long time, too long. 'We had so many points in common it's like looking into a cracked mirror.'
From this perspective, tourists can actually seem illuminating and refreshing in comparison. At least you don't have to see them again.
At the top of the hill on my street is a hostel. It has a nice cafe, reasonably priced with a great rotating ensemble of bartenders; breezy Irishman Charlie; Andrea and Nikola, two charming Czechs with their matching black-red dreads, and the manager, a Englishman named Brian who's married to a Czech and happily residing in a village outside the city. Each night the bar is reinvented anew, its atmosphere regenerated by the ever-shifting crowds, mostly students, from different corners of the globe.
Then there's us, the expats, who put in reliable shifts, sitting at the bar, chatting up new arrivals, trying to convince Brian to keep the chicken curry on the menu and not put the beer prices up.
'Tourist season's winding down,' he says. 'The food costs are too much. Sorry, I like you guys and all, the expats, but to be honest, the tourists have to come first. They spend the money.'
One of them, the expats I mean, drifts in. He's been outside on the terrace, sipping a Pilsner and reading a sci-fi book in the fading light. I've seen him before, a short, grey-headed English guy, one of those generally described as '45 going on 25,' a group that sometimes I come dangerously close to becoming a member of. His Chris or Ted or Bob. It doesn't matter really. He'll address you, in a warily hearty tone, as Jason or Jeff or one of the interminable Jays.
'Expats can be some of the most boring people I've ever met,' says Brian, the bartender. And you know what he means.
Later, you pay and decide to head to Pavels. There are usually no expats there, except you of course. And Islam, the cook from Bangladesh who is your flatmate. Some Czech friends greet you and you go back and see Islam for a while.
'It's going?' he says. He's making sandwiches.
'It's going.'
'Ah, life is hard,' he says, smiling.
'Life is fight,' I say, adopting his style.
'Life is life.'
'Life is life.' The kitchen is small and warm, but there's a computer where Islam checks the news in Bangladesh and world news and chats online with his Czech girlfriend Monika. I tell her hello. 'Cau!' she flashes back electronically.
'What about interview?' Islam asks. I'd applied for a school in Istanbul.
'Tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow?'
Out in the bar it's noisy and smoky, but Pavel is as always relaxed and a bit stoned. His girlfriend says hey and Pavel already has a frothy pint ready, and the bar has a close, friendly feel and the weary expat feeling washes away.

Quote of the week

2008-08-22T10:11:47Z

As Czechs this week marked the 40th anniversary of the 1968 Warsaw Pact invasion of their country, I couldn't help but wonder what my Czech friends think about the recent Russian invasion of Georgia, also a former Soviet satellite. I thought maybe Czechs could offer some insight.
So I asked my student Rudolf, in his mid-thirties and who works for an energy company in Prague.
Have you been watching the stuff on TV, the anniversary, I ask?
No, Rudolf said. Too busy. He's building a new house outside Prague. He's even too busy to watch the Olympics.
What about the Russians invasion of Georgia, I persist.
Rudolf shrugs. Who knows.
We continue with our lesson.
Later that evening over beers at Pavels, I turned to my colleague Tomas, and told him about my conversation with Rudolf.
'I asked him about the anniversary, about Russia and Georgia,' I said. 'And Rudolf, he just said he doesn't watch TV.'
Tomas raised his eyebrows and reflected.
'Hmm ... that may be the wisest thing, after all.'

A grim anniversary and the Law of Round Numbers

2008-08-22T09:59:53Z

OK, so I was wrong.
Some readers may recall a year ago this month I wrote a piece for the T-S, 'Czechs and the History of Forgetting,' wherein I commisserated with Czech friends and students on how today's Czechs seem to have fallen out of touch with their country's tragic past. Specifically I was referring to Aug. 21, 1968, when Soviet-led tanks rolled into the city, crushing the so-called Prague Spring, efforts to bring liberal reforms to the Communist regime.
So it was a refreshing jolt these past few days seeing the anniversary observed throughout the city. In pubs, in between the Olympics, there have been documentaries. In the center, politicians have laid wreaths at the graves of dissidents killed during the invasion, as well as Jan Palach, the dissident who set himself on fire in protest. The prime minister held a ceremony honoring surviving dissidents. Even a commemorative tank was set up in front of the National Museum on Wenceslas Square.
What happened between one year and the next, dear reader?
It was my mistake, one many young journalists make. You see, reader, last year marked only the 39th anniversary. Who cares about the 39th? For example, Pearl Harbor. Sure, we remember each year when Dec. 7 rolls around, but really, let's be honest. The 50th anniversary, say, or even the 25th or 10th anniversaries. These have a certain ring to them, a roundness that sooths the ear and congenitive histrionic that resides within each of us.
So -- this year marks the 40th anniversary since the invasion, hence all the fireworks and waterworks.
Sorry if I sound like a smart ass (although I am being a little on purpose). We who safeguard the truth within the sacred walls of journalism must always remember the Law of Round Numbers. If it's the 27th anniversary, or the 39th, or the 99th, sure send somebody out. But a photo and cutline will do. Save the rest for the right numbers.

Dear Obama, from Prague

2008-07-24T11:26:06Z

Dear Obama,
Like most people here on the Continent, Czechs are intrigued at the possiblity of an Obama presidency. Here in the former Eastern bloc, and especially here in the Czech Republic, where the president is chosen by members of Parliament and not by popular election, many Czechs look on with a mixture of wonder and envy.
Of course your visit to Europe this week has been well noted in the press. But one thing that I personally wonder about, since this tour is intended to bolster your foreign policy credentials, is why you didn't include Prague on your itinerary. After all, just 100 kilometers from the city the U.S. has plans to build a missile defense shield for Europe. The radar would be here and the missiles across the border in Poland, and the entire system is intended to protect the Continent from nuclear attacks from Iran and North Korea.
As you probably know, U.S. Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice last week was here and signed a treaty with her Czech counterpart. Meanwhile, the proposed radar has generated controversy here, as polls have shown a majority of Czechs oppose the project, and Russia has also voiced objections.
It would be interesting to hear what you and your Republican rival John McCain would have to say about it. Of course, plans for the radar have been in discussion for years, and reports here have suggested that no matter who wins in November it won't affect the outcome. President Bush, in a visit here last summer. praised Czechs for overcoming 40 years of Communist rule, and told them the shield is a part of the ongoing struggle to protect democracy.
What do you think? Many Czechs tell me they don't think the shield is necessary. Part of their reservations stem from fear that it will make their country a target, but also it smacks of old Cold War chess moves and brinksmanship especially with Putin's Russia on the march (Last week, energy supplies to the Czech Republic were temporarily interrupted, although Russian officials say it was merely an accident).
Anyway, I realize there is a lot on your plate, with Iraq, Afghanistan, the economy. But instead of speaking in front of the 'Gate in Germany, perhaps you might have come to this small corner of Europe, a small corner that is invested in democracy (there are small contingents in Afghanistan and Iraq), and could have a bigger role to play in the near future.
Just a thought.
James Tressler
Prague

Mozart!

2008-07-23T08:27:59Z

If you're ever in Prague, you absolutely must attend a performance at the Estates Theater in Old Town. It was here in 1787 that Mozart's Don Giovanni had its world premiere, and was featured in the movie Amadeus. Mozart wrote the tragic opera for the city following the glorious success of his 'Marriage of Figaro' in the Golden City.
My friend Michelangelo Cavalcanti, a Brazillian who has trained at the Royal Academy of Music in London, invited me to attend a performance last night of the Don at the the theater. I picked up my ticket and sat down literally in the front row looking down on the orchestra pit, and as the lights went down and the famous ominous chords opened, I watched the conductor, realizing that this was exactly where Mozart himself stood during the premiere.
Michaelangelo was cast as the doomed Don Giovanni, and I must say it's easy to see why he has performed in opera houses throughout the world. His performance -- along with the rest of the mostly Czech cast -- was stunning, and the climax -- where the dead Commander comes to the Don's house to consign him to eternal flames, Mozart's spirit truly comes alive. I definitely owe Michelangelo a dinner and a few drinks for a priceless experience.
As I said, I sat in the pit near the orchestra, and thanks to Michelangelo, only had to pay about 100 crowns (about 7 bucks!). Usually of course it costs much more, and I can't imagine how much it cost for those who sat in the private boxes, but anyway ... After the performance ended I strolled down the street. It was a clear night and so I walked over to the Three Golden Lions, where Mozart and his librettist Lorenzo da Ponte stayed while they were writing the opera. It's just down the street from the opera house, and each night they (along with Cassanova, who advised them on Don Giovanni's character) swilled down beer and punch and Prague ham in the cafes and pubs.
Walking along, I reflected on my whining about visas and foreign police, and how long it has been since I did something simple like stroll through Old Town on a summer night. It's easy to forget sometimes, to get caught up in the day to day, the teaching, expat melancholy, why I came here in the first place. Long live Mozart!