I have woken up here in a few times wondering where I was. As if I actually didn’t know where I was: in my own life, in Prague. I am here, a feature of a little existence far removed from places that are familiar. Not that it is a sad thing or a bad thing, just a strange thing. There is no one sleeping next to me, I am alone – sometimes on a bed, sometimes on a couch – but always solo. It’s just me, and the sounds of the city waking up around me. But which city? My mind and body have a hard time remembering where they are. Am I in Oakland? L.A.? Prague 9? Vinohrady? A glass with evidence of the previous nights entertainment sometimes sits next to me, mocking me by still having liquid in it. Was it wine or Becherovka? I don’t recall. Maybe both. Now don’t get me wrong, this disorientation is not always alcohol induced. I have awaked completely sober not knowing where I was.
Dance. As long as the music plays. That’s from a Murakami book that I am reading at the moment called “Dance Dance Dance”. That pretty much sums up the way I feel right now. If you have not read any of his stuff – go out and buy one of his books. I recommend “Kafka on the Shore”. Awesome. Anyway… Being one of nine people sleeping in a three-bedroom apartment is something I am proud to say is behind me. It was fun having everyone around, and it was nice of the boys to put us up, but at the same time I couldn’t feel at home on the sofa. I hate living out of a suitcase. I felt older than the rest of my friends – I can’t just sleep until noon, then sit around for a couple of hours and then smoke a cigarette and talk about emailing someone about maybe getting a job. I felt useless.
Not having a job and moving into a new place is weird. But I am working on it. I had two interviews yesterday. I felt like a New Yorker. I was taking the subway here and there, racing around in the cold, trying to find my way to various interviews in new parts of the city. I was getting off at one place, with my groceries in hand, running to catch the next train. I thought to myself, “…this is what it must feel like to live in New York.” And maybe it is, but It’s not New York, it’s Prague. My interviews went fairly well. I go back on Monday for a final interview with the James Cook Language School, and I am hoping for a call from the Tutor School as well. But we will see. Cross your fingers and toes for me.
We moved in to our new apartment on Monday and I have been trying to get my room in order. I think it looks pretty cool. I have three strands of twinkle lights, a bunch of candles, a desk, a bed, and lot’s of bright colors. My room glows red in the morning sunlight because of the red and orange curtains I put up. Sweet. Le Mutt seems pretty happy on my new bed with my new IKEA comforter. That being said, we have no plates, bowls, glasses, mugs, pots or pans. We keep running downstairs to the boy’s apartment to borrow bowl or plate or small plate. Notice that I said “bowl” and “plate” and “small plate”. That is because there is only one of each, so the boys just say, “Hey, who is using bowl right now? Can I use it when you are done?” Yeah. I went to TESCO today and got some glasses, a skillet and a trashcan. Summer is there now picking up some dishes, and I think Ginny Blair is going to go later so we’ll be alright. But…
Thanksgiving is tomorrow. We are having everyone over to the Premyslovska Pads (downstairs at the boys for appetizers and cocktails, and up at our place for dinner.) for Turkey day. Now brace yourselves…Ginny Blair and I are going to make the Turkey. I know what you are thinking and you are right, I don’t know how to make a turkey. Tim and I did it once, but to be perfectly honest, I didn’t help with the bird. I made potatoes, and my infamous Mac n cheese. And in recent years I have been treated to the loveliest Thanksgivings at Rainbow’s house. I am a little bummed I can’t go this year, but I think Byron is going to represent for us. But I digress. I am making the bird. Summer is a vegetarian and Christina (our chef of the group) went home yesterday. So it’s up to Ginny Blair and me. I am sure there will be a good story about this because I am a notoriously bad cook. Okay, not bad, but not great. I mean my brother is a chef, and my mom is one of those moms who can cook anything and it comes out good. And then there is me: the queen of side dishes and popcorn. And remember, I am in the Czech Republic. I had to remind some folks that they don’t really “do” Thanksgiving here. Plymouth Rock is in America kids. It’s hard shopping here in the first place because you can’t read the labels, but looking for special ingredients is going to be crazy. I saw some Turkeys, but that is about it. It is a truly American thing – that whole “Hey thanks for the corn Indians! We’ll just take that… and this here land… and give you some syphilis! If that doesn’t work we’ll just murder you all in the name of freedom.”
Pass the butterball please.
God bless America.