Am I Corn or Kale?

We had no idea that the biggest language barrier of our trip would be found in the Czech Republic. A few days ago we booked a room in Teplice nad Metuji; we had just found out about the scenic Teplice-Adrspach Rocks region, tucked in a corner in the Northern part of the country, so close to Poland that we could walk there in a couple of hours. Consequently, the climate is cooler and very close to what we get in Michigan; even though it’s mid-May, the temperature didn’t rise above single digits (Celsius) throughout our stay, and bone-chilling rain was an ever present threat.

Teplice nad Metuji is a tiny village (roughly 1,900 inhabitants); grocery stores here close at 17:00 and restaurant menus with English translations are scarce. We imagine native English speakers rarely venture to these parts — the “other” languages here are German, Polish and Russian. When we arrived, our host at the guesthouse was a younger man with a good grasp of English, but he warned us that he would leave the next day and his parents would be running the place; most importantly, they spoke Czech and only Czech, so any information we‘d like to extract about the hikes, sights, and trains had to be done before the staff switch. He also told us that a large group of people would be arriving and that, in such occasions, his parents cooked goulash for everyone. We quickly signed up.
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The rocks are the main attraction here, and they are sweet. We had no idea they are also huge — based on the few pictures we found online during our research they could have very well been the size of a house. Instead, some were taller than skyscrapers, shooting up hundreds of feet in the air.

The crazy formations comprise natural labyrinths that were only “officially” discovered (apparently locals used to run to and hide in the rocks during medieval wartime) and fully understood after a great fire in 1824. It makes sense: a good part of these trails would be tough to navigate without the bridges and boardwalks that presently stand, and at one point we had to squeeze through a long and narrow (50cm) corridor between rock walls. Wandering aimlessly around here 200 years ago would be a no-no.

We were shocked to see snow still hiding in the canyons, valleys, and other crevices — in one of the signs the only word we could understand was permafrost, which probably means that some of the ice here never melts.

Many of the rocks have names, some adequate and others not so much. “Giant‘s Harp”, “Horse Head”, and “Lovers” were some of the most adept titles.

Not at all related to the rocks except for its mere placement by the park entrance, this is what the newest recycling ads look like in the Czech Republic (or at least in this area):

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At 18:00 we showed up at the dining room to find it completely full of old Czech couples. We sat at our reserved table and saw that all the men were hunched over the television watching the national hockey team play Canada. It became clear that dinner wouldn’t be served before the game was over, so we decided to pursue some of the awesome-looking Czech beer everyone else was drinking.

We met the older couple running the guesthouse and the woman was quick to lead us to a separate room with a bar. I asked for a pivo (beer — perhaps the only Czech word I know) but instead she wanted us to try a traditional spirit made from blueberries. I waived and tried to communicate that it was not a good idea, we were about to eat some great food and what’s the use to upsetting the stomach before it, but she was very smiley and insistent. I repeated “pivo, pivo” but she could care less and poured us two huge shots of clear liquor (and a tiny one for herself). I tried one last lobby for pivo but it was too late, so we sipped on the liquid and made faces as it burned our insides. Her husband then showed up with maps and booklets containing hardly any words in English. They pointed here and there and we think they told us on of their fathers was alive and well at age 94. They talked and talked and we couldn’t do much but smile and try not too look as confused as we actually were. We returned to our tables, were served two bowls of delicious home cooked Czech food and, at last, a beer.

Czechs are very proud of their brews. Since our arrival, we have not seen any sign of a foreign beer, and it makes sense — based on our research, the Czech have mastered the art of drink ability without sacrificing flavor; their beer is light (even the darker ones) but not watery, always with a pleasant aftertaste. It’s not mind blowing good, but it’s impressively consistent and cheap: we‘re talking dollar pints all of the time. Drinking something like PBR or the American Budweiser (or Skol, Brahma, etc.) here would probably be regarded as criminal offense. Everyone here drinks beer — even the old ladies at dinner had full glasses of golden goodness.

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The next day it was supposed to rain all day. We thought we were mentally prepared for it, but soon realized if the bad weather kept us indoors we would be unhappy. We tried to communicate with our hosts when they came into our room to change the bathroom garbage, and the lady took on the mission of finding us a good program. She tried to call her son, failed, and then said she would get ahold of him within 15 minutes and have him talk to us. After 30 we thought she got busier doing more important things, but to our surprise to knocked once and entered our room, sat on the bed with us (I was working on a blog and Norika was reading), and phoned her son. Once in touch with him, she handed Norika the cell so he could give us tips on what to do in such a gloomy day. Just in case, she continued yelling at the phone (which, again, was in Norika’s hand and ear) so that she could tell her son what to translate for us. This situation went on for a few too many minutes and we could not contain our laughter, which surely was interpreted as our gratefulness for all their help.

After much deliberation and a couple of trips to and fro town to buy groceries and use the internet for 20 meager minutes, we decided to just suck it up and go on the hike we had originally planned regardless of the conditions. We were rewarded for our delay — it barely rained in the afternoon and we had little trouble staying dry, at least from our ankles up. The ground was at times muddy and other times straight up inundated; our shoes were soaked, and I was once and for all convinced that, if Norika hadn’t made me buy expensive wool socks for this trip, my feet would be frozen and decomposing. Instead, they felt warm and barely wet, which was simply miraculous for someone who‘s worn cotton socks for two-plus decades.

This trail was less photogenic but equally rewarding. The rocks were covered in shiny green moss and closer in size to what we had envisioned; the up-and-down path was foggy at points and felt even more like a labyrinth. All in all, this place is so unreal that my only disappointment was not seeing  a centaur or some other mythical creature.

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To my relief, the trip from insular Teplice to cosmopolitan Prague was smooth; we arrived at our hostel with plenty of time to settle down and use the internet to fine-tune the details for the rest of our time in Europe. Most importantly, we would not risk missing the concert we purchased tickets for months ago.

(Warning: next section is a concert review. Skip it or risk injuring yourself yawning)

Pavement was one of the U.S.‘ premier independent rock bands of the 1990s. Since their brake up about a decade ago, their reunion has been hotly anticipated and therefore, from an economic point of view, inevitable. They were playing at the Palac Akropolis that night, and we were able to book a room literally a block away from venue. At 19:00 we headed over and found out that, despite its imposing name, the Palac is actually a tiny, cosy place: there were perhaps 300 people (for the sake of comparison, let’s say the Akropolis was significantly smaller than St. Andrew’s Hall in Detroit, the Metro in Chicago, or Tom Brasil in SP). We were also happy to discover that the venue was non-smoking and that Pavement would be the only act performing, so there would be no need to sit through a potentially annoying opening act. Norika had the brilliant idea of checking out the balcony right after we got in, and we ended up sitting in the front row (there were maybe 6 rows, each one with no more than a dozen seats) away from the sweatiest sections of the crowd. The mostly male audience was an interesting mix of aging hipsters and younger people who could not have seen Pavement live in their past incarnation.

Live, Pavement was an amplified version of their studio career, with all of its virtues and flaws. They were often impressive yet often unfocused. Like most rock acts, the most reliable tunes were the loud ones: songs like “Unfair”, “Summer Babe”, and “Cut Your Hair” (which was way more intense than its recorded version) worked wonders live. I learned that I was quite ignorant about the band, unaware that they do indeed have a second drummer/instrumentalist who actually takes over the extreme screaming duties when needed. His stage presence was quirky, incredibly ‘90s and thus very funny. Stephen Malkmus did not look like a nice person, but his guitar playing more than made up for his snotty attitude: his style is idiosyncratic yet efficient, and even though he is the main vocalist he virtually plays all of the leads (in fact, he is a much better guitarist and lyricist than a singer).

On the less positive side, some of the band’s mellower songs lost their luster outside of the studio: alt-country tunes like “Range Life” and “Father to a Sister of Thought” sorely missed the extra instrumentation — banjo, slide guitar, whatever it is — and sounded too plain; the same applied to songs like “Here”, “Zurich is Stained”, and “Starlings on the Slipstream” lacked the ambience that made them great recordings. Also, however erratic Malkmus’ vocals can be, they were consistently superior to the other guitarist’s; he sings some of my favorite Pavement cuts but unfortunately couldn’t properly replicate them live ten-plus years later. But hey, that’s just me being critical. The show was pretty good. Ironically, the best song was also the only one I did not recognize, featuring an extensive atmospheric guitar section and absurd vocals. I’ll have to listen to Wowee Zowee again and see if I find it.

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The following day we left the hostel and stored our luggage at the train station; our CouchSurfing hosts wouldn’t be able to meet with us until after work, so we had a few hours to explore Prague by ourselves armed only with an oversimplified city map.

We committed the grave mistake of getting hungry while at the most touristy part of the city, and were systematically screwed by a restaurant that charged us a couvert for the giant pretzels sitting on our table and bread that we neither asked for nor touched. We had to pay $3 for a few meager slices, and I got so upset that I ordered them to bring back the bread they had taken away so I could bring it home. I didn’t care about the $2 pretzels because they were stale anyway. We were incensed and prone to forever hate Prague, and walking across the crowded Charles Bridge and nearby streets did not make us feel any better.

All of this changed when we finally met our CS friends. Honza and Zuzka were two of the nicest people we’ve encountered throughout our trip, and we had a great time sharing Southeast Asia stories over cookies and tea. That night was the highlight of our Prague stay: we ventured back to the old city, but instead of the busy squares we headed to a deserted side street where our friends knocked on an unassuming door, which opened up to a descending spiral staircase that led to a small vinoteka — a wine cellar, tucked away from the crowds. Honza was right: the Moravian wines were very good, and we dined over a platter of cheese, bread and meats that resembled the Austrian buschenshank we visited the week before, but with a distinct Czech flavor and a focus on the wine. We talked politics, cultures and economics until the manager let us know it was time to leave.

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On Saturday Norika and I went back to the old city much more well prepared with our friends’ tips. We located a jewel of a restaurant right in the heart of Prague and had one of our best meals out in weeks — I went with Honza’s tip and opted for a huge dish of duck with fried onions, bread dumplings, and cooked cabbage. It cost $5, about 3 or 4 times less than it would in the U.S. “Nothing Compares 2 U” (Sinead O’Connor, written by Prince) played on the radio and life was complete.

The weather was awesome for the first time in weeks; from certain viewpoints, you could see lines of nearly identical, plain block buildings from the Communist era looming in the suburbs miles past the Prague Castle.

At last we were able to capture the hideous pants that we’ve seen children and teenagers wearing throughout the Czech Republic. We don’t quite understand why they are so popular, with their silly combination of plaid patterns and large plain patches on the thighs (back) and shins (front). Ugh.

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking around parks, the castle, and a few other old town sights, before meeting back up with the CSers and going to a free, outdoor music festival at a park situated on top of a hill with a neat panoramic view of the city. There we met some of their other friends, one of whom has been to Brasilia before (he’s an architect and had to check out Oscar Niemeyer’s work) and another who’s done some hardcore traveling through Iran, Afghanistan, China, Norway and other places. We were tired and a bit cold but still had fun eating deep-fried food and watching English-singing Czech bands get the crowd going.

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We had to leave Prague much too soon: we were out of the door at 7:00 the next morning so we could embark on a 12-hour travel day across Germany all the way to Copenhagen, where we’ll meet Norika’s mom… tomorrow!

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