The Course Of Understanding Part 1

This is a story I wrote as an e-mail serial a few years ago, which turned into my own little novelette. It's about a weekend I spent in Bratislava, and the beginning of a long an enriching personal feud with that city. After I had sent the last instalment about 6 months after the experience itself, my parents surprised me by having about 30 copies bound, which they brought to me when they visited in Prague. I'm quite proud of it, since it's the longest single thing I've written, and I still find it very entertaining. Okay, laughing at your own jokes may not be the best indication of poise or skill, but I don't care.

Most of all here I apologize for the formatting and correction. I don't have time to read it all for errors at the moment, and this blogger erases all extra spaces and indentations, so it's hard to read. If anyone knows of a better way to do this, please let me know! I also apologize if it doesn't make sense at first, because these chapters were originally written as e-mails to friends who had some background on me already. If I get time I'll try to rewrite it so it's accessible for everyone. In any case, I hope you get some enjoyment out of my misery (that's the only thing that makes misery easier to handle), and please let me know what you think.



THE COURSE OF UNDERSTANDING
PREFACE
In order for you to understand the bulk of the story, it will be necessary for me to relate some of the details involved with the process of getting a residence visa in Czech Republic. I’ll try to explain this quickly: think of the worst nightmare you’ve ever had (no really, think about it. Try to picture it. You’ve got it? Okay...) and then make the setting in a crowded government office, and make it tedious and boring! Lots of people live in this city on tourists’ visas (which last 90 days and are pretty easily renewed whenever you exit and reenter the country). They leave the country every 90 days and I’ve never heard of any problems. Thing is, it’s a gray area, legally speaking, and a little questionable, and I don’t want to be a tourist. Thus I must expose myself to the pitiless fury of Czech government offices against foreigners. There are a number of docs one must gather, each one of which is a different process, and different story: work permit, employer contract, Czech criminal record, American criminal record, residence contract, proof of financial security, etc. Let’s take the story with the Czech criminal record to get a picture of this process. The first factor is the bad hours, and the fact that I work most of the prime times. For many of these places there’s only a day or two I can even get to the office!
1. THE MYSTERY OF THE CRIMINAL RECORD!
1. I went to scope things out. I’ve discovered that simply hunting down the location (possession of maps and address notwithstanding) can be a major hurtle in and of itself (I miss the grid system!). After a lot of wandering about I found the huge building, and luckily knew that the office I wanted was out back (an American friend told me. Sharing information is really an essential part of this, since getting even the smallest bit of info without speaking the language is almost always an embarrassing and difficult ordeal). I saw that the office (an odd glass structure built onto the side of the building, looking like half a green-house) was crowded and overflowing into the parking lot, and with rain coming and nothing to read I decided to come back later. First step, location!
2. I went back to the office next week, and tried to decipher the system. In a foreign country, observation is key. Everyone seemed to be going into the office in front of the line and coming back a few seconds later, holding something. I went into the building and found people taking numbers from a machine, and I followed the example. I then saw the screens around and outside the building, flashing numbers: two numbers! There was one three-digit, which might match the number on my card (which would imply about 150 people ahead of me), and a random presentation of one-digit numbers, which did not correlate with anything I saw. To make matters worse, there appeared to be no organized line, and people were going into two different doors, one the left side of the structure and one on the opposite side, with no rhyme or reason. These doors were numbered 58 and 14. While trying to decode this I took a look at the application everyone seemed to be filling out, which was a nightmare in itself; all czech, much of which did not appear in my dictionary (legal language), and several things I could not understand (one thing I couldn’t understand, which I’ve learned about since, was the request for my mother’s maiden name!). While trying to figure this out, and making other people nervous by looking too carefully at their papers, I realized that the numbers on the screens must be the call-number, and the number of the window which you should go to. This came after I noticed that the number 9 never appeared, and the two doors were numbered not 58 and 14, but 5-8 and 1-4, meaning each door had four windows behind it. While waiting outside for my number (they moved pretty quick, which will be seen) I did my best on the application. My number approached quickly, and I went into the left door, saw the four windows and sat down in front of my window. Behind the window was a perfect example of a category of people I would learn to know very well: the nearly retired, tired, no-nonsense, female, czech government worker. I swear the government makes all of these attributes requirements for an office job; I never saw any deviation from it. Some details about the character of these people, they don’t speak a word of english (and they are tired of being asked), they don’t like their jobs, and they don’t like YOU! (I only saw one exception to these rules, on the last point there was once one woman who tried to be helpful). So, I sat down, asked if she spoke English (well, I had to ask!). She didn’t. I handed my application to her, with passport. She looked at it, handed it back, and handed me a sheet of writing (in Czech), she underlined one thing on the paper, and made it clear that she was done with me. I walked out with another clue in the mystery of the criminal record.
I took the paper to my school director, my students, and my friends, for a few weeks. None of them could give me a better translation of the underlines sentence than: "you need 50 crowns worth of ‘stamps’" but no one could tell me what this meant. Finally Jakub (Mariana’s boyfriend) told me that he knew what it is, and that you could get them at the post office. On to the post office!
At the post office, there are several different types of windows, each with different tasks (paying bills, collecting small packages, collecting big packages, sending packages, etc.). I took my underlined sentence (there was no way I could pronounce the name!). I stood in the first line and then presented the paper to the lady, asked her if she knew that it meant, and if she had any. She looked at it a moment, and then told me no. I stood in a different line. Same response. Next line, I got some sign language, which suggested I should go upstairs. Upstairs there are several types of windows... you get the idea. On the second window a young man took my paper, called over a colleague, and they studied it together, with a vague undertone of long-buried recognition. Finally the man went out of his window and to a door, where he disappeared for long enough to make me slightly concerned. He came back and led me to a different door, and left me in front of it. I tried the handle: locked. I noticed a speaker with a buzzer by the door. Doubtlessly I was expected to ring the buzzer, but then what? I couldn’t explain what I wanted even face-to-face and with it written out in front of me! After a few moments someone came out of the door, and I entered. It was a small room, with a teller-window on one side. I have since learned that one person at a time is allowed in this room, because a lot of money changes hands here. This is also where you buy boxes.
I presents the paper to the lady behind the window, who looked at it in confusion for a moment, long enough to make me concerned, and then she went to a box and took out a stamp, which had a big 50 Kc printed on it. Success!
3. I returned to the foreign police station, and again waited for 150 people to finish. I walked into the door, sat down, and confidently handed my papers to the lady. She asked for my passport, which I gave her, and then she asked for something else, which I didn’t understand. She handed me a different paper, underlined something, and sent me away. I was starting to get the hang of this!
Fortunately this one was easy. My director told me they needed my birth certificate also, and they needed my passport and birth certificate translated into Czech. She told me that she is a licensed translator, and so I brought my things to her to translate.
4. Much later, I returned again to this Everest of paperwork, and waited in line, this time risking a little confidence. I presented my papers to the woman, who quick looked at my papers, glanced at the translations, and began to express disagreement. She wrote out an address with a note and gave it to me. I didn’t even need to see her sending me away to know my cue. I considered questioning it, but without knowing how it would be little more than making myself a problem, and getting help would be even more unlikely.
I took the note to my director (you’d think she’d be getting annoyed by now, but most of these requests were several weeks apart, so not really!). She told me that the note said I must have the documents translated by the specific company, which they wrote the address of. She was confused by this, because her translations had always worked in the past. I set out to find this address, and since it was on Wensaslas square, which is the center of the city, I didn’t expect too much difficulty.
This address was not easy to find. After getting to the square, it took me about an hour and a half. The number was 17, and I could not find any addresses between 11 and 19. Naturally, I asked at the place next to 19. Nope. I then asked at all the stored between 11 and 19 (as far as communication was possible), getting varied responses. Finally I noticed that there was a small walkway going under the buildings, lined with shops (similar to the Garden Walk in downtown Chico). There were about 20 shops here. Turns out that this walkway is number 17.
After a mangled conversation with an old security guard who didn’t speak a word of english, I found a door in a corner which led to a very off-limits looking hallway. There were two guards in the room, blocking the staircase at the end of the dark hallway. After mustering my courage, I entered another mangled attempt at gathering information, and got pointed up the staircase. Four floors up, I finally found a door which seemed to be the right place. I rang, the door opened, and I had two questions read for the young man who answered. 1. "Do you speak English?" "Yes of course." 2. "How much will it cost to translate my passport and birth certificate?" "About 560 crowns a page" "okay, thank you." And I quickly walked out. Okay, perspective: my two documents would be at least two pages (if they decided to fit it onto two pages, which was by no means certain), so 1120 crowns. This would easily feed me for at least two weeks. I usually survive on about 5000 crowns a month, and don’t have a lot to spare. Long story short, even though I was bracing myself for something outrageous, I was shocked by this price, and it was not feasible. So, I decided that before giving up on the whole process, I would return to the police station with the same documents once more.
5. I stood in line (200 people this time), the whole time thinking that this was an exercise in futility. When it was my turn, I went to my window (I’m a pro at this by now!), and handed my papers to the lady. She glanced at my documents, glanced at the translations (done by my director), mechanically stamped my application, and handed me my official Czech Criminal Record, all without ever looking at me. It’s a good thing she didn’t, because if she had looked up she would have seen a very unusual, almost rapturous expression on my face, as I delicately held my own Holy Grail of bureaucracy. I felt like I was standing in a pillar of light, and I could almost hear the angels singing.
So why was I accepted this last time and not before? There’s no reason I’ve been able to determine. Even more perplexing is that the last lady did not even take time to read anything on any of my papers, did not look anything up on the computer, didn’t ask me any questions...really didn’t do anything at all, and yet she saw fit to hand me an official paper saying I had a clean criminal record (even though I saw no attempt at verification of this questionable "fact"). I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I still don’t understand any of it, and my success does not mean I understand any reasons for a single step of the process. Really, it’s still a mystery, but one I managed to close the book on.
This was only one piece of paper among several, each having similar stories and ordeals.

The Course Of Understanding part 2

2. DODGING BULLETS
Okay, take a breather, reader, because all of that was just background, so you’ll be able to understand the significance of the following events. I’ve been working on this test of my patience since September, and all this was leading up to the final crucial episode, where I must take all documents to a Czech embassy outside the country. This law is actually a new on in Czech Republic, and came as a surprise to my director (though I’d already heard from others that it would be necessary). Every Czech was rather amazed when they heard I must go out of the country to ask for a residence visa. My best attempt at putting logic in it is that in the mind of the government, anyone who is asking permission to live in CZ must ask permission from outside. This is a nice thought, except that everyone I know who is going through this process is already living in Prague on a tourist visa. Are you exhausted yet, go get a stiff drink, Warning: Caleb is longwinded, this is just the prologue people!!!! From, Deborah
So, about the time I learned I would definitely have to go out of the country some time, I also learned that none of my documents could be older than 6 months. Well, I got my work visa on October 7, which means 6 months on April 7, so: "I guess I’m going now!" BANG! The bullets start flying. I started looking for the best place to go. My main concern was to make it as inexpensive as possible. I considered Paris or London, but they really weren’t possible. So, Dresden in Germany, Vienna in Austria, or Bratislava in Slovakia. I really didn’t want to go back to Bratislava, after my extremely boring day trip there about five months ago. However, though Dresden and Vienna are actually closer, since they are on the Euro they cost about twice as much as going to Bratislava. So, back to Slovakia. From the beginning, I wasn’t happy about this. BANG!
On Saturday I got on the internet and wrote my mother like the good boy that I am. (This is from Deborah again). I started researching the embassy in Bratislava. It seemed their visa application department is open only Monday-Thursday, from 9-11. First sign of trouble. But I assumed this is because it wasn’t very popular. Then my director called the embassy and found out that people start getting in line at 4 in the morning. So.......! BANG!
I decided that I’d better go on Sunday and scope things out (location!), spend the night at a hostel, and take care of business Monday. The best bus ticket I could get left Prague at 6 am Sunday and returned to Prague 7 pm Monday (it’s a 5 hour trip by bus, going through Brno in south east Czech Republic). I started frantically gathering papers: getting a hold of my landlord to fill out some forms, trying to decipher my application, making sure everything was translated, and getting my parents to fax a letter of financial security at the very last minute (BTW, I have only since realized that I have in my possession a signed letter from my parents saying they will bail me out of any financial fix. Talk about every boy’s dream!!) This accounted for four days of frenzied preparation, praying that I had everything I needed. And considering that most of my experiences with this process were hit or miss (with a low batting average), I had no reasons to be optimistic.
On Friday, after class, one of my students came to me and said "you know the clocks change this weekend, yes?" Turns out that Sunday morning was Czech Republic’s "spring forward" day, and if this student hadn’t decided to mention it to me, I would have missed the bus, without a doubt. BANG! DODGE! I knew there were a lot more bullets out there, any one of which could finish me. I started to have the strange feeling that fate was against me. "All occasions do inform against me." Never the less, with few choices before me, I prepared to cautiously step into this rushing river of fate, and then quickly break into a sprint against the current. Smoked salmon anyone?!

The Course Of Understanding part 3

3. OOPS, SLOVAKIA IS A RELIGIOUS COUNTRY!
Before leaving Prague I had also found the addresses of the Czech Embassy in Bratislava and several good (read: cheap) hostels. I also glanced at their locations on an Internet map. I wrote down the addresses, and, armed with a vague memory of where tourist information was located, I decided to pretend I was ready. I woke up dark and early at 4:30 (after going to sleep at midnight due to last minute packing), and reached the bus with at least three minutes to spare. The bus trip was completely uneventful: working through the middle section of Les Miserables and dozing a bit. The only worry on my mind was that I had not discovered the thing I was missing. Of course everyone knows that there must always be something you forget, and I’ve given up hoping to beat this law, I just hope it’ll be something unessential, especially on a trip like this. About the time we were crossing the Slovak boarder, and I was mentally going over my plan in my mind, I took out my address paper to review it. At least, I tried to. Being unable to find the paper, I realized that it had sadly fallen prey to Murphy’s Law. I was actually relieved by this, since it was not nearly as bad as other items that Murphy might have chosen as a sacrifice. This meant I simply had to find the tourist agency, and everything would go smoothly once I could ask all my questions. My only added concern was that I was now placing a lot of emphasis on the helpfulness of the people at the information office. But hey, that’s their job, right?!
I arrived in Bratislava a little before 11, instantly feeling an unwelcome familiarity with the streets around the station, the gypsies standing by the bus doors to request (read: demand) money, and the crowded dilapidated buildings blocking the sky. I attempted to make a B-line from the station, through the center, and straight to the tourist office (an ordeal of an hour and a half in the last trip), and was immensely pleased with myself for making it without a single wrong turn and in 20 minutes! Maybe my past experiences would make Bratislava a good choice after all! I was also pleased that the streets were very quiet (hushed background voice: "toooooo quiet...."), and there were not crowds of tourists to contend with. The quaint "historic center" actually started to look a little charming. I came to the desired, all-important information building from the side, and felt the uncertainty before I saw the problem: no one was inside. I walked to the door: closed. Sign on the door: "Sunday blah blah blah" And a little below that: "12:15 blah to blah blah 1:30." I pressed my face to the window and peered in. Yep, that sign wasn’t kidding! I’ve never seen a more perfect example of "clear as mud."
So, there was still a chance that the office would open at noon. Hope never dies from a single blow. I retraced my steps a bit to visit the neighborhood Tesco, which seemed to be one of the few places open. Tesco is the Wal-mart of Europe. I actually like the Bratislava Tesco quite a bit. They actually have poster-board! You’ve no idea! They also have maps of the city, of which I made a mental note. If I ended up being on my own for this one, I needed to start listing all my resources.
I spent about 45 minutes wandering the store, because it was better than sitting in front of the office. By the way, it was cold that day. Mostly cloudy, probably around 40-45 degrees with a nice wind. The elements were a major consideration.
I finally returned to wait at the office... for about an hour. Around 12:00 I started looking for someone to go and unlock the door; around 12:15 I went to stand in front of the door myself; around 12:30 I sat down on a stone wall and started reading; and around 1:00 I started making my own plans. That little paper with addresses started to feel not-so-dispensable.
Having walked through the center three times already, I had noticed that everything was closed. This means everything. Prague is quieter on Sunday than other days, true, but in the center you’d never know what day is was: "the tourism must go on!" However, Czech Republic is an atheistic country, Slovakia is strongly catholic. Bratislava was shut down for the Sabbath, tourism notwithstanding. Lord bless their dedication, and I was officially left with little more than a prayer. Here I was in Bratislava, and having gotten this far it was possible I wouldn’t be able to find the embassy!
I returned to Tesco and bought the city map (exploit resources!), not suspecting in the least that I was getting more than just a map. I then proceeded to give myself a headache trying to remember the glimpses of maps I’d seen on the internet. Really, I never thought I’d need to remember them. Plan A had been finding the addresses; plan B was asking at the Information office... who keeps a plan C? Also, I had found the address for a "Czech Center" which could easily be different than the Czech Embassy. If they were different things, I could just ask at the Czech Center right? Wanna bet that they’re open? Me neither.
After about 20 minutes of staring at the map, I was pretty sure I recognized an area down by the river. Hey, the Danube, going right through the middle of the city: shouldn’t be hard to find, right? After two hours, an unwanted self-"guided" city walking tour, and a violent clash of opinions with my map (take note of this!), I was standing triumphantly before the Czech Center (less than half a mile from Tesco, as the crow flies). After a few moments of uncertainty, dramatically scripted to top-off the last two hours of worrying about it, I found the nearby door for the Czech Embassy, along with the hours for Visa application. Location: Success!

The Course Of Understanding part 4

4. A PLACE TO LAY MY HEAD
The Czech embassy truly is graced with an excellent location. It sits on a nice and large city square (one of the few actually pleasant places in the city (I know my distain for this city is coming a little thick, but it’s really not just me! Really, ask Deborah about it, and this is one thing that she’ll actually agree with me on! Imagine that!)), with its back to the Danube (not blue! but pretty), and snuggled up against a huge and rather imposing building to its right. This other building might not be so imposing by itself, but it was not by itself. The street, and much of the square before it, was blocked off with cement barriers, topped with chain link fence and barbed wire to a height of about 7 feet. On all corners there were small guardhouses, and the entries on both sides were covered by a kind of double-gatehouse system that was straight out of the castle architect manual. Strategically scattered thickly around the fortified area were no less than 10 highly armed guards. The strange thing is, every one of them was outfitted differently. One was in all black, complete with black bandana and black assault rifle across his chest. Another wore a vest with (most noticeably) a combat knife the length of my forearm, a big pistol, a can of mace, and what looked very much like (but couldn’t possibly have been) a grenade. At least, he walked like it was a grenade ("worship me, or I’ll blow your scattered remains through all that pretty architecture you bloody tourists like so much!"). Another soldier was in all camo, complete with the black lines under his eyes. Really, each one of these guys looked like an exhibit at an action figure line-up! Either that, or the newest Bruce Willis movie was being filmed there.
So what could this building possibly be? The Slovakian Capital building? No, I passed by the capital later that night, and counted a grand total of two visible guards. The Slovakian National Bank? From what I’ve heard, the only thing that could be stolen is debt, so no. The answer came to me in the form of the old stars and stripes, flapping over this vault of a building. It was in fact the American embassy. The picture that foreigners have of America gets another mental brushstroke.
The most frightening thing about the guards was that they seemed bored. Not wanting to provide entertainment, I decided to not hang around. With the weather taking a toll on me (around this time I noticed that Murphy had also confiscated my Kleenex), my next mission was to locate a hostel. I managed to recall the location of one hostel, using a method similar to that which led me to the embassy (I really must learn "aspirin" in czech). I set out for the hostel. This gave me a solid acquaintance with every street I hadn’t walked down on my first tour. It also resulted in the rapid degeneration of my young relationship with my map. I guess these trans-cultural flings usually don’t last long, though it can still be quite emotional. In this one, there was also backlash.
According to the map the hostel was one and a quarter miles from the Embassy. However, following the map (and thereby taking the "scenic" route) meant it was about two hours walking. I got there around 5:00, planning to go to bed, rest/sleep until about 3 am, and then get in line for the embassy before anyone else could. After all, I was not going to let all this go to waste by not getting in line soon enough!
I was encouraged that the hostel was a five+ story building that took up most of the block. With it not being tourist season, I knew they’d have a bed for me somewhere. I also remembered that the internet had said this hostel charged 75 Kc a night (less than $3)! So, after reviewing the different approaches I could take to getting information (and forming plans A, B, AND C in my mind) I walked into the hostel and boldly attempted to engage in communication with the lady behind the desk. Though I instantly recognized the "middle-aged woman desk worker" attitude in the way she didn’t even look up when I walked up to her, I decided to use my usual opening. "Prominte, mlvite anglicky?" This, my most polished phrase, is czech for "excuse me, do you speak English?" Response: an uncomprehending and uncaring stare. I should mention here that the Czech Language and Slovak Language are sister-tongues, with word overlap between 50 and 75 percent, depending on who you ask. I’ve found that usually I can communicate with a Slovak as well as a Czech (though that’s not saying much). However, after confusing the heck out of five people on this trip, I figured out that my most polished czech phrase does not overlap with Slovak. So, plan B: "Do you speak English?" Response: one shake of the head and a return to the newspaper. So, plan C "Tak, potrebuju pokoj pro jeden noc. Mate?" (Deborah, I know! Don’t correct me, I know it’s painful!). ="so, I need a room for one night. Do you have one?" The strangeness of an English speaker trying to speak Czech in Slovakia must have been enough to make her willing to communicate: "Nemame." Basically, no. "Fakt, nic?!" =really? Nothing?! "Nic." She returned to her newspaper, completely indifferent to the fact that I was still standing there, trying to recover from the shock of watching Plan A, B, AND C crumble before my eyes in about 30 seconds.
This was a blow.
I walked outside, and to my delight, saw the sign for another hostel just across the street. I looked at my map, and only then realized that there were little arrows pointing out hostels. That would have made things easier. However, it also told me that these two hostels were on only ones within walking distance of the center. Since I would be returning to the embassy around 3 or 4 A.M., long before the public transportation started, I needed to be within walking distance.
So I approached hostel number 2. Walking inside, I saw the front desk enclosed in a glass room, and an elderly couple relaxing there. They definitely did not fit the disgruntled-desk-worker stereotype, and so I really had no idea what to expect.
I asked them if they spoke English (though I knew the answer, it’s still helpful to let them know where I’m coming from). They seemed quite friendly (maybe even excited to have someone to talk to), and I learned they didn’t speak a word of English, only Slovak and German. So I whipped out: "Tak, potrebuju pokoj pro jeden noc. Mate?" "Bohuzel, ne. Tady je studentky domu. Blah blah blah faculty blah blah. Rozumite?" ="Unfortunately, no. This is a student house. Blah blah blah university blah blah. Understand?" okaaaaaay. Well, they were very friendly, and when I looked a little let-down by their answer, they then started an unchecked string of words (usually speaking simultaneously), and I understood almost nothing except that they were now on a mission to find me a hostel. They asked if I had a mobile. Mine doesn’t work in Slovakia, so no. They started making phone calls from the office. Things were now completely out of my control and understanding, so I just stood there in confusion, and as I started to understand what was happening, I stood there in wonder. Helpful people! Friendly strangers! Oh beautiful impossibility and wonderful blessing! After some time I learned that the phone of the hostel they were calling wasn’t working, so they had called the Internet cafe that is across the street from the hostel. They didn’t know if the hostel had beds, but I could go and find out. They then started explaining how to get there. This is where the blessing started overflowing a bit, because they were quite particular about their directions, and the problem is they both had different plans. As I stood there in shocked silence (which they took as incomprehension, which only encouraged them to explain things again in a slightly different way) they simultaneously and rapidly explained their different directions, while drawing maps and addresses on multiple pieces of paper. This went on for no less than 20 minutes. The directions could be summarized to: "take tram 202 three stops north." After getting this reiterated countless times, and getting a handful of different versions of the same map, they dropped the last bit of information: "so you can ask there if they have any rooms, and they charge 630 Kc a night." I wasn’t sure whether to fall over or burst out laughing. Fortunately I managed to resist both of these responses, and after profusely thanking the couple, I made my escape before they could start explaining the directions again. So, let’s just say I would have been hesitant to pay 150 a night, and that this was far beyond impossible. Also, this third hostel was well out of walking distance, so it would be of no help.
I started to see plan X (or something like that, it’s hard to keep track of them at this point) begin to creep into my mind, and though I tried to beat it back down, there wasn’t much I could do. It started to sink in that there was not a bed for me in this town. I knew I would be spending the night outside.
Just in case, I checked my map to see if it pointed out the most comfortable park benches. Unfortunately, it didn’t (I knew I shouldn’t have bought the cheapest map!). So, regretting that I’d never taken that "Homeless 101" class offered at Butte, I set out to find a bench for myself. It was then a little after 5:30. It was shaping up to be a long night. So, which way is the center?

The Course Of Understanding part 5

5. THE EVILS OF MAPS
Those who know me (notice the absence of "well") will not be at all surprised by the events in this chapter. Anyone who has traveled with me (and more especially, those who have been with me in a strange European city when we discovered we were late for the last bus back to camp, and after following my lead by running hard across the city, discovered that we’d made very good time in the wrong direction), these people can tell you that I have a diseas—gift. The gift is that I can make any situation requiring navigation of any kind "interesting." "What, just two blocks to the grocery story? You can’t miss it? We’ll see about that!!"
I have been accused of being bad luck, of having the sense of direction of a slug, or of deliberately trying to get everyone lost (for reasons varying from a desire to kill off my friends, to a plan to run for governor of Tennessee). But really, the truth is much simpler: and like almost all probl— gifts, the source is found in the realm of relationships. As a rule, I do not get along with Maps. It’s impossible to know who started this feud, and the truth probably lies in the irrelevant deeds committed by the ancestors of our two clans. For myself I’m willing to make peace, but the Maps will not hear of it (not having ears). I had hoped to escape the bloodbath by fleeing the country, but the Maps seems to have excellent trans-Atlantic communications, and I found the war waiting for me the moment I stepped off the plane, more vicious than ever (hey Daniel, remember London?!). So the battle continues, now on an intercontinental scale. My enemy often allows me time to forget, to become confident, and then strikes with the power of a spring-powered paper cut.
But, you might protest, maps have allowed so many great advances in our society! Maps inspired Columbus to discover America! Perhaps the maps were responsible for whispering misleading suggestions into ol’ Chris’s ears, but let’s not forget what he was looking for! It’s a good thing for him that the Maps were unaware that America was sitting in his path, because from looking at Maps Chris had miscalculated the distance to India by about 10,000 miles. He’d been sent on a suicide mission. And in the Americas the war really got going: Lewis and Clarke, holding a half drawn map and boldly searching the country for the Northwest Passage ("We KNOW it’s around here somewhere!"), Cortez being guided on the trail to the seven Gold Cities of the Aztecs ("Seems a bit dodgy, but the map says they’re around here somewhere, so it must be true...."), and that other guy on a mission to find the Fountain of Youth ("I’ll find it, it’s just a matter of time!"). Thus the tomes of history continue, right into the present age, when even the grid-system doesn’t help us, and if we don’t get lost on the road, we get lost trying to fold the map up again! Take my advice: throw it out the window, close your eyes, step on the gas, and you’ll have a better chance of reaching your destination than if you follow a map. Look at the above examples: they all followed maps, and they’re all dead, right? Lessons of History!
My distain for Maps started long ago, and is well documented. Some of you (those who have not managed to repress the memory) will remember that years ago I was involved in a group effort to write a book. My chapter in this story (which was fantasy) placed our main characters in a dark forest, lost, holding only a map given to them by a slightly suspicious stranger (the type who populates dark forests). They attempted to follow the map out of the forest. After a while they stumble into an eerie clearing, with a giant redwood tree standing tall in the middle. They find this strange, as this tree was a landmark on the map, and they thought they’d been going away from it. Regardless, they carry on. An hour later, they find themselves in the same clearing, staring fearfully at the tree. This continues through the haunting night. Here is an excerpt:
"For the past 8 hours the giant Redwood had stalked them, hunted them, but had never, as far as the travelers knew, moved. Half a dozen times they had stumbled into the clearing that housed the monstrous tree. There had been shorter and shorter time periods between one sighting and the next, as if it were pulling them in closer and closer. They had begun to fear it, to dread going around each corner for worry that the tree would be there, mocking them. It was only the smug feelings that the tree seemed to send them that had kept them moving, far into the night."
When they tried to understand how this happened, this dialogue ensued:
" "I don’t understand it," said Kayla. "How could we keep going in circles like that? And how could we have always end up in the same spot? You realize that the odds of it happening naturally are bordering on impossibility." She looked at the silhouette of the tree, as if she expected it to leap out of the ground and attack her.
"However it was done, it bears the marks of a mastermind. Someone very cunning is behind this."
"But who?" asked Kayla in desperation. "We have played into their hands with every move. Who could be so cunning to know exactly when, where, and why we would do everything? Who could have made a map so twisted, yet so accurate, that it would leave our heads spinning and cause us to do exactly what they wanted us to do. Whose map is this?!"
"Mine," said the Tree. "
It turned out that the tree was in fact pulling them in, holding them, and the map was its agent. Those who held The Map, supposedly the key to liberty, could never escape. An important reminder, filled with metaphors, not the least of which is my sincere belief that maps are evil.
So returning to the main character of our present story, we find him in front of hostel number two, in the middle of a quiet and darkening city, holding only a map given to him by a slightly suspicious Tesco employee for a small fee: the promise of his firstborn child. No no, this is a reasonable price in fantasy stories! Oh, right, reality. Bratislava. Okay, so here’s the truth. There are no magic maps that can mislead you and control your movements simply because you’re holding it. In reality, you must first look at the map before it can shatter you in its jaws, rather like crocodiles.
This being the case, I made it back to the center, without mishap, in 20 minutes, due to the fact that I didn’t need to look at the map. This made me confident. The map sensed this.
I then had some difficult things to plan. I knew I would not be sleeping in a bed that night. Besides the logistics, this idea didn’t frighten me much. But the rain-clouds did. Okay, serious cold, bad wind, these I could at least survive. But in the event of rain, well, that could be down-right dangerous, and probably something I’d want to avoid. "But Caleb," I said, "what will you do if it rains after 4:00, when you must be in line at the Embassy?" Since I had a little free time (approx. 15 hours to opening time), I moseyed back over to the Embassy to have a look see at the layout, from this perspective. After carefully examining the roof of the building, the near-by structures, and the general surrounding area, I had an answer: "What will I do? I will get very wet." I looked up at the sky, quickly looked down again, and started to steel myself for this possibility. Around this time night was falling, and so was the temperature: quickly approaching 0 (in Celsius, =32F).
Now it’s difficult to remember what this means now that we’re in spring, with the sun shining, or warm rain falling on the backs of singing birds. It’s just hard to remember the significance of cold, because nobody wants to. But at this time, because I could feel it, I was afraid of the cold. Now, I’d come prepared for this. I’ve learned a little about living with cold. At the time I was wearing no less than 18 articles of clothing (think about it. How many are you wearing now?). But still, the wind was finding every nick in my armor, and I was worried about it getting much colder, especially since I wouldn’t be moving for the coldest part of the night. I knew that with this wind, it would be much worse, and I didn’t know how much further the temperature was going to drop. Another 5 degrees down, and it would be painful to remove my gloves for more than 10 minutes. Another 10 down, and I wouldn’t be able to feel my toes unless I kept moving. At 15 below my moustache would crack with ice. At 20 below (very unusual, but I’ve felt it once or twice), Kleenex would no longer be a need, and it would be best to avoid licking my lips. Now, with these possibilities in your mind, add the thought of rain pouring down from an icy sky. I worried. Also, I prayed (in that order, I’m ashamed to admit). My choice of prayer was rather strange, looking back: "Lord, I know you’re watching out for me. I ask for nothing other than your will. I don’t ask to be comfortable, I don’t ask to be saved from difficulty, and I don’t even ask to be safe. Only please Lord, if I may ask one thing, don’t let it rain!"
After sending this through the menacing clouds, I started to plan. I needed to find some places that were open as late as possible. This would probably land me amongst some unsavory people, as the only places which were likely to be open at this point were late-night bars and shady clubs, but for once I preferred the company of any representative of my own species rather than the company of the elements.
At the far opposite end of the square that housed the Czech Embassy and the American Stronghold, something caught my eye. First of all, it was open, and I had a feeling it would be open late. In these circumstances, this place, which normally would have made me run in another direction, gave off a sensation of familiarity, of comfort, of understanding. I moved closer, smiling for the first time, and not at all out of irony. Arriving in front of the place, I found I had not been mistaken. My smile was illuminated by the bright florescent glow of the Golden Arches. At last, a complete respite from culture shock and language barriers, with more possibilities of feeling at home than in my country’s own Embassy. They were open until midnight that day, and I wrote it into my mental schedule of the night, in pen.
Of course it was then 6:00, and I didn’t really want to spend 6 hours there. I thought that might be overstaying my welcome. Maybe I was still hoping I would be able to find something interesting to do. Also, I knew that staying until midnight in McDonalds was only the beginning of the night, and would still leave 9 hours until the embassy opened. So I still needed to look for other places that I could stay in until 4:00, especially if it was raining. I set out on this mission.
I wandered the center for the next two hours, and found that most of the bars or clubs were only open until 1:00 on Sunday. However, I did manage to find about three places that claimed to be open until 2:30 or 3:00. Around 8:00 I noticed some advertisements for some local cinemas. One of the places was playing "The Last Samurai," which I’d been thinking about seeing. I thought this might be a nice way to redeem some of my time in this city, so I looked for the address of the cinema. After a few moments of consulting my Map, I found the street: "Why, that’s just right on the other side of the center! I’ll just walk over and check the playing times."
This portion of the story will be very difficult to relate without a visual aid, because the whole experience was increasingly surreal and eerie. However, I will do my best. As you will remember, the embassy square sits with its back to the river, facing the center to the north east. The street I was aiming for, Namesti 1. maja, is on the north west side of the center, directly above my position, with a tangle of short, intercrossing streets between us. I looked at the map, and found that I needed only go straight up on one street ( which for some reason changed names three times in its short length: strakova, venturska, and michalska), and then take a slight turn right onto suche myto, and follow that until it ended in 1. maja. I started walking along this route, but after about 10 minutes I realized the streets were not conforming to my plan. I looked around for a street sign (which are usually placed on random corners of buildings, usually in the darkest and most concealed corner they can find. This prevented me from just following directions from one street to the next, because it’s very difficult to verify what street you are actually on), and finding one I took out the map. It took me a while to find my location, and when I discovered that I was on Klobucnic (a side street pointing north-east, and three streets away from the one I wanted), I wrinkled my brow a little. This was really off course, and it meant my direction was about 90° off, but I couldn’t understand where I’d gone wrong. Anyway, judging from this new information I formulated a new plan, corrected my direction, and started off again. After about 10 minutes I repeated this again, and discovered that I was, impossibly, on Rajska, which was even further east. From Klobucnic, the way to Rajska bears no similarity to the way to 1.maja, is in the opposite direction, and it was impossible that I was there. But unless someone was going around switching street signs that night (which is the only rational solution I’ve been able to come up with), then the truth was that I was very turned around. This started to concern me. I looked at the map again, saw I must go up Rajska until I hit the main street Spitalska, turn right, then take the first left onto Marianska, which would put me near my cinema. This I did. Not being able to find street signs, I simply went up Rajska to its end, took a right on a main street, and then the first left. This street I followed longer than seemed correct, and I considered trying to reference my map again, but decided against it. Everything in the city was very quiet, and very dark by this point. Being out of the center the streets were not so well-lit, and looking down the side streets was like looking at an old photograph of an atmospheric east-European alley, except it was no photograph. I was not comfortable.
My discomfort was significantly enhanced as I looked ahead and saw something absolutely impossible. At this moment the wind rose, and as it blew my hair back I heard it whistling in my ears. The effect was similar to hearing a wolf howling in the unknown distance, and for the first time I began to feel suspicious, to feel like looking over my shoulder, just to be sure. What I saw before me was the river.
Significance? The Danube makes no turns in this part of the city. From the Embassy, pointing due north and walking confidently and with a clear sense of direction, I had made a 30 minute semi-circle and found myself about 5 minutes downstream. I still do not know where I went wrong, or how it was possible, even after weeks to examine the street map and retracing my steps. It was almost as if I had been holding the map upside-down (which I wasn’t), though this still wouldn’t explain how I’d completely changed directions.
The smart thing to do here would be to give up and find another source of torture. But of course that was impossible. I started to feel threatened by my map, but I still fought this idea. "No, I made a wrong turn or two (or twenty) somewhere," I told myself. "I can still follow the map to the right place. After all, I’m not superstitious."
I really wonder how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into in an attempt to prove I’m not superstitious.
I turned my back to the river and started north again. Making my first reference, I found myself at Kamenne Namesti: so, take a left at the end of the square onto Nam. SNP, going due west. When it ends turn right, and north to 1.maja. I followed this route (without seeing any more street signs), and the next time I saw a sign and checked it on the map, I felt fear and frustration battling in my chest: I was far to the East, and farther north than 1. maja itself! Frustration seemed to win the battle inside me, and from there anger. This.... was.....not.....possible! I decided to make one more go at it. Redirecting myself, according to the map, I walked for a good 15 minutes, constantly looking for landmarks or street names. At the next opportunity, I found myself at Odborarske Namesti. You guessed it, further east and north, as if I had continued straight on from the river, and not changed directions three times.
It was now approaching 9:00. I actually considered trying for the cinema once more, but decided against it. In my mind I started to get the strong feeling that this street did not want to be found, or that something didn’t want me to find it. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew I was finished messing with it. Frustrated and very unsettled, all I wanted now was to get back to the center. This part would be easy, since I knew what direction I’d come from, all I needed was to turn around and return. Looking at my map I saw an opportunity to cut across the curve I’d made and go straight down one street to the center, a shortcut. For reasons that have never been made clear, I decided to take this shortcut. While I knew something was going on, this choice makes it obvious that I had no idea what I was dealing with. The Map had chosen its battle-ground.
I walked to the shortcut street and looked down it. There is only one characteristic that lingers in my mind: dark. Dark, Shadowy, Sinister, Evil. I felt it, but it was still faint. There were no street-lights, no light on in the houses, nothing moving, everything shrouded. I took several steps forward, and stopped. "This isn’t smart Caleb." "Why, there’s nothing there" "Exactly. It’s a dark city street, at night. Don’t go down there." "Of course it’s dark at night, silly. There’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s no reason to go the long way around when I know this is the right direction. This street will lead us straight to the center. What, are you afraid of the dark?" "Yes. If you want to go down that street, you’re going without me." "Fine, pansy. I’ll see you later." "I hope so."
And so, the dialogue finished, my logic got up and left. We met later that night, but he’d be no help here. I stood just within the boarder of the shadows for a few moments more, hoping my eyes would adjust. They didn’t. When my breathing started getting heavy, I knew I had to go or back-down. Finally, I took a step forward, hoping it looked confident. I tripped on the curb, stumbled, and jerked up, expecting to catch a glimpse of eyes watching me. I could feel them, but I couldn’t see them.
I continued walking carefully. I will confess that I’d brought a pocketknife, and at this point I found my hand clutching it anxiously.
When I came to the end of the street in about two minutes, I was panicky. This street shouldn’t have ended! It was suppose to go straight through. At that moment, a stream of thought came to me. I thought about the entire day of stumbling around the city, of strange directions, of the impossibility of the course that had brought me to this place. Suddenly I saw the common link, to which I had somehow been blinded. My map was not to be trusted. I had the unexplainable sensation of being directed, controlled, manipulated. The images from my chapter for our book came rushing to me, of a map that pushes rather than leads, commands rather than advises, no escape. Thinking about the ramifications of this revealed that my internal battle between frustration and fear was not over. Anger melted in my heart, and I was afraid. If my map couldn’t help me, and I was unable to correctly choose my direction, then anything was possible. Of course I was sure I was pointed towards the center, but given my record so far that night, the odds were almost against it! So, no help from the map, good evidence against my own senses, what did I have left? Really, I could be going anywhere right now. I could be lost. Not lost like you-can’t-find-the-right-address lost, lost like dark-forest-without-a-north-star lost. What if I wasn’t able to get back?
I looked down at the map in my hand. I resisted the temptation to throw it away, and quickly put it into my backpack. I didn’t use it again on this trip. However, I knew it might have already done its worst.
I thought about going back the way I’d come, but even if I went back up this street I wasn’t sure I could retrace my steps. I looked right and left, finding no clues. I knew if something had hold over me, then it didn’t matter where I went, only that it was no good staying there. And if I still had a semblance of direction, then I should go right. Nothing for it, I’d have to trust myself blindly, and have faith. I decided to go right.
At this moment I heard a sound behind me. Slow motion hit my mind, and I felt my hair stand up as I jerked around. There on the pavement, no more than five feet behind me, was a black cat, sitting with its tail curled around its legs. It was sitting exactly where I had walked not seconds before, and it was looking straight at me. I remember swallowing hard. My friends, I am not superstitious. I have a firm faith in the Bible, which says nothing about cats being a servant of evil. But at this moment I think I lost several years of my life. I didn’t make a sound, but not because of courage.
For several years I stared into the infinite, deadly, indifferent abysses that are the eyes of a cat. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. I was waiting for him, waiting to see what he would do. When he stayed still, I realized he was only a messenger. The message was: get out. I turned and ran to the right. I didn’t look behind me.
The street to the right ended quickly. I went to the left. This continued far too long. Right, left, straight, left again, right, trying to stay as centered as I could and just hoping to bump into something I knew. There were still no lights around, nothing moving. The awareness of danger was close, tears were closer. After twenty minutes like this, I stopped, ready to despair. I would have stopped moving long ago, but I knew I had to return to the embassy before it opened. Though this was almost 12 hours away, in the present situation it really seemed like an impossible dead-line.
I lifted my head and looked over the buildings in front of me. There, lit up in the distance, was Tesco. I was saved.
I took a few more turns to the store, and have never been so happy to see a supermarket before. I could have kissed the ground before it. After this, I started walking back towards the embassy.
A few minutes down the center, I came to a large poster on the sidewalk. It was a tourist information map of the center, which I hadn’t noticed before. It had a big "you are here" star, and it showed that Namesti 1. maja was very close. I actually considered it. "No, Caleb, no. Just walk away." A few minutes later I came to another similar map. This time the "you are here" star showed that I was significantly closer. Strange. Still I walked away. The next map told me that if I turned right, I would hit 1. maja. I went right, walked up the street, looked around for a street sign, and found myself on Namesti 1. maja. I don’t remember what I felt, but I’m sure it was complicated.
It seems I’ve been mistaken about maps, and I want to make this clear so as to not be responsible for any unfounded prejudices or persecution. Not all maps are bad. Maybe most are okay, and loyal to humans. This explains why my map of Prague is very helpful, and has never led me astray. This explains why I could look at the tourist poster maps and practically trip over the street I wanted all along. However, there are those maps that have gone bad, which have hate for the human race. I don’t know what they want, and I count myself lucky to not know. I believe that anyone who discovers the ambition of these maps will not tell the story. My map of Bratislava is now in a box, by itself, carefully sealed and stored away in my attic. Someday I will destroy it.
So there I was, on Namesti 1. maja. I walked up the street a little, looking for this cinema. It was now 9:30. Suddenly I saw it. I stood in front of it, gloried in the success, in survival, planning to project all of this onto the film and really enjoy myself, and try to forget. I walked to the door. Sign on the door: closed. Oh, right. It’s Sunday.
"Okay," I thought, "I’m done." I turned around and headed for McDonalds. There was still a long night in front of me.

The Course Of Understanding part 6

6. THE NIGHT OF YEARS
After experiencing defeat (or at least strong humiliation) at the "hands" of my map, I decided it was high time to play my wild card: the certainty and restful familiarity of McDonalds. After what seemed like a lifetime of nonstop problem-solving, my brain was ready to melt, and after being on my feet for more than 10 hours, my body was ready to rebel. I reached my haven without event, walked inside around 9:45, and ordered a Mexican burger meal, which was the special that week, presumably worldwide. There were two employees at this late hour, and they seemed to actually be enjoying their job and each other’s company. They were both beautiful Slovak girls: one was blond with a crystal clear complexion, big brown puppy-dog eyes, and a hovering smile which seemed to give off a faint shine; the other had short black hair and a few too many piercings for my taste, but she had deep sea-green eyes that seemed to laugh in the depths, a laugh that often produced a brilliant flash of white teeth. They were friendly, silly, polite, and even had the graciousness to be compassionate with my attempts to speak Czech. Of course they spoke English, and everything was as easy and soothing as I’d hoped. After ordering, one girl said she would bring my meal to me, and so I found a quiet corner (the restaurant was almost empty, but not to the point that would make me conspicuous) and I sank into my seat. It was shockingly comfortable, and I can’t imagine a lazy-boy that could compete with it. After a while the brunette brought my meal to me, and after a simple and pleasant exchange of a few sentences I was left in peace.
I started to understand why McDonalds is so successful. This company understands and utilizes something which most of us are unwilling to even admit. The fact is that no matter how much humans cry out for adventure, for excitement, for something different and culturally meaningful, for respect of the environment and the health of humanity, for all the things which McDonalds contradicts, there will always come a time when everyone craves ease and effortlessness above all else. I’m not necessarily saying we are lazy. If there were no alternative we would continue on, fight through the adventure and most likely survive, but there comes a point for everyone when we utterly lose the desire to seek adventure and meaning and principle for their own sakes, and if there is an easier option at that point, we will take it. Everyone has their limit, and McDonalds is waiting there with open arms, ready to give us exactly what we claim we don’t want. Of course we know they just want our money, that everything they do is using our impulses and manipulating us, but there will always be a point when we truly don’t care. We all know that our dogs love us and are loyal to us primarily because we feed them, but when we need companionship that doesn’t matter. We know McDonalds is fleecing us, but sometimes it makes no difference. Despite all the controversy, McDonalds will always exist as long as they remember one thing: when faced with the temptation of an easier route, humans do not have the strength or energy to endlessly uphold the ideals which they claim to crave. We truly are only human.
Of course all this is in retrospect. For the two hours I spent at McDonalds, I focused on not thinking. I appreciated the sensations of sitting, feeling warm air on my face, and having bright friendly light around me. I never actually closed my eyes, but I slipped into a slightly lower level of consciousness. When my time was up, I felt drowsier than before, but I was rested, and as content as I could be about returning to the outside world of Bratislava. I used the very clean bathrooms, put on my long underwear under my jeans, and suited up again. Tossing a small smile of thank-you and farewell to the two girls (who might or might not have noticed), I stepped out the door at about five minutes to midnight. I felt a very slight weight return to my shoulders, and I started off. Off to continue the adventure and seek interesting stories? No. I was long past that, and survival by the best means possible was my foremost thought. I was off to find one of those late-night bars, so I could at least kill another 2 hours indoors.
So, setting the atmosphere: of course you can guess that the streets were dark, silent, and cold, all a little more than before. According to an electronic info board, it was around -4°C (around 27 F?). The wind hadn’t let up, and now it had a stronger bite and a slight howl, exactly what you’d expect for dark East European streets at midnight. I quickly headed for the first bar on my list.
From what I remembered, this first place was supposedly open until 3:00 a.m. I knew I’d be paying through the nose for a drink (which would buy me the right to stay there), but I didn’t care too much at this point. I found the place again without trouble, and waited a moment to scope it out. Inside was a bar-like half light, and two small groups of people who were talking together cheerfully. I felt a little like Tiny Tim, staring through the window from the cold at the happy families eating Christmas dinner. Well, I had no need to linger outside! I stepped in, and made two steps towards the bar.
No one in the room noticed me, except for a rather tall thin man who had been standing alone against the opposite wall. He quickly approached me and started speaking: "Blah blah prst skrti frtras blah hragntris ckrtne blah." Without hesitating, I answered "what?" Seeing that I hadn’t understood a word, he rehearsed an obviously well-practiced routine of sigh language: he tapped his watch, nodded his head towards the door, and then waved his hand from the wrist in the universal "you are dismissed" gesture. When I looked confusedly at the other customers, he started to repeat the routine, and took another step towards me. Mainly because I didn’t have the energy (or preparation) to attempt communication, I exited. This all took place in less than a minute, and I was back in the quiet cold. Strange, but okay, no matter; on to the next potential bar.
After winding through the maze for about 10 minutes, I arrived at the next place. The scene was very similar, and I carefully checked the sign on the door. There could be no mistake: most nights it was open until 5:00, and Sundays until 2:30. While I was reading the sign a man appeared from somewhere and went in the door. I saw that he was not confronted and had no problems getting settled. Needing no more encouragement, I followed his example.
The man who entered before me had gone in and sat next to a rather short, stocky, bald man. This man greeted the newcomer, and then noticed me enter the door. He stood up and halted my further advance into the room. Without even trying to communicate, he started the same sign-language routine I’d seen moments before. But this time I was ready. I was determined to find out why I was being thrown out before I even had a chance to cause trouble, and I had prepared a phrase to demand this information: "Ale, dveře říka dvě hodiny.” Literally: “but the door tells two o’clock!” Hey, this is the best I could do with my vocabulary. Problem is that even with a better vocab, this sentence completely disregards grammar, and probably wouldn’t make much sense to a Czech. With a Slovak you never know how much will overlap, and it’s a lot like playing linguistic battleship. In short, my odds were not good, but I was giving it a shot. My partner in this communications experiment gave me a look which flawlessly said "Is he trying to talk to me or is someone playing a tape of a gorilla choking on a banana?" He then replied in a rather firm tone, and the tone was the only thing I understood. Not knowing what to do next, I exited.
"Very interesting," I muttered to myself. "So, I might as well try the last one. Anything is better than the streets." In retrospect, it’s rather satisfying simply to have been in a situation where I could say this, but that didn’t enter my mind at the time. I marched to the final hope of shelter and prepared my strategy on the way. I couldn’t come up with anything good, strategically speaking, so when I came to the door I hesitated. The sign certainly said open ‘til 2:30, there were undeniably customers inside, the lights were clearly on, but I started to wonder if it was worth the hassle. After all, even if I didn’t get tossed out again there would probably be problems with---
At that moment there was a muffled crashing sound behind me and I whipped around to peer down the dark alley across from the bar. A trashcan was still trembling after having fallen on its side, and behind it was an unseen but very strongly implied black cat. In one quick motion I jumped into the door, took one step in, sidestepped, and sat down in the nearest chair possible, all before the trash can had finished settling into place. I looked up, and finding myself inside the bar and sitting down, I glanced around to detect the next attack. Sure enough, a man in the back of the room stood up and moved towards me. Interestingly enough, this guy kind of combined the height of the first man and the muscle-density of the second. It figures. Yeah, I know life isn’t fair, but couldn’t life be unfair in my favor once in a while? Actually, it’s probably better, because if this last guy had been a shrimp I might have been in a state of mind to capitalize on it.
As it was, though, he was not the type to be trifled with. Regardless, I had decided to trifle. Hey, "when in Rome..." As he walked towards me and started tapping his watch, I interrupted him with "proč?" (= why?). He looked a bit taken aback, and when he attempted to justify his commands I just shot back "nerozumim." (=I don’t understand) He took a step forward and repeated the same jibberish in a slower, though more forceful, tone. Yeah, like that’s going to help. He obviously thought he was dealing with a fully rationally person, and had no idea about what he was really messing with! I answered again: "Nerozumim." I was playing with all my cards now, and my only hope of winning was that he would give up and leave me alone. But apparently he saw through my strategy (I did tell you the strategy stank), and decided that the time for meaningless chit-chat was over. He straightened himself up, pulled back his shoulders, and resolutely moved towards me, to "encourage" me out the door. I immediately saw his intention, and knew I had only one way to counter it. I jumped up, slipped past his left arm, and bolted out the door.
I stopped running just around the corner, knowing I wouldn’t be followed. So, none of these places, which I spent so much time to scope out, were going to take me in. I still have no idea why, and no explanation makes sense. I’m often confused for a Czech (or Slovak), so they couldn’t have known I was an American right off. Other customers were in the bar. It was hours before the reported closing time... I really don’t know. Another unsolved mystery in this increasingly bizarre journey.
So then I needed to occupy myself. It was important to keep moving, so I needed a place to go. The time was around 12:30. I wandered around the center some more, which felt much different in late night. I wasn’t comfortable, and to make matters worse it seemed like my brain was trying to kill me. My adventure tendency had somehow activated itself again (probably because I had nothing better to do than expose myself to pointless danger with hopes that the adrenalin rush would wake me up a little). I found myself walking down dark side-streets and narrow alleys, without knowing where I would come out or where I was going. When I finally realized how stupid I was being, I decided I needed a goal to divert myself. I decided to visit the castle, which I’d been to on my last visit but not this time. The castle is a large sprawling structure perched high above the city on a steep hill, walls pushed up against the Danube and high towers looking out over the whole town. As I looked up at it the full moon was sitting just over its center keep, and at that moment the bright orb managed to peek out of the clouds and cast a beam of ghostly light over the ancient stronghold. I felt like the picture was obviously missing a swarm of bats flooding out of the rocks overhead. Regardless, it was eerie. Suddenly, I felt the hairs on my neck raise up and I turned around, only to find a man standing directly behind me. I got a shocked impression of beady eyes, short black hair, a long black cape, and a red collar coming up to his ears. "Oh," I sighed in relief, "it’s only you, Count. What are you doing here?" He just smiled at me.
No, no, no, just kidding about that last part. So, off to the castle!
To get to the castle I needed to cross the main street of the city. This road comes across the river on Novy Most (new bridge), a bridge that is Bratislava’s most important landmark, next to the castle. It is supported by a huge tower on one side, which sends out massive cables like tentacles across the full length of the bridge. The tower leans back at an angle away from the cables, as if straining under the weight. As I climbed the stairs to cross this road, I looked across the river to this tower, looking truly like a giant in the murky light, and it appealed to me. On the other side of the river there was a large city park, consisting mostly of a dense forest spread across most of the southern shore and expanding back almost as far as I could see, until the twinkling lights of the city appeared again on the far side. It was very dark, illuminated only by a handful small park lamps, and there was absolutely no sign of life anywhere within this gloom. "hmmm," I thought "I haven’t been to that park before."
Okay, I think it’s high time I made a little confession. When I consider my audience, I realize that some explanations might be needed. As for most of my friends, especially the older ones who have influenced me, or the younger ones to whom I passed this influence on, no explanations should be necessary. However, some other readers, specifically my grandma, might not understand my choices in this story without a disclaimer. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but someone had to sooner or later. "Grandma, sometimes I do stupid things." That’s not all. "Dangerous things! For no good reason at all! I worry about my own sanity sometimes!" The "for no good reason" part might be because I am young, the "dangerous" part could be because I am male, and the "stupid" part probably has something to do with being human, or then again maybe I’ve picked up an insanity gene somewhere. See, I’ve heard that normal people have this great thing called a "survival instinct," or something like that. I must have arrived late when God was handing out this commodity. Anyway, you get the point. And Grandma, I hope it wasn’t too great a shock for you. We’ll see how well you hold up as we go along. This situation was also compounded by the fact that my logic had up and abandoned me earlier that evening. It was right before the cat incident, if you’ll remember. I was already starting to miss him.
So there I was, in the middle of a dark night, under a dark castle, gazing across a dark river, looking into a dark forest, and thinking cheerfully "hmmm, that looks interesting." Without considering things much, I redirected my course and headed over the bridge to explore the park. I seem to remember a thought somewhere in the back of my mind that there might be a good place to sleep over there.
The trip over (or I should say under) the bridge was not pleasant. There was a passageway under the road traffic (of which there was none), which was open to the river but still felt very claustrophobic. It reminded me strangely of over-the-tracks Oakland. I was painfully aware that this place was perfect for late night muggings. Wait until someone is about half way across, you and your partner enter on either side, and the victim has no where to go but into the river. Considering this, I quickly developed a plan. If I saw someone appear at the end of the long tunnel, and then someone behind, I would sprint towards the closest one, knock him down before the other could make it two-to-one, and escape. Of course since I was carrying about $10, a better plan might have been to surrender and take the loss, but that would be thinking like someone with survival instinct!
Not long after I entered the tunnel there was in fact a man coming up the stairs after me. This was remarkable since from my vantage point above the city there didn’t seem to be a single living person. I couldn’t see any dead persons either, though it was possible that I would soon. I began sprinting towards the far end, only to notice that the man had passed by the tunnel, and had apparently climbed the stairs just to cross the street. I stopped, breathing hard.
After negotiating the stairs at the far end of the bridge, which double backed several times and contained countless little nooks and crannies perfect for an ambush, I entered the park. I really cannot describe the atmosphere any better than "silent." Pardon my over-dramatic nature, but "deathly silent." We all know how things are in a dark forest. There is the fear of the unknown, which needs no introduction, but also there is truth.
This truth is probably more frightening than the unknown. When I was about 10, I often thought about having adventures, and went so far as to plan solo trips deep into Upper Bidwell Park. I guess this amounts to running away from home, since in my mind these plans never involved a return date, but that had nothing to do with it. Anyway, I spent a lot of time planning, considering, even collecting equipment, in the fashion of a 10 year old. Through it all the only thing that really gave me pause was the thought of mountain lions. This also motivated most of my equipment choice: a cap gun for making noise, blast balls for making noise, small fireworks for making noise, a big stick for hitting the lion and making noise, etc. Obviously I’d heard the advice that mountain lions are afraid of people, and all you need to do in the face of one is make yourself look big, act confident, and, of course, make noise. Armed with this, I felt prepared to go and confront the lions.
Then my school group went to visit a wild-life reserve/zoo by the Sacramento River. It might still be there, right under the bridge before you enter Corning. Anyway, among the cool birds and snakes and insects on display, none of which gave me pause (if I remember correctly, I even let the boa constrictor crawl on me), they had a caged mountain lion. I will never forget the feeling of finally meeting one of these glorious monsters face to face, regardless of the bars between us. He was tan, with massive paws, and probably weighed three times as much as me. He was laying down, head on his paws, tail twitching slightly. When he looked at me, I tried to remember that he was afraid of me, that I should just act confident, make some noise; his eyes just laughed at me. He drew my gaze over his body, every inch of which swelled with muscles. At his slightest blink his whole being rippled. I remember standing petrified before this cage, thinking how insignificant were those metal bars which separated me from death. He had not yet released my eyes, and I knew he was considering me as I might consider a cracker: resistance was not even in the equation, fear was completely alien. Looking at the brute force he wielded, I knew no man in the world could compete with him, much less me. Then I remembered that this lion was, relatively speaking, tame. I remembered that he’d spent most of his life in a 20’ x 20’ box, that he’d had meat tossed to him every day. So what, I thought, must the real thing be like? At that moment, more so than my adventurous, idealistic spirit had ever allowed, I was afraid. Minus our fancy machinery, which makes us feel so superior, man is nothing to one of these creatures. When one decides that you are food, you could run, hide, fight, throw rocks, climb a tree, anything, and it wouldn’t matter. You are going to be die and reduced to shredded meat in a matter of moments, hopefully in that order. I remember nearly crying for fear before this awesome example of nature. I knew I’d been lying to myself for a long time, and here is where my running away plans ended.
That is fear of the truth. Fear of the unknown frightens you with your own imagination, letting you imagine what "could" be out there. Fear of truth crushes the self-promoting side of imagination and confronts you with something you cannot slip away from: your own undeniable limitations.
There are a few places which convey both the fear of the unknown and the fear of truth. Most dark forests have mainly the former, most cities have mainly the latter, but drop a nice thick forest into the middle of a big city, and you’ve got business. I imagine Central Park in New York at night being the best example of this. Sure, worry about what could be out there, but tremble before what you know is there.
These feelings hit me like a European-style brick as soon as I stepped off the bridge. This place was no Central Park, but it would do. Honestly, I think I was coming to my senses a little, because the only reason I didn’t turn tail and head right back over the bridge was the unpleasant feeling of the passage. I decided I wanted to get to Stary Most (old bridge), which I could dimly see about two kilometers down-stream. I would look around a little and head for that crossing.
I quickly realized that "looking around" was not in the cards. Once again I was scared. How many times does that make on this trip? Well, I hope I get some credit for being brave enough to admit my fear. That’s something, right? So, instead of exploring even a little bit into the forest itself, I stayed on the edge by the water, where it was slightly better lit and open. Thus began my slow, jerky, "don’t-let-them-know-you’re-afraid-or-they’ll-be-on-you-like-a-herd-of-pengins-on-a-pickled-hering" walk down the river.
"You know, Caleb," said an unidentified side of myself, possible the evil criminal side, "with the river so fast here, and the forest so close, this would make a perfect place to dump bodies."
"Oh be quiet, will you. I don’t want to hear about it."
"But think about it. You hide in those bushes over there. Wait for a stupid tourist to wander along, jump out, slit his throat, take the money, dump the body in the river... No one would ever even know!"
"What the hell are you talking about? C’mon will you? Seriously, sometimes I wonder if we really came from the same parents. You must be adopted."
"Or maybe you are."
"Shut up, you--"
"Hey, did that bush just move?"
"No, it didn’t! What are you trying to do to me?!"
"Yes it did, it moved! There it goes again!"
"No it didn’t! No it didn’t! I don’t know what--"
"BOO!"
"Agggggg!"
"Hahahahaha!"
"You miserable ------------ (please insert creative 17-letter expletive for a very unkind or perverted person)!!!!!"
"Ha ha, that was great. You almost jumped out of your skin!"
"You’re sick, you know that? If you weren’t in my own head I would seriously kick your butt!"
"That’s a funny picture"
"Shut up! Did you drag me over to this no man’s land just to scare me?"
"No no, you got yourself over here. I’m just making the most of opportunity."
"Well, you’re only hurting yourself, you know. After that shout all the cutthroats in this wood will be here like moths to a light. So much for acting confident and unconcerned."
"I can take care of myself, so you can leave ‘we’ out of it."
"I never said ‘we.’"
"You didn’t?"
"No."
"Well, I... it doesn’t matter, okay? I can take care of myself. Now focus on the path before you fall into the river!"
I continued on slowly down the river, trying to not look over my shoulder more than ever 10 seconds. After a short time I had the good fortune to find a very hefty stick. I always feel better with a good stick in my hands, and this one fit the bill. It was taller than me, thick, smooth, perfect quarter-staff material. I instantly felt better, which might have worked against me. Have you considered how pain and fear are both important God-given safeguards? Without pain, people lean up against an oven and melt their arm to the elbow before they realize it’s on, and without fear a person, well, wouldn’t live long (gulp!). I’d been feeling levels of fear which were almost proper for the situation, but getting a nice stick in my hands pushed most of that away. So, some thug might come at me with a gun, but at least I had something with which I could make lots of noise!
I was not yet half way to Stary Most. It was about this time that I came to the path. My road along the river was comparable to a chocolate oreo, a white strip sandwiched by black. With the inscrutable waves on one side and the unfathomable forests on the other, I had only a lighted shred of visible walking space. (I do apologize for my melodramatic nature. What can I say, it’s my nature! I’ve always had a theory about writing narrative, that it is feelings-based. The key is to get the reader to feel the moment. If you actually went to Bratislava and visited this path of which I speak, you might very well discover a veritable international freeway lit up like the day (I highly doubt this, but it’s possible), but I relate the feelings I was experiencing at the time. I was frightened, alone, and, let’s face it, not in my most rational state...as far as I was concerned, this place was the very gateway of Hades. And then I heard the song of the sirens...). Without warning I saw an apparition in the woods. It was a small foot path, starting abruptly a few hundred feet to my right, and winding into the emptiness of the forest. The interesting thing about this path was the lighting. Lighting has a curious effect on us sometimes, similar to the mysterious effect of music. This path was lit by widely spaced lamps, just close enough to make it possible to follow the course of the path, silhouetting the delicate trees and casting small pools of glitter around themselves. Other than this irregular illumination, there was nothing but a sea of night. There could be anything there, anything at all. I stood transfixed. It was more like a fairy-path than anything I have ever seen; soft spots of flickering light fading off into the shadows. I knew that that path held adventure. And it was calling me, calling me deep into the woods. The light was calling me into the darkness.
I moved off my path. Two steps, the third came slower, and stopped. Something was not right. I wanted to go and explore that path, I could see it beckoning to me, but for some strange reason something was holding me back. I looked over my shoulder and stared into the frantic eyes of an old friend: my logic. He had returned right in time. I don’t know why I didn’t see him coming along the river towards me, and I still have no idea what he was doing on that side of the river in that deserted area. Later, whenever I tried to bring it up, he made it very clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. Something bad had gone down, I’m sure, as my logic is normally very talkative. In any case he suddenly found me again, and didn’t hesitate to intervene.
"Caleb," he hissed at me, "what do you think you’re doing?"
"Nothing, I’m just gonna walk down that nice little path."
"Why?! Don’t you know death when you see it?!?!"
"It looks pretty."
"You idiot, listen to me. You’re in Slovakia. You’re in a very big city in Slovakia. There is crime in big cities, serious crime. Danger, not safe--"
"It’s okay, there’s no one there."
"You don’t see anyone there!"
"Why would anyone be there now?"
"They’re waiting for you!! You, American, alone! Are you listening to me?"
"You’re no fun. Don’t you like adventure? I’m going without you."
"Big city! Dark forest! 1:00 A.M.! Bad people! Lots of places to hide your mangled body!!!"
"Pretty lights....."
"Are you kidding me!!! How did you survive 5 hours without me? I should let you die, you know that?"
"Huh, what are you saying? Why are you so afraid all the time?"
"Pick up a newspaper sometime you pathetic idiotic bumbling moron!!!"
"That’s not nice! I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m going to go explore the fairy-path and have great adventures. I don’t need you."
"All right, now listen to me! LISTEN, I SAID! Look in my eyes. Now think. The last we fought, how did things turn out with the shortcut?"
"A cat tried to cast a spell on me."
"Fine, great. And after that?"
"I got lost."
"Yes, and now I find you here, in this death trap. In fact has anything been good since you left me?"
"You left me!"
"ANSWER THE QUESTION!!"
"Well, McDonalds was nice..."
"NICE?! That food is slowly taking years off your life as we speak!! You call that nice?"
"I guess not."
"With that in mind, I need you to trust me. Get out of here now!"
"Well....."
"BIG MEN!!! KNIVES! GUNS! BANG BANG!!"
"I could take ‘em."
"Okay, I’m through! Are you coming with me or not?"
"Well, okay, I’ll come with you."
"Good, let’s go."
"Just kidding!!! Ha ha! Look at me, I’m going to go down the fairy path! Ha Ha Ha!!!"
#*%@#$ WHAM!! WHAM!! WHAM!! &*@#$!*#
I remember getting knock flat-out, but I honestly have no recollection of what happened. The next thing I knew, I found myself on Stary Most, in the middle of the road, walking slowly towards the civilized side of the river. I quickly realized that it was a car that had "awoken" me, as its second honk nearly made me jump off the bridge. I quickly moved out of its way and it roared past. I looked at my watch: it was almost 2:00 A.M.
The best that I’ve been able to theorize about this strange event is that my logic somehow got a hold of my noise-making stick and decided that passive negotiations were over. I’m sure Socrates would have found this enormously interesting, but sadly he’s not around to hear about it. Besides that, as I mentioned before, my logic never saw a good reason to talk about this evening, so I’ve no proof about anything. There are other possibilities, but most of them are even stranger.
When I eventually came completely to my senses, I was back in civilization. Granted, it might not have been much safer than on the other side of the river, but I knew that if I needed to scream for help that someone would at least wake up to watch me get beat up from their bedroom window. Ah, the supportive nature of a human community! In any case, I was more than a little rattled by my brush with suicidal stupidity back in the park, and I was not about to let myself continue wandering about unsupervised for a moment longer! I was taking myself to the Czech embassy and sitting there for the rest of the night!!
As I walked back upriver through the winding streets towards the embassy, I evaluated things (I do this a lot, as you can tell. Maybe that’s why I’m always getting into trouble. I have considered going on an adventure and making a point to think as little as possible, and see if I come out better, but the more I thought about it, I realized that my thinking might be the only thing that keeps me alive, and trying to do things differently might end up being a one-way choice. At least with my present system I always survive, if nothing else. Yeah, it’s a good thing I stopped to think about that one. Of course, over-thinking things can be a problem, too, and it also has a habit of being annoying in social situations— "Shut up, Caleb!!" So, moving on...). It was 2:00 am, very cold, and threatening rain more than ever. Seven hours to opening time. Things could still go very bad.
As I reached the embassy square, I realized I had another problem: the neighbor of the Czech embassy. Hopefully you remember my description of the American embassy. But, since that description was a long time ago... I’m not going to describe it again. Let’s just state that at this hour there was one or two less guards, meaning a good six or seven still roving around in small circles, breathing clouds of mist or smoke and looking much more bored than before. With the czech embassy so close, it was not an option to park in front of the door. Besides, there was only a cement step to sit on, and sitting on that for seven hours (and trying not to move for fear that the guards might just be waiting for an excuse) sounded like as much fun as playing dodge-ball with a porcupine.
So I finally settled (in every sense of the word) on a bench across the square, about 100 feet from the door. There were a lot of benches around, but I choose this one because it was close to a small covered stage, open on all four sides, for outdoor concerts. I figured that this stage could provide a little shelter if it started raining. With this cheerful thought, I braced myself for a long night.
I think most people find that when they have a long wait in front of them, they try to mentally break it up into manageable chunks. For example, my first year of teaching: "A Forty week program?!?! Okay, just get through the first two weeks and you’ll get into a routine." "Okay, just hold on until your first monthly paycheck and you’ll see the fruits of your labor." "Okay, just survive until Christmas break and you’ll have time to get back on your feet." "Okay, just keep going until Spring break and you’ll be able to rest a little." "Okay, wait until your birthday, and you’ll have more resources to work with." "Okay, 6 weeks to go, just get through this week and you’ll only have five weeks to go!" Now I have two more weeks, and I’m still telling myself: "okay, get through tomorrow and Tuesday and the week will practically be over, and then you’ll only have one more week!" It’s funny how the human motivation-center works. Anyway, my theory is that the more small pieces you can break something into (small pieces of time!!! Of Time!! Get away from my car with that hammer!!!), the easier it is to swallow. So here I reminded myself that I’d been told that people start lining up at the embassy around 4:00 am. Now logically, there are a huge number of Americans in Prague, and ideally most of them will need residence visas, and Bratislava is the cheapest place for them to go, so there’s a good chance that some of the people in line will be Americans. To my brain, which was searching for something to look forward to, this meant that on the stroke of 4 a group of my fellow countrymen would appear on the scene and we would have a great time talking and forming meaningful bonds of friendships for the remainder of the wait. Suddenly seven hours becomes two.
So I took out my book and tried to read, tried not to think about the cold, tried to turn the pages without removing my gloves. Eventually reading wasn’t practical, as the book was shaking, and I realized that despite my gloves I needed to keep my hands inside my jacket. So I sat there on the bench, hands inside jacket, bent over, hood pulled close around my face, looking for all the world like some homeless bum. As I had time to do nothing, I looked over towards the American embassy, and realized that I was an object of some interest. I was in plain sight of one of the little guard-houses, and there were two "life-sized action-figures" trying very hard to look like they weren’t discussing me. Okay, so maybe they weren’t, but it was impossible that they hadn’t noticed me, and given the circumstances they had to be curious. After all, they didn’t have anything else to do. I knew I was pushing my luck, and that something would happen.
Around this time I started really feeling the cold. Some people have never felt cold in this way before. My jaw was starting to ache from chattering, and it was beginning to bug me more than the cold itself. It comes to the point where you can’t really think clearly because your brain is broadcasting on all frequencies: "GET WARM NOW!" And this cold wasn’t in my toes or hands like it usually is; this was all through my legs, despite my long underwear (which has never happened before, and I once spent 3 hours out in –22 C weather!). I knew I had to get my blood moving, and I would have given all the world to get up and sprint around my bench until I could feel my heart heating my body. However, for the time being I was still thinking clearly enough to consider what would happen, with the guards in plain sight, if I suddenly jumped up, leaving my bulging backpack on the bench, and started running. Well, at least I wouldn’t need a residence visa, right! Hmm, I hope heaven doesn’t have boarder-passing forms ("1. Please report any sins you might be carrying with you at this time. 2. Please submit for review your life history, in 4-second intervals. 3. Please state your heavenly ID number here (equivalent to your number of hairs)). Okay, so maybe it would be a better idea to not make any sudden moves on the bench. I would have been grateful even to swing my legs around, but really didn’t even feel at liberty to do that. Looking back, I should have just slowly gotten up and walked around the city some more, but I don’t remember this ever occurring to me. As my situation got more dire, my list of possibilities shrank.
After a time, the two guards I could see moved away, though I had to assume I was still being watched. After all, I was the only thing there to watch. The whole length of the square was completely deserted. Out of desperation I was about to start swinging my legs around to get circulation going, when two men entered the square a few streets down from me. They were talking quietly together, and they started walking in my direction. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I knew I wasn’t comfortable with their unexpected presence in the silent square. They walked briskly past the US Embassy, crossed over to my side of the street, and continued at the same pace towards me. I decided to go for a slouch-over-and-stare-at-the-pavement-so-you-look-invisible strategy. It almost worked.
The men walked by me without slowing, continued for about two benches, and then stopped. From the corner of my eye I saw them pause, look at each other, and then slowly turn around to look at me. I jerked my eyes back to the pavement, tried to slouch even more, and swallowed hard. The men started to walk slowly (and I must emphasize, VERY slowly) back towards me. I was on the verge of shouting over to the currently concealed guards, but decided that they must be watching anyway. I would tough it out.
The men reached my bench, and casually stood on either side of me. With my hood up, I could only see one of them at once. I quickly took my hood off. The man on my left started speaking. In Slovak, no less! The strange thing is that I understood what he said. Now here my brain tried to make trouble, because when I understand someone I’m in the habit of answering in Czech, and going as far as I can. The trouble is that I can usually get about three or four sentences in and then I must explain that I don’t speak Czech, which can cause some confusion. And in this situation, I could not afford any confusion. What they said was: "We are Police. What are you doing here?" As my brain was about to answer in Czech, I put on the breaks and said, in an over-emphasized American accent, "I don’t understand, I only speak English."
"Ah. Hmmm." Said the man, clearly not expecting that. "You are tourist?"
I seriously wished that I could have taken a time out to think about this, because it was very difficult to know what the right answer was. I tried to cover all the bases: "Yes, I am waiting for the Czech Embassy to open." And I pointed across the square.
"Hmmm." Then the man took out a radio and proceeded to have a two-minute conversation with someone on the other side, punctuated by searching looks at me. I tried to look innocent, haggard, and friendly. The result was probably rather odd. When the radio conversation ended he looked at me and said "It’s okay, you can stay here." And they slowly walked out of the square. I really wasn’t sure what to say. "Thank you"? Thank you that I can stay in below zero weather on this park bench for the next 6 hours? Oh joy! Yes, this is MY bench! All mine! I get to stay here, and no one can stop me! At least I was granted the luxury of choosing where I would freeze to death. However, this was quite significant. It was clear that the two plain-clothed cops were part of the Embassy guard, and the guard would now know that I was cleared. For one that meant that I could now stop worrying about them, and also that I could risk a lot more movement and activity. A few moments after the two policemen were out of sight I jumped up and sprinted around a large square of grass repeatedly until I was sweating. I’m sure it was still a strange sight for the guards. After I sat down I found that, as a result of the number of layers I was wearing, I was positively overheating. It felt good. I sat and panted for a while, and was warm enough to return to my book.
To retain my warmth, I started a cycle of movement. Taking my backpack (filled mostly with paperwork), I used it like a dumb-bell, and curled it with first one arm, then the next, then put my feet through the straps and pumped it with my legs. I keep rotating, and about every 30 minutes took another sprint. In this way I was able to keep the blood moving properly, continue reading my book, and pass the time a little more comfortably. Two hours passed in this way.
Around 4:00 am I noticed a man hanging around the door of the Czech Embassy. But he kept walking back and forth and I wasn’t sure about his purposes. He looked about 45, with an average built and height, and a pretty normal, slightly rounded, European face. Most certainly not the young American I was hoping for, but there was still time. After about 15 minutes a young man, about 25 with a backpack and short bleached hair, walked by me and headed for the Embassy. I decided it was time and fell into step behind him, thinking that this second one didn’t exactly look American, but it was difficult to say for sure where he was from, so there was a chance. On this trip I believe I encountered all of the basic human needs, and now the need for companionship was becoming apparent.
As I approached the two, I found that they were already in eager conversation. I walked faster, hoping it would be a conversation I could join. When I was close enough to hear, I quickly knew that they were definitely not speaking English. It took a second more to discern that they were also not speaking Czech, or Slovak. It was also not any of the romance languages. Somehow, I wasn’t prepared for this. I continued walking past them and took my place a few paces from the door, crouching against the wall.
The indistinct conversation continued for about 20 minutes while I quietly tried to act like "maybe I understand, and maybe I don’t, but it really makes no difference to me." Finally the older man needed to walk down the street a little to stay warm, and the younger tried to speak with me. First he tried the same unrecognized language, and when it was clear that wasn’t working he tried Czech. Then I was able to explain that I’m an American, and he was able to explain that he spoke a little English. Now, when someone says they speak a little English, this can mean anything from the ability to say "I speak a little English," to a fluency slightly lower than Shakespeare’s. This guy spoke English on roughly the same level that I speak Czech, which is pretty darn close to nothing. However, we were able to communicate a little, mainly by me speaking Czech and he English. First of all, he knew where I was from, so one of my first questions was where he was from. Turns out that he and the older man were from the same country, though they hadn’t met before. What country? Well, I found out that I was spending the dark morning hours in front of a foreign embassy with two Ukrainian men!
You must understand the cultural significance of this. As soon as I got this information, I had a crystal clear picture of what would be the reaction of my students when I got to this part of the story: half of them would start laughing, and the other half would go goggle-eyes at me and be more afraid than at any previous time in the story. Czechs have a very strong sense of racial stereotypes, and they might not be completely unjustified. In essence, anything coming from the East is pretty bad news. First there is a vaguely defined group of people known as gypsies, who have made a lot of problems in Czech Republic. Gypsies are from India, and came to Europe about 1,000 years ago. I don’t know if it still has any connection to the culture in India, but somehow gypsies never adapted to the European perspective. They just don’t fit in, and don’t want to. They live like animals in many cases, don’t really understand personal, family, or social responsibility, they have no desire to change their circumstances, and ever since they were spoiled by the communist government they expect the state to support them completely. For example, during communism they would be given flats to live in, and often within 6 months had absolutely destroyed the buildings, as a result of anything from not bothering to make use of the bathrooms to using the walls for firewood (and having the fire inside). Then they would go to the government and ask for another place to stay, and the communist government would give it to them. This doesn’t work so well now, and they can’t seem to figure out why. Their education, job skill, and work ethic are practically nil. They usually move in large groups, and even though I try to avoid anything which could be construed as racism, I have no hesitation about slipping my hand over my wallet when a herd of them get on the metro. That’s just the kind of atmosphere they emit. The racial problems we have in America really don’t compare, because as far as I can tell most Czechs are not racist (at least not simply for the sake of being racist, as seems to be the case for most example in USA), and would love to make these people a normal part of society, but the gypsies themselves seem to have no use for any other lifestyle, and this makes huge problems.
The second problem from the East is Mafia. Prague is very popular for Russian, Vietnamese, and Chinese mafia circles. These have a much lower profile than the gypsies, obviously, but are very present. I’ve never seen obvious Mafia activity, but I’ve seen the ripples. Two men walking out of a bar: "Don’t worry, my friend. It’ll be okay!" "But they will take everything! Money, documents, my passport....." Two men in KFC: "...and when he said that, I got so scared that I just got up and ran out of the restaurant. I was so scared that he’d shot me in the back!" "Well, don’t be worried about that; be worried about the people in the restaurant and what they heard. As for you, you have to go and talk with them, before there isn’t a chance. You can still fix this." "No, I can’t go back there! It’s too risky!" Several of my students have a story or two about stumbling onto some Mafia business at night, and having to slip away without being noticed. These stories are straight out of a film: expensive black cars with shaded windows, lots of men in black suits, a briefcase changing hands, etc. But as over-blown as they seem, they are real here, and everyone knows how active the Mafia is.
To generalize, the gypsies come from Romania, Slovakia, Bulgaria, etc. The Mafia comes from Russia and Asia (not so much Italian Mafia here). However, it seems that the most of both groups comes from Ukraine. In the film "The Italian Job," there is a line I never really appreciated before I came to Czech. A 400-pound gangster is talking on the phone and says "Listen man, there are three things I know: ever mess with mother nature, mother laws, or mother-freaking Ukrainians!" In Czech Republic this line is not noteworthy, it’s simply understood.
So there I was alone with two Ukrainians. Most Czechs would have ended the conversation and watched their bags for the rest of the night. However, while I believe that national stereotypes do exist and can be useful, I always try to focus much more on the individual. It was clear that these two were not gypsies, and I didn’t pick up any criminal feeling from them. If fact, the younger man was quite nice. The older guy was very reserved, but not cold (in terms of character, that is). Also, I have a partiality because the only Ukrainian I’ve known is one of my students, and she is one of the sweetest and most adorable girls I’ve ever met. So, I decided that I didn’t care if these two men were from Ukraine, I wanted to talk with someone.
The funny thing is that we spoke Czech more than anything. Two Ukrainians and an American meet in Slovakia, and Czech is their common language. I never would have imagined it! Because of this, the conversation was extremely limited, and prone to extended (though not uncomfortable) silences. I did learn that they both lived in Prague, one in černý Most and the other in Strašnice (two districts of eastern Prague). They were both in Bratislava to get work visas, and the younger one works in construction. I also learned that the younger one speaks (or at least understands) Ukrainian, Slovakian, Russian, Czech, German, and Polish. I shared chocolate with them. We talked about some other things, but nothing that could be called a conversation. It was basically a matter of thinking of a questions which could be communicated, and then understanding the answer. However, it was satisfying for me to be using Czech.
For the most part, though, our time was spent trying to stay warm. I asked them if, being from Ukraine, if they thought that it was cold that night. They didn’t hesitate to agree that it was cold. Fortunately, we seemed to trust each other enough so that no one was worried about keeping their place in the "line." We took turns walking briskly around the square, and I spent a lot of time jogging in place, or experimenting with a new exercise I’ve discovered which consists of facing a street curb and putting the tips of your toes on the curb while your heels are still below it, then you straighten your ankle and lift yourself up, and see how many times you can bounce up and down without touching your heels to the pavement. This activity seems to work all the muscles in the back of the legs, and helped me quite a bit, though I’m sure it looked very silly to my new Ukrainian friends.
In this way, two hours passed. I know, they just slip by don’t they? But remember that while the passage of time is essentially indefinable for an author, this time that is not experienced by the reader will often have a greater impact on the characters in the story than time which is very measurable. After all, two hours is probably about the time that you’ve spent reading this entire story from chapter one to now, and in that time we three had every minute just to focus on being cold, to watch the city begin waking up, to worry about what would happen at 9:00. At this point it was 6:00, and with only three hours to blast-off, I knew I had made it. That is, I’d done everything I could do, and survived, and still the most important factors were completely out of my hands. I was fully aware (okay, at this point of the night maybe not fully, but at least painfully aware) that I had known my chances of stepping out of the Embassy with a Residence Visa were not very good, and despite all the desperate and insane things I’d done to make sure I was in good position, my odds had not changed at all. With nothing but the final moment left to worry about, things were getting very tense.
A lot of things happened in the time between meeting the Ukrainians and 9:00, but it’s all very hazy now, and most of it was internal. I do clearly remember thinking "it’s 6:00 and still there are only three people here. Don’t tell me I’ve been awake all night and sitting in this square since 2:00 just to be one of three people. If a massive crowd doesn’t show up in 15 minutes, my director is listed for extermination." My director was the only who told me that people start lining up at 4:00, which they had, just not like I had expected.
A few minutes after this, as the three of us were about 20 feet away from the door, a car suddenly pulled up and four people jumped out and planted themselves directly to the right of the door. I instantly sensed trouble, and I think my comrades did as well. There was a feeling emanating from them that said they were not clean or safe, and they simply had a way of behaving which stood out, in a bad way. After a few moments, I realized that here were some gypsies. Still, the three of us went to introduce ourselves, and through they didn’t have any use for this, we did learn that they were from Romania. Now Delia and Daniela, don’t take this the wrong way. They were not native Romanians, they were Romanian gypsies, and the problem is that many people in Czech don’t know or care to know the difference. This second group of people would send my students reeling again: here was their naive teacher, now with two Ukrainians and four Romanians. To understand the Czech mindset a little, most of my students said that they thought this time was the most dangerous moment of entire trip. I disagree, but that’s what the mention of certain nationalities elicits from most Czechs.
In fact, the real problem was that the Romanians now seemed to have decided that they were first in line. This, to put it bluntly, was not acceptable. My pals tried to talk to them, but they actually pretended not to hear anything. It was clear that they didn’t care a hair about us or our situation, or better claim to the door, or anything at all. As they were crowding the right of the door and trying to dominate the front, we three stood close on the left, and thus the long dance for position began.
As time went on more people started to gather. By the end there were about 25 people there. Chances are that some of them were English speakers, but I didn’t have time to think about that. While the sky was slowly becoming visible, I was focused on getting in front of that line. Now I realized that the problem was serious, because the line had started to form behind to Romanians, which meant that if we weren’t first in the door we would be last. This could easily mean not getting to the window in the two hours that the Embassy stays open. Somehow my friends seemed rather blasé about it, and I saw it was up to me. I inched in as close as I could, with my backpack at my feet, and every time one of the Romanians shuffled their feet a little I scooted my backpack a little closer in to absorb the extra inch or so. This was going well, but not quick enough, and it had only limited potential, because as the line continued to grow it meant that I was trying to push back the entire crowd without them noticing. After a while the Romanians inevitably noticed what I was up to and froze in their tracks. I watched like a wolf but it was obvious they were not going to budge if they could help it. The question was, could they help it? And so the battle turned from a mental focus to a physical one. From what I’ve hear, the coldest hours of a day are right around dawn, because the earth is still cooling as the sun’s heat tries to counter it. In this day, though the sky was getting lighter by the minute, it was still damn cold. Standing still, while a nice thought, was not so easily done. So, while the rest of me was shaking like a leaf, I tried to keep my feet firmly planted, and whenever one of the Romanians couldn’t take it any more and had move, I took the space. Millimeter at a time, they saw exactly what I was doing, but there was nothing they could do about it. "Great," I thought. "I’m from California, and here I am in Slovakia engaged in a cold-endurance contest with a bunch of Romanians! What am I thinking?" However, I wasn’t worried about what they were thinking, because I know that they knew we were there first, and they couldn’t expect us to just roll over.
At about 7:30 the street lights went out, and I looked up into the sky. You know what? It was as clear blue as I’ve ever seen it. Not a cloud to be seen. I remembered my prayer early yesterday evening: "Lord, I know you’re watching out for me. I ask for nothing other than your will. I don’t ask to be comfortable, I don’t ask to be saved from difficulty, and I don’t even ask to be safe. Only please Lord, if I may ask one thing, don’t let it rain!" Heck, next time I’m asking for a four star hotel and a space heater, but at that moment I was happy. After an entire night under the storm clouds, not a single drop had fallen from heaven. I was cold but dry, tired but alive, and a blue sky was welcoming the dawn of a new day, and smiling down at me. The end was near. Now if I could just push this line back another foot or two!
The square came slowly alive, and crowds of people started arriving for work at the American Embassy. I think I might have seen the American Ambassador, but it’s impossible to be sure. I watched, waited, and scooted when appropriate. But as 9:00 approached, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. However, I had a wild card, and I just needed to use it at the right moment. After all, it’s one thing to push yourself to the front of a line, but it’s quite another to do it for someone else. It gives you a kind of authority to place someone else in front of you. With 10 minutes left to go, I looked at the older Ukrainian and said clearly, for all nearby to hear, "Jste Prvni, ne?" and to the younger one, "a jste druhy, ano?" (= "you are first, right?" "and you are second, yes?"). And with that I swung slowly counterclockwise (keeping my face to the door but moving myself to the other side of it) to make a place for them in front of me, which "incidentally" gave me an excuse to nudge the Romanians just enough behind me so that they were no longer in front of the door. They were not at all happy about it, but I pretended not to notice. After all, we don’t share any common language, right? Besides, after winning a three hours mental and physical competition with them, I wasn’t about to discuss the rules. My friends were now at their rightful place in front of the line, and I was third. All was ready.
It was at this time that I finally had nothing to think about except the coming trauma. The thought that after all this, the last 29 hours of strain and torture, after doing everything possible to make it work, that it might all be for nothing, made me want to puke. All it would take is one paper, or, depending on the evilness of the bureaucrats in charge, one box not filled out correctly, or not authorized, or not translated officially, or not signed in the right place, or ANYTHING, and it would be over, all brushed away as if I’d spent a few minutes on it, rather than 6 months working to get to this point. I knew a lot of this could depend on how well I communicated, and I started running through every Czech phrase I could possibly form. I started to feel like I was getting ready for a performance at which the audience could kill me if they didn’t like the story, and butterflies were eating my stomach lining. Of course, that might have been McDonald’s. I felt a need to go through my papers once more, and I took them out to organize them, make sure I could explain every possible problem with them. However, whether it was from lack of sleep, or from the cold, or the stress, I don’t know, but I actually could not read the papers. My hands were shaking so badly that it probably looked like I was trying to fan myself, and it was impossible to read anything. This is one of the crystal moments from this trip which I will never forget. Standing in Bratislava, hostile Romanians behind, friendly Ukrainians ahead, waiting to step through the door of final reckoning, breathing hard as the minutes now flew by, trembling so badly I couldn’t count my fingers, I realized that I was about to cry.
But I didn’t have a chance. I heard a click. Looking to my right, and over the shoulder of the younger Ukrainian, I saw the door knob start to turn. It shook back and forth several times, as someone tried to unlock it, and then it was still for half a second. Everyone turned into statues, eyes glued on that door, and the atmosphere of 25 people feeling exactly like me was suffocating. Then, thoughtfully, the door slowly swung open. The moment had arrived.