travel – Ellen Czechs It Out

Illiterate Again

: “The limits of my language are the limits of my world.” –Ludwig Wittgenstein

I can’t read anything anymore. I am surrounded by text–as are we all. But right now, here in Prague, with the exception of an occasional English word on a sign, I’m text-blind. I’ve traveled Europe before; been to places whose languages I did not know. But there were root words I could pick out. French classes from sixth grade onward allowed me to fumble my way through the many romance-language cities of Europe. And English itself has given me some help traveling Germanic-language locations. Japan was tricky. Not much to do but look for possible English on signs. Luckily, there was plenty of English in the tourist places we visited. And VISITED is the key word. Life in Japan had hard borders. Hotels, restaurants, historic, cultural, and tourist sites. Ten days. OK.

But I live here now. That means I need to know what the ad says on the Prague real estate web site. I need to know what’s on my rental agreement. My phone contract. My bank’s fine print. What could the new bright red and yellow signs placed over the metro schedule in the station mean? Why is my phone company texting me all the time? Am I running out of something? Or are they exceptionally friendly?

Czech. It’s on to me–it knows I live here. On Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube, the English has all but disappeared in ads and has been replaced by Czech. Beer ads need more explanation than you might expect. And what’s the deal with that blinking self-propelled suitcase thing? Looks like TSA’s next nightmare. But maybe in English it all makes sense…

When I travel on buses or trams the signs all over town tell me nearly nothing. While walking, I scrutinize artwork and photos on signs to try to decipher meaning. But Prague is known for its alternative thinking, its head-scratching sculptures, absurd and surreal literature, and just general weirdness. (Save it Austin, Portland, and Vermont–Prague managed to keep weird through Nazi and Soviet occupations. This is Kafkaland, afterall.) Anyway, I can’t count on the visuals here to cue me when the Prague mentality suggests it’s likely to be ironic or subversive. So what’s a girl to do? Uh huh. Learn a Slavic language. Learn Czech.

But Czech is hard, have you heard? Maybe you guessed. Before I left Central New York, I bought a Pimsleur CD Czech language course. I played it in my car and practiced just about anytime I drove anywhere. So I know a few phrases. But I don’t know how to write or read them, because there was not a book that went with these audio lessons.

Most people can’t remember when they couldn’t read. They might have memories from back before they were readers, but the memories are not typically of being unable to read. I clearly recall not being able to read. I remember looking at newspapers and books and all those little ink lines and curves that didn’t quite make pictures. It was a code. And I was unable to break it. I was seven–well into second grade–and couldn’t recognize much more than my name. I can still look at English text and relax my brain enough to only see little ink lines and curves. This recollection and ability has been beneficial when I’ve helped children learn to read. When I’m doing an “Author Visit” at a school, I always mention my struggle learning to read. I see the faces of my fellow strugglers light up when they realize that the author in front of them–the one who now writes books–had so much trouble learning to read and write. I share some brief eye contact and a quick nod with those kids to let them know I see them. I did it. They can, too. Lots of stuff is hard. But we can learn hard stuff.

It is not lost on me that one of the ways I’m earning a living in the Czech Republic is language teaching. It is also not lost on me that I am in some serious need of language learning. A few people mentioned that they hoped I would do a food post on this blog next. And I promise, I’ll get to it soon. But I wanted to tackle this topic while I still couldn’t read anything. Because very soon, I will be able to read something. A couple words here and there. A phrase. Enough to know what those phone messages say, what the metro updates mean. I can learn hard stuff. After all, I’ve done it before. I remember doing it before. And so, I begin.

Getting around

I’ve been living in Prague a month now. Most of that month was spent in class learning how to teach English as a foreign language. And while that may seem like a walk in the park for someone who writes for a living, that would be OH SO WRONG. I can drive a car. I cannot so easily tear it down, label all of the parts, and put it back together while explaining to a non-driver why it goes back together this way. The English language is a lot like a city bus with lots of moving parts. I now have my teaching certificate and an increased appreciation for the mechanics of English. Oh you poor Czechs and Russians, far too many of our rules have the “you’ll just have to learn it” explanation attached. But don’t you worry my dear future students, I will be under the hood with you. We can curse English together as we try to rebuild the carburetor of verb forms and idiomatic expressions.

While working on the engines of English, I managed to acquire more official paperwork: my Prague public transportation pass (litacka). For about $150 US, I have unlimited travel on the metro, the buses, the trams (yes, my new city is so cool it has trams), and the funicular. Maybe you don’t know what a funicular is: it’s a type of railway that uses cables and counterbalances. I’m pretty sure they’re always on hillsides/mountainsides. And they’re fun. I mean, “FUN” is embedded right there in the word. And Prague has one. Happy me.

I’ve taken all of the transportation options available in and around Prague. Mostly because I like to use all possible features of everything I have. There is only one funicular, so that was easy to check off. The buses and trams still have me checking routes almost every time I use them. But they’re straightforward. And the metro…oh, the metro. It’s clean, and safe, and so easy to use. The stations themselves vary in quality, but so far all of them that I’ve used have been between great and good enough.

There is one curiosity though. The escalators from the track lines up to the upper tracks or to the stations themselves, are not all alike–some are set to “Soviet Speed.” The entire system is Soviet designed. And since the Soviets left after the Velvet Revolution in 1989, changes continue to be made. The escalators are one example. Most have been set to a civilized pace. You don’t pay any attention to those, they’re like escalators most of the world over. But some…some you better have your balance established before attempting to hop aboard because those babies M.O.V.E. Beware people escorting young children. Beware older travelers. The up side is that you get where you’re going lightning quick. Just hold the handrail so you get there with all your parts still functioning.

Sometime soon, I will check out the transportation options outside of Prague when I head to some of the surrounding villages and cities in the Czech Republic. And if I encounter any escalators, I’ll let you know who seems to be in charge of the speed. Because no matter the conveyance, it’s never a bad thing to have a sense of just how fast you’ll get somewhere.

Drifting in the Liminal Space

Not “here” anymore, not “there” yet

…but I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. –Louisa May Alcott

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Living in the in-between. I’ve left Central New York, but I’m not yet in the Czech Republic. I’ve been a week in NYC visiting my daughter, her fiancé, and their happy, bouncy puppy. I’m meeting with my agent, and a couple of editors; checking in before moving away.

So I’m gone, but not exactly. After months of purging, packing, and getting my house ready to sell; training my replacement at the farm; and saying a lot of “goodbyes”; this has a been a week with room in it to think. And that has been great. My daughter and a dear friend have cautioned me not to fill up time in my new place with too many jobs. I have a tendency to do this, I have been told. The Czech visa office will likely have strong opinions on my employment so this may be an easy admonition to follow. But it still may be hard. It turns out that I am one of those people who defines herself by what she does for a living. Writer, farmhand, bookseller. And some of that isn’t true anymore.

I’m not a bookseller. I’ve been one on and off for the better part of thirty-five years. My urge to find just the right book for a customer—especially kids—what will I do with that?

I didn’t have room in my luggage for my Carhartt jacket—my every-day-wear-on-the-farm jacket. It’s more me than any other item of clothing I own. But I’ve left the farm and I’m unlikely to need such a garment living in a big city. Because after twenty-two years, I’m no longer a farmhand. Then who exactly am I?

I’m still a writer. The deadline I needed to fulfill this week attests to this. The meetings with my agent and editors reinforces that. I have books coming out. Books to support with social media attention. Books to finish. Books to begin. So yes, still a writer.

I’m not a teacher of English as a foreign language yet. I’ll be a student first. But I’m not one of those yet either. One month of intensive classes and then I’ll be certified. And then I’ll be what? An American who happens to be a writer living and teaching in Prague figuring out the language, the culture, my new city… myself? Sounds about right.

This past week I’ve been trying to stay in this slightly uncomfortable moment and then in the next, and the next. Trying to stay aware and engaged in this threshold time. Not wishing this time away to get to the next thing. I’ve been successful and then not, rolling in, rolling out, a bit like the tides.

I’ll be here. I’ll be there. I’ll be over on social media. I’ll share my confusions and clarities of the new places. I promise some pretty pictures. On this page you can find me. Because this is Ellen Czechs It Out, not Ellen Checks Out.