Rhapsodies of Bohemia - pt3

Neville Chamberlain once washed his hands of Czechoslovakia by calling it “a far-away country of which we know nothing”.

As such, I like to think that these three blog posts about my recent trip to Prague are working to prevent such appeasement of any future Hitler.

By making you not know nothing about it, and in fact know something about it.

The Czech Republic, that is.

Czech Technology

I shouldn’t really have been surprised by this (because it happened to me in France as well), but the first thing I did on getting out of the airport was to try and check my emails - and of course, I couldn’t get the internet on my phone. So I had to hold out for a WiFi network.

Naturally, I was very uneasy until I got online. God knows how anyone managed to go on holiday in the past. Or to places where they don’t have WiFi.

Anyway, pursuant to my remarks about the Czech language I was a little disconcerted when faced with the Czech keyboard. Now I know that other countries have different keyboards. But if ANYONE knows where the @ symbol is on the Czech keyboard, please let me know. In order to log in to my email, I had to Google “at symbol”.

Just another reason not to have all those silly accented letters in your alphabet taking up valuable keyboard space.

Czech culture

Ever seen this little chap? 

If - like me - you used to watch the eerie foreign cartoons on BBC2 around teatime circa 1983, you may have a vague recollection. If not, he’s called Krtek (which means “mole”) and as far as I could tell, he is the single most popular thing in the entire Czech Republic.

Perhaps one in every three shops and market stalls in Prague stock every kind of Krtek merchandise you can imagine.

On our last day there, I was starting to think this mole was a little too popular when I spotted him on the front page of a daily newspaper.

But it turned out that his creator, Zdenek Miler, had died that day. Very sad, because in just three days I had become a Krtek fan too.

Alongside Krtek, Prague is overrun with Kafka-kitsch and the occasional Svejk – but no one comes close to the mole.

In conclusion

Elvira and I had a great time in Prague. To be fair, we would probably have had a great time anywhere without the kids, but the location definitely contributed. Prague is easy to get to, (relatively) cheap, safe, simple to navigate, beautiful and fascinating. I give it two thumbs up, and despite the piss-taking in the foregoing three posts, I am now a firm fan of the Czech people and the Czech Republic. 

But after our foreign trip it was nice to come back to the kids and to Boston and see the familiar signs of home.

The Czech is in the post – pt 2

Here’s the second instalment of my guide to Prague for people who share the exact circumstances my wife and I found ourselves in last week. For everyone else, there’s always Tripadvisor.

Czech Language

This is probably historically a highly tasteless remark, for which I apologise in advance - but Prague is basically a German city inhabited by people who speak a language that bears no resemblance to German.

Everything I saw pointed to either Vienna (if it was less than 400 years old) or that whole kind of Brothers Grimm medieval Germany thing (if older).

Anyway, as well as excellent English and German, the Czechs speak a language called “Czech”, and this is a Slavic language. As such – and again I apologise for any cultural insensitivity here – it is a lot like most other Slavic languages, from Russian, to Polish, to Serbian and so on.  For example, the Czechs say “dobra den” and the Poles say “dzien dobry”. PotAYto, PotARto – DUMPling, DIMPling.

Mercifully, the Catholics got to the Czechs before old Cyril and Methodius, and they use our Roman alphabet.

However, this is of little advantage when your find yourself confronted with repeated storms of consecutive consonants, which really do not lend themselves to English tonguing. Elvira and I struggled to ask for “Trdelnik” when we found it, and ended up rendering it like Dora the Explorer saying “turtleneck”.

And here I must insert a little linguistic rant of wider relevance. English has its faults, but it makes do perfectly well with 26 letters. If you need all those goddam accents to cover all the sounds your language makes – perhaps you need some more letters. I’m just sayin’ is all.

Anyway, I can only begin to imagine how Czechs play Scrabble. They are not, however, above a bit of Engrish.

Czech Money

The Czechs are not members of the Eurozone, which means that you can still have loads of fun wondering what the hell is going on with a currency you cannot get your head round - which in turn means that your holiday descends into a purgatory of near-constant mental arithmetic.

Their money is called the “koruna” and £1 is worth anywhere between 25 and 31 of them – which makes for very confusing “value for money” assessments when shopping.

Here’s a piece of useful advice (by my own low, low standards). Get your koruna in the Czech Republic, not in the UK. You get a much better rate (worst case, +3 more koruna to the pound) and you will not be slapped around the face for waving euros around, at least in the vicinity of the airport and Prague itself. Unless, I suppose, you are being met by Vaclav Klaus, who doesn’t like euros. But nor does he drive a taxi.

 

As well as suitcase-hostile block paving/cobblestones, the streets of Prague are lined with exchange booths, in which tourists swap their home currency for ever-fluctuating korunas.

To your left, you can see an example of Czech language, Czech money and German economic colonialism all in one place.

And that, dear readers, brings me on to a little adventure the missus and I had...

So there we were, standing outside an exchange booth trying to work out whether “we buy” means that they buy pounds off you for that many korunas or they buy that many korunas for a pound, when a man sidles up to us and starts asking if we’re interested in changing money.

Now, this chap spoke good English with that kind of accent which, to UK ears, could place him anywhere from Strasbourg to the Urals. He looked kind of Kazakh, or something else Central Asian. Anyway, he said that he’d give us 32 koruna to the pound – which was the best deal we’d seen.

My suspicions were first raised when he insisted on carrying out the transaction behind a parked car. But I wasn’t too alarmed – he’s probably just trying to dodge tax, I thought, and that is in both our interests... I wasn't going to hold that against him. 

So I say I want to change £100. He suggests £200. I say I’ve only got £100. So he whips out a bundle of notes, and counts through them at Paul Daniels speed – one thousand, two thousand, three thousand, one hundred, two hundred. He has my £100 in his hand when I realise that I have actually seen a one thousand koruna note, and the notes at the bottom of his pile are a different colour. And size. And they had “Hungarian forints” written on them.

Like a panther, I grab my money back, rebutting his protestations that they are real banknotes by declaring - I was very proud of this particular bit of wit - “I can read”. And away we go, very pleased not to have been ripped off. Later on that day, I checked the exchange rates and found that 1000 forints were going for about £2.79.

Elvira was deeply impressed by my display of shrewdness. All I can say is that the deep suspicion and cynicism about other people that condemns me to a life of perpetual isolation sometimes has its upsides.

Coming next...Czech Technology and Culture. For real, this time. 

Czech yourself before you wreck yourself – pt 1

Elvira and I have just returned from a child-free trip to Prague, capital of the glamorous Czech Republic – the veritable Switzerland of the former Soviet bloc.

And so, before I return to the subject of my recent jury service (THANKS for the complete ABSENCE of useful legal advice, by the way), I will regale you with a little bit of travel writing.

However, in inimitable ODHSNM style, this will largely consist of my impressions of various things that either did happen or that I am imagining to have happened, upon extrapolation from a more mundane reality. As such, if you are looking for a useable guide on Things to do in Prague – as ever - I suggest you go elsewhere.  

Czech Cuisine

I did not see a single green vegetable on offer, from street food kiosks to five-star restaurants. Come to think of it, unless you count braised red cabbage – which consists more of sugar and booze than cabbage – I don’t think I saw any vegetables at all.

In their place, you have dumplings. Dumplings big, dumplings small, dumplings smooth, lumpy or gnocchi-like – all made of flour or potato, and in Elvira’s well-chosen words all “very binding”.

I can’t fault Czech cuisine for flavour and heartiness, but I suspect that constipation may be one of the country’s biggest public health issues.

Having said that, the degree of bowel irritation I personally experienced as a result of drinking the ample strong coffee on offer more or less offset the bunging-up effect of the food.

At the hotel breakfast, I was led to wonder why the UK is so rubbish when it comes to bread. Here, I was faced with about 20 different options of variously shaped and flavoured rolls, slices and more. Fennel seed in bread, I wholeheartedly recommend. But at home, it’s “white or brown or both”. Why are the British content with damp, floppy, sliced white shite?

Another thing we in the UK seem to neglect is the admirable continental tradition of distilling alcoholic bitters – the Czech speciality being a delightful little tipple called Becherovka.

I have come to the conclusion that the “secret recipe” for Jagermeister – surely the Rod Stewart to Becherovka’s Tom Waits – must comprise one part Becherovka to one part Beecham’s Venos Expectorant for Chesty Coughs.

More to follow, when we consider Czech Technology and Czech Culture...

The Dukes of Moral Hazard

After praising the Greek government for sticking to its guns on a referendum on the bailout package yesterday, I was rather surprised to find that some 15 minutes after I had published it, Papandreou had changed his mind. The ODHSNM kiss of death strikes again. 

Suddenly George had decided that “democracy” meant something a little less Athenian and bit more Burkean than he’d previously been inclined to lead the world to believe.

By that, I mean:

1. Because the parliamentary opposition supported the bailout – no doubt after having their children taken hostage by G20 agents and spirited to a bunker in Cannes – there was, in fact, total agreement in the Greek polity on the whole “selling oneself and one’s descendants into slavery” issue.
2. The general public had their chance for a say when they elected their MPs. No point whinging about it now Stavros. Just eat your grass and be quiet. 

So, well done everyone - especially Existential Doubt for his article explaining WTF brought us to this moment. That’s the crisis over.

Well, call me paranoid and a prophet of doom, but I’m glad Elvira and I decided to book our upcoming break in a non-Euro country (the Czech Republic, since you ask).

While flights might be cheaper after the Euro has collapsed, I don’t want the added hassle of bartering for food, huddling around burning pieces of furniture in an exploded basement overnight and fending off marauding barbarians during the day on top of the usual stresses of a holiday.

Yes, well done EU and G20. The banks can rest easy knowing that there’s nothing you won’t do to stop them losing a penny. Things are going so well.

While we’re at it, EU, why not finish the job properly? All the governments – step down. Let’s get a Hapsburg on the throne and change the name back to "Holy Roman Empire".

Things we did on our holidays - pt 2

Why can't air travel be more like rail travel?

By that, I don't mean "please double the prices, delay more aircraft and cram them so full of standing passengers that you can hardly breathe, let alone move, and god help you all if there's an accident".   

No. What I mean is, why is it beyond the wit of man to make air travel a walk-on affair?

Obviously, there are a few good security reasons that slow things down unavoidably. Then on top of those, there are the ludicrous post 9/11 overcompensations introduced for the sake of being seen to do something, regardless of any actual effect on security.

You know what I'm talking about. On going through Leeds/Bradford airport on our holiday:

1. Three-year-old Roger Junior was frisked down and made to take his shoes off, because he was the nth passenger through the security scanner. I was not subjected to any kind of search. Now, while Roger Jr can be a handful, I'm fairly sure it's beyond his capabilities to hijack or bring down a passenger jet.
2. We had to hand over some unopened cartons of juice – presumably to be destroyed in a secure environment where there would be no danger of hazardous spillage.

All of which begs the question why it's perfectly acceptable to carry anything you like onto a train without being checked. Many a train I have been on has seen the passengers all shut in and unable to get away for longer than a lot of long haul flights...

OK, you've also got to allow some time from bags being handed over to get them onto the plane. And clearly separating all the bags that obviously belong to the same family and making sure they go into different compartments of the hold - so as to ensure the maximum gap between the first and last piece coming out on the luggage carousel - doesn't just happen by itself. It requires careful planning as well as a powerful throwing arm.

So that's two sets of quasi-legitimate reasons.

I suppose part of this is our own fault. Check in usually opens around two hours before departure for European flights – but they close 40 minutes or so beforehand. Guess which timescale I have worked on EVERY SINGLE TIME I've been on an aeroplane? Correct. We always get there for the opening of check in, guaranteeing ourselves:

1. As many queuing experiences as can be crammed into a day.
2. Maximum waiting time – relieved only by the opportunity to buy things we did not feel the need to pack when considering what to take with us or which we were not allowed to bring through security.  

As long as you've got seats reserved, it doesn't matter when you check in, does it? How I wish I could be one of those people whose names are announced over the tannoy, warning them that the plane is waiting for them.

But I can't. I am too English, too middle class and – let's just admit it – still too in awe of the fact of air travel to treat it casually.

Airlines and airports want you to still believe that air travel today is like air travel in the 1950s. It's luxurious! It's exclusive! Cabin crew are there to feed you grapes and champagne, not to hard sell you wilted sandwiches and high street perfume at astronomical prices! Fly on a plane and be part of the jet set, queue for 20 minutes every time you want a piss and then get dumped on a wind-blasted airstrip miles from your final destination! I don't know about you, but I fall for it every time. 

Things we did on our holidays – pt 1

Roger Jr, Elvira and I went swimming in the Mediterranean Sea earlier last week – having survived our flight into terror, which in turn followed our airport wait into terror.

However Tancred refused to enter the water, which was perhaps unsurprising given the difficulties he has in remaining on his feet in the face of moderate air currents, let alone those offered up by the sea. He would be repeatedly led to the water's edge, apparently fascinated by the spectacle of the waves – only to turn away in horror as the creeping waters approached within six inches or so of his feet.

It was our last day in Plascassier, near Grasse, near Nice, in France. And it was a delightful end to a very pleasant week – marred only by:

1. Tancred spurting blood out of his eyebrow after falling face first (do one year olds fall any other way?) into the handle on a chest;
2. Roger Jr being staggeringly obnoxious around 90 per cent of the time that he was awake;
3. Receiving mosquito bites of such virulence that at one point I thought I had inadvertently broken my ankle.

I have for many years now been a little ambivalent about swimming. When I was a boy, I was really good at it. But much like the life cycle of the toad sees it go from fully aquatic tadpole to ungainly, crawling leathery blob, I too have become less of a swimmer and more of a puddle lurking fly gobbler as the years have passed. That's a METAPHOR, by the way.   

While Elvira swims effortlessly, I always seem to exert myself twice as much to cover half the distance. I put this down to being insufficiently buoyant, lacking a pair of front airbags (an excuse it is becoming ever harder to avail myself of).

Secondly, I am hopelessly susceptible to water-borne complaints of every kind. If my left ear lets in more water than it is exposed to in – say – a shower, I go deaf in it for as long as it takes for a foul-smelling lump of dark brown wax to work its way out. Just like in Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan.

As such, I only get my head under the water – and given my "eccentric centre of gravity", this is a necessity if I am not to be overtaken by people who are swimming for reasons of physical therapy – if I have ear plugs in.

Plus, I need goggles. Because when I went swimming at Centre Parcs in May, I got a sty on my eye which is still not properly healed.

Oh, and I got athletes foot from the floor at the gym a couple of years ago. Which is kind of related.

Basically, going into water exposes your delicate openings  to other people's filth. And so if a swimming pool full of chlorine dedicated to killing off that sort of shit is risky, going into a "natural" environment that lacks the benefits of disinfectants is positively a matter of taking one's life into one's own hands.  

It was thus with trepidation that I approached going into the Med.

Indeed, the last time I went full-bodily into the sea, I had fallen out of a canoe some six feet from the shore of Hayling Island, while Elvira and our canoeist friends conversed in a leisurely manner on the beach, oblivious of the fact that I had vanished in waters of some two feet of depth. Fortunately, my two star BCU training came back to me in an instant and I expertly disentangled myself from the stricken vessel and staggered gasping up the beach gabbling about how I had cheated certain death before anyone had even noticed I was gone.

Plus, swimming pools – for all their faults – rarely play host to fish. Be they living or be they dead, I have a lingering irrational fear of touching them. But of that more another time...suffice to say, when I put on Roger Jr's goggles, it turned out we were not alone down there.

I know what you're thinking: the sea at Cannes beach can hardly be considered a natural environment, consisting as much of yacht oil, Ambre Solaire and human urine as sea water.

And given the Mediterranean's well-deserved reputation for stinking of drain and being freezing cold (rarely mentioned, I find, in the Baedeker), it was pleasantly warm and odour-free.

Indeed and in conclusion, we had a lovely day out at the seaside – and I have yet to manifest any symptoms of my inevitable bout of amoebic dysentery.