Ole!

Ferdinand ran to the middle of the ring and everyone shouted and clapped because they thought he was going to fight fiercely and butt and snort and stick his horns around. But not Ferdinand. When he got to the middle of the ring he saw the flowers in all the lovely ladies' hair and he just sat down quietly and smelled. He wouldn't fight and be fierce no matter what they did. He just sat and smelled. And the Banderilleros were mad and the Picadores were madder and the Matador was so mad he cried because he couldn't show off with his cape and sword. So they had to take Ferdinand home. And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly. He is very happy.
-Munro Leaf

I arrived in Espana just in time to witness quite a historic and controversial event. Yesterday, the parliament of Cataluna (the region of which Barcelona is a part)voted to outlaw bullfighting, one of the most Spanish of Spanish traditions. While the animal rights movement certainly had something to do with it, it is widely believed that Cataluna used this issue to further distance themselves form the rest of Spain. (They already have their own language, Catalan)
It is interesting to watch the Spaniards debate over preserving a longstanding cultural tradition, even if that tradition appears violent and cruel to the majority of those who live within that culture.
I attended a bullfight ten years ago when I lived in Madrid. It was gory and unpleasant, but it was also fascinating to observe the spectators and their passion for what they consider not to be sport, but art. I can see both sides of the argument, but the Taurus in me will always have me rooting for the bull.
Stay tuned: Blah, blah, blah

Step By Step

I've been spending some time hiking in the mountains recently. While the scenery has been spectacular, sometimes the terrain has been less than optimal. What passes for a marked trail here is quite different than those that I remember hiking with the Horvaths in the Rockies. At certain points, the "trails" have consisted of piles of rocks on the exposed sides of cliffs. Each step requires intense concentration, and deciding upon which rock to tread takes serious deliberation. One stray thought, I learned, about, say, the pirohy I'll be eating for dinner at the end of the hike, or my nervousness about returning to the real world in a couple of weeks, could lead to a nice stream of blood running down my leg, or worse.
While hiking, I am learning to be in the moment, to not think or worry so much about food, or more serious matters. Hopefully, this learning can translate into other parts of my life, when I'm not wearing hiking boots. To be fully present in my work, in my play, and in my relationships seems like a good goal.
But I can't think about that now. I need to keep my eyes and mind on the trail.
Stay tuned: Road trip!

Tick, Tock or Ignorance is Bliss

Aside from the Charles Bridge, the most famous Prague tourist attraction is probably the Astronomical Clock. Every hour, on the hour, from 9 am to 9 pm, hordes gather to watch the clock do it thing, which involves skeletons ringing bells, apostles parading, and a golden cock crowing. The clock was was so valued, in fact, that the Prague officials had its designer's eyes gauged out so that he would be unable to recreate it elsewhere.
Despite the fact that the entire spectacle only lasts a total of around 30 seconds, people have no qualms about waiting for the show for long periods of time on the uneven cobblestoned street. As I mentioned earlier, the clock only struts its stuff until 9 pm. Unfortunately, not all tourists are of the guidebook-toting variety, and they show up at 10, 11, and midnight to await the clock's magic. More than once, we witnessed the crowd, eyes wide with anticipation, watch as the clock did absolutely nothing but chime the hour. The funny thing was, though, that this did not phase them. They clapped and hooted and hollered after that bell chimed 10 or 11 or 12 times. It appears that if you don't know that you are missing skeletons and apostles and golden cocks, you are perfectly content with what you are given.

Stay tuned: How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Communicative Approach or Flap Those Arms

The teaching of foreign languages has changed in the 20 years since I first opened a Spanish textbook. While I was taught to conjugate and memorize and conjugate some more, the new communicative approach (as I've been told by my Spanish teacher friends) calls for much less bookwork and much more speaking in real-life situations. Johnny and Katie came to visit this week, and I couldn't help but feel that I was taking my Slvoak final exam, communicateive approach style. In my sheltered Bratislava linguistic life, I only ever really speak Slovak to my extremely patient teachers and fiends. But, during JJ and Katie's visit, we ventured out to smaller towns further east, where English is much less common. My Slovak was put to the test, and I'm happy to say, I think I passed.
Purchasing train tickets for a different day from a different station? Got 'em.
Inquiring if the ice cream contained egg? (A friend had an allergy) Successful. (No egg)
Chatting with a sweet man from Vazec about spelunking? Did it. (Even if I had to flap my arms becasue I didn't know the word for bat)

Let's just hope I'm not forgetting my Spanish conjugations.

Stay tuned: Laser shows

Documented, Finally or Persistence Pays Off

After a total of twelve visits to the Foreigners' Police, five drafts of a letter from the language school secretary, several hundred Euro, two sets of fingerprints sent to the FBI, one birth certificate translated to Slovak, and 50 ccs of blood drawn and tested, I now, exactly 172 days after arriving in Slovakia, and 55 days before departing from it, am a legal temporary resident!

Stay tuned: Executioner's Daughter

Football Frenzy

Slovakia makes it to the knockout stage...

and is immediately knocked out.

Play That Funky Music, White Boy

Just in case you thought that Slovaks couldn´t rap...

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire or Unoriginal Sin

On a 60 kilometer bike ride (my backside has yet to forgive me for that)the other day, my friend, who, judging from the number of times he stopped to point out plants and animals, should work as a naturalist and not a computer programmer, introduced me to the moruša tree. As we stopped to sample its berries, I realized that I was no stranger to the moruša. In fact, surprisingly enough, this ordinary tree played a major role in my moral development.
As a child, I spent most summer evenings running around the neighborhood with the kids who lived nearby. For a while, my best friend NIkki and I fell in with the wrong crowd. A girl who lived a block or so away, whose name for the life of me I can´t remember at this moment, led us into a life of crime. Next to this girl-with-a-forgotten-name´s house lived a crabby old lady who, as chance would have it, had a moruša (otherwise known as mulberry) tree in her backyard. Giving in to peer pressure (and because we liked the taste of the berries), Nikki and I were often convinced to sneak through the fence and help ourselves to the tree´s bounty. All went well until the day that aforementioned crabby old lady poked her head out of her screen door and in no uncertain terms yelled that the next time she found us in her yard eating her berries, our parents would hear about it. She lived up to her word, and soon, my parents sat me down and explained that no matter how tempting those berries were and no matter how strong the peer pressure was, the crabby lady´s tree bore forbidden fruit.
I heard, but did not listen to, my parents´ lecture. The next night, it was back to the tree. The only problem was, that night happened to be bath night, and I was no smooth criminal. As my mom helped me to get ready for my bath, she couldn´t help but notice that the soles of my feet were stained deep purple, the telling purple of a mulberry.
It was then that I told the first lie of my life, at least the first that I can remember. When she asked if I had been in crabby´s yard again, I looked straight in her eyes and told her no. She didn´t say a word, but I knew she knew.
I had almost forgotten about this episode until it all came rushing back as I bit into the mulberry the other night. While the memory may have escaped me, what hasn´t gone away is my complete inability to lie. The untrue words may come out of my mouth, but the color that my face turns when attempting to lie, strangely similar to that of a mulberry stain, inevitably gives me away.

Stay tuned: Môj brat

Worth the Risk

The other day while hiking in the forest outside of Bratislava, I happened upon a high-ropes course amongst the treetops. For those unfamiliar, a ropes course is a type of obstacle couse that involves climbing, crawling, rapelling, and balancing while perched high above the earth. While I decided to keep my feet placed firmly on the ground, I couldn't help but stay and watch the more adventurous souls make their way through the course. Some of the helmeted participants confidently scrambled across the high wires, but most of them approached their task with a bit more trepidation, if not sheer terror. As I watched these people come face to face with their fear, I couldn't help but think about times my life when I've found myself in similar situations, trying not to listen to the little voice telling me not to jump off that cliff into the river or slide down into that waterfall or leave my routine life for the unknown.
I recently promised a friend that, no matter what, we would continue to have amazing adventures. Watching people conquer their fear reminded me that sometimes you have to do that which scares you in order to feel the most alive.

Stay tuned: Bicycle Blues

Neither Lost Nor Thirsty

How could anyone say anything bad about a country that features mugs of beer on its hiking maps?

Dirty Politics

Today is election day in Slovakia, and a few of the campaign billboards have caught the attention of this amateur cultural anthropologist. During the five months I've spent in Slovakia, it has become clear to me that there is no love lost between the Slovaks and the Hungarians. Most of the bad blood seems to stem from the historical division and redivision of land, leaving many ethnic Hungarians within Slovak geographic boundaries. Over the years, this has led to many a conflict over language, citizenship, and national identity. One partiuclar political party, Slovenska Narodna Strana, seems to be preying upon the resentment against the Hungarians in order to win votes. In this ad, a man in traditional Hungarian dress is depicted in varying stages of threat, from benign villager in folkloric costume to a militant bandit.

Many Slovaks I've spoken with believe these scare tactics will work and that capitalizing on the Slovak antagonism toward Hungary will bring in the votes.
I hope the Republicans at home don't get any ideas. I can see the sombrero and serape billboards now.

Come Again Some Other Day. Little Karen Wants to Play

It's been raining now for a solid two weeks, and my weather complaints have again uncovered some interesting cultural tidbits. Tomorrow, I'm told, is St. Medard's Day. As the story goes, young Medard once gave away one of his family's finest horses to a poor boy whose horse had run away. Immediately after, rain began to pour from the heavens. Only Medard remained dry because an eagle came to hover right above his head. Since then, it is believed that if rain falls on June 8th, the next 40 days will be wet ones. I soon may be in the market for an eagle.

Stay tuned: Bad Medicine

Don't Worry, It's Only Paprika Sauce

Revlon, move over. There's a new skin-care regimen in town. This weekend, I visited the ruins of Cachtice Castle, where, as legend goes, the Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bathory murdered hundreds of virgins in order to bathe in thier blood. It seems she thought that virgin blood kept her skin looking young and supple. The authorities were not amused and kept her under house arrest until her untimely death. It seems that, without the virgin blood, she wasn't long for this world.

Sold

There is a series of advertisements that has recently caught my eye. While at home, it seems that advertisers try to make each and every product, from cigarettes to laundry detergent seem sexy, the advertising team for Stein beer seems to have taken the more honest apporach. In each of their ads is featured a sweaty, pudgy, uniformed Slovak guy ready for the work day to end and the drinking to begin. The slogan? Every day ends well.

What would other ads look like if the advertisers were more honest about their clientele? Instead of the hard-core athlete running up the mountain trail that Nike likes to depict in its ads, it might show the well-intentioned but ultimately lazy "runner" who every year means to sign up for that half-marathon. Instead of the calm, well-dressed stay-at-home mom cheerfully using paper towels to clean up a toddler's spilled juice, Brawny might feature in its ads a harried working mom teaching her kid to clean up his own sticky mess. And if we're being honest, who should star in the Bally Fitness Center ads? Not shapely 20 year olds in Spandex, but panting red-faced 30-somethings in too-big T-shirts left over from their college days as Alpha Gams.
I applaud Stein for its honest approach. I'd even be convinced to throw one back, if I weren't so busy trying to look like that girl from the Bally's ad.

Stay tuned: Who needs sleep?

Holding On

I recently visited Slovensky Raj (Slovak Paradise) National Park. The main draw of the park are its hikes through green, waterfall-filled gorges. In order to successfully climb up these gorges, the average human needs a little help scaling the slippery rocks and making a vertical ascent. For this reason, the Slovak National Park Service built a series of "technical aids," (ladders, steps, and chains), that, as long as you don't fear heights, lead to a smooth, easy hike up the gorge.

While clinging to the side of one of the ladders, I got to thinking that I like this idea of "technical aids." How great would it be if, when the going started to get tough and when everything began to look steep and insurmountable, a technical aid would be there to grab on to?
But then I realized that you, my friends, are my technical aids. Only you're better than ladders and chains because, besides being sturdy and reliable, you can share inside jokes and eat ice cream and go on ridiculous adventures with me.
Thanks for helping me climb.

Slow Learner

As a language learner, there's nothing more frustrating than realizing that you still haven't mastered the little things-those simple yet important words that can often mean the difference between eating a delicious meal or eating intestines, disembarking the bus at the town center or the suburb 15 kilometers away, or showing up for a coffee with a new friend on time or an hour late.
The most embarrassing little word that I've yet to master is one that is written on the door to the entrance to my language school-TAM.

As with any non-revolving door in any building in any town in any country in the world,there are only two options for opening it-pushing or pulling. Tam (literally meaning "there" and pronounced "Tom") would be push. So why do I, two times a week, always pull that darn door? I've resorted to some of the oldest language learning tricks in the book to remember that TAM is push-association and visualization, and they seem to be working. I must apologize, Uncle Tom. Now, each and every time I walk through those doors, I imagine pushing you down. Resorting to violence against ones own godfather in order to learn a language? By whatever means necessary.

Stay tuned: The Best of the Wurst

Birthday Besos

May all the kisses you receive in your 32nd year be at least this passionate...Happy Birthday, Anna B!

What´s Cooler Than Being Cool?

The weather around here, to put it nicely, has been less than optimal. The five sweaters that I brought along and am completely sick of should have, in my opinion, been retired long before mid-May. But the thermometer doesn´t seem to want to budge much past the 13 degree mark, and my T-shirts lie in wait.
While talking about the weather (one of the few topics about which I´m relatively comfortable discussing in Slovak) the other day, I was informed that we were in the midst of the days of the Ládove Muzi, the Icy Men. In Slovakia, as in many countries, each day of the calendar year is assigned a name (often that of a saint), and May 12, 13, and 14 are assigned to Pankrac, Servac, and Bonifac, respectively. These men apparently are the harbingers of cold weather, and, like a less-rodenty Goundhog Day, it is believed that if temperatures drop below freezing on these days, the threat of a cold spring and summer looms large.
Let´s hope that Pankrac, Servac, and Bonifac choose Bermuda shorts over long johns this year and let me put my tired sweater collection to rest.

Stay tuned:Too Old For This

May Babies

Happy birthday to you, you're still young. Age is just a number. Don't you stop having fun. This is your day.... NKOTB

I may not have a biological sister, but ten days after I arrived in the world arrived someone who would be like a sister to me. Happy birthday Jules!

Never Underestimate the Power of a Post-It

I'll admit that the fairytale debacle got to me. By the time I went to bed that night, I was convinced that I was not smart enough to learn this language. And, anyway, weren't most Slovaks I met telling me that I shouldn't bother learning it in the first place? That I should learn something useful like Mandarin or Arabic?
But with the morning awoke renewed optimism and the certainty that what I really needed in order to learn wasn't a more disciplined study regimen or more private lessons. No, what I needed were office supplies. So, after a trip to the knock-off Office Depot (grrrrr..)to buy index cards, markers, Post-Its, and scissors (I'm not exactly sure yet whtat the scissors are for), I am once again ready to conquer the Slovak language, at least until the next homework assignment.



Stay tuned: Museum Mayhem

Kde bolo, tam bolo or Beaten Down

This week, my Slovak teacher decided to shake things up a bit and, instead of the regular fill-in-the-blank with the correct conjugation homework, gave me a reading assignment. Maybe some adult learners would have been offended if assigned the likes of "Obusok, von z vreca," a board-book fairy tale whose original audience was most likely 4 to 7 year olds. But not me. I was happy for a break from the textbook and excited to read a traditional Slovak story. Plus, I'm a kindergarten teacher. I've read a million fairy tales and their variations. (The Three Little Jabalies? Read it. The Runaway Latke? (a Jewish Gingerbread Man) Own it. Seriously)So how much different could this Slovak tale really be?
My first clue to my comprehension difficulties should have been that I had to look up three of the four words in the title (the only one not needing loking up being the one one-letter word) The second clue should have been that one of the three words that I did look up translated to "baton." In the field of reading instruction these days, one of the buzzwords is "schema." If you can get students to activate ther schema, or what they already know about a topic about which they are about to read, it follows that their reading experience will be easier and more enriching. My problem was that my schema around fairytales involved things like castles and princesses and beanstalks and frogs. Batons were filed away somewhere else in my brain, maybe with the police or possibly parades.
Anyway, like the good student I am, I continued reading, and searching the dictionary, and reading, and searching the dictionary, confident that, as an avid reader and the holder of a Masters Degree, I could figure out the plot of this story, baton and all.
I was wrong. With each page, less and less made sense. Why did the cabinet-maker give this young Slovak boy a large magical baton? Why was the innkeeper holding his brothers hostage? And that large goose upon which everyone is feasting at the end of the story; where did that come from?
I closed the story book in defeat, embarrassment, and annoyance. In a country chock full of castles, I had to be given a fairytale about a baton?

Stay tuned: Gypsies

Dunajska Ulica or Open Your Eyes

Near my apartment in Bratislava is a sculpture of a famous Slovak comedian, Julius Satinsky. He sits on what appears to be a bicycle, has his hand cupped at his ear, and is pointing toward something above. Since this sculpture is on my route to school, to the grocery store, and to the main square (and basically anywhere else worth walking), I have probably passed it at least 250 times since I moved here in January. So imagine my amazement the other day when, having approached the sculpture from a different sidestreet than ususal, I realized that I had, for the first 250 times, not seen half of it. It turns out that what Julius is pointing to is a giant ear, right there on the side of the building. If a giant chrome ear can be that easily overlooked, even when a giant chrome man is pointing directly at it, I wondered about what else I've been missing. How do our routines blind us to the obvious, the absurd, the beautiful? I need to traverse the sidestreets more often.

Rules Are Rules

Most would consider me an extremely rule-oriented person. I generally wait for the green walking person to appear before crossing the street. I pay my exorbitant Chicago Parking tickets when I forget about street cleaning. I never cheat while playing Barbie Uno. But I've been thinking a lot about rules lately-who gets to make them and who gets to break them.
A few weeks ago, on a 20 hour train ride in the Ukraine during which the train compartment was heated to at least 95 degrees, we tried to beat the heat and forget about the fact that we were on a 20 hour train ride in the Ukraine by imbibing a few cold ones. About one hour into the 20,we were sternly informed by the train police that, as of February, drinking was strictly prohibited on Ukrainian trains. So imagine our confusion when not ten minutes later, the train stewardess herself came along to sell us beer. It turns out that the rules are only enforced if you BYOB; as long as the train workers are making money, we were free to drink up.
On a rickety old bus in Romania, the seventy-something-year-old driver sat puffing away on his cigarette directly under a large no smoking sign.
In Moldova, we visited Transdniester, an entire section of the country that decided to separate, set up its own government, and issue its own currency. Despite the fact that no one besides Abkhazia and South Ossetia (both unrecognized countries themselves) recognize Transdniester's existence as a nation, upon crossing the "border," we became subject to their rules, including, rumor has it, having to wear pants in public.(we had planned on doing so anyway)
The taxi ride across the Ukraine/Slovak border was so quick and hassle-free that I wasn't surprised when the driver, after we had crossed, admitted to us that he pays off the guards to make his trips fast and easy.
Now, I'm not so naive as to not realize that money affords a certain privilege that helps others turn a blind eye to the enforcement of rules. But the question for me remains: If I am conscious of what is going on, should I choose to participate? And how often is that privilege afforded me without me even realizing it, as a traveler, because I look like I have money to spend and at home because I look or speak or dress a certain way?
The disturbing news of Arizona's new immigration law has arrived from across the ocean, and I have tried to keep abreast of the developments there. Given the population with whom I work in Chicago, I am very interested in how these new rules will affect the immigrants across the country. The timing of the Arizona news strangely coincides with my own personal immigration woes here in Slovakia. At this point, I need to decide whether to follow the rules and leave Slovakia or stay illegally. Like most undocumented immigrants in the US, I don't have any intention of committing any crimes, cheating the system, or bothering anyone. In fact, I feel grateful to be here and have the opportunity to learn. I can only imagine the fear that would come with thinking that at any moment someone could disrupt your life with causeless deportation. Or worse yet, the anger and embarrassment that a citizen would feel when accused based on the way she looks or speaks.
I believe in following the rules, but I also believe in questioning them.

Transylvania

Once bitten, twice shy

The Big 3-0

With the sound of the Moldovan stamp being inked into my passport, I celebrated 30 today. Unlike my 30th birthday, which I dreaded and denied, I welcomed this occasion, my entrance into the thirtieth country of my lifetime of travels. There exists an organization called The Travelers'Century Club that offers membership to those who have traveled to one hundred or more countries. At this rate, I'll be submitting my application when I'm 103 years old. Romania, number 31, here I come.

Don't Drink the Ukrainian Water!

Just Another Day at the Beach

Nothing screams Spring Break like tanks, secret Russian submarine factories, and Lenin!

Fluent

The one word in Cyrillic I can identify anywhere: Ice Cream

Self Defense or Hippity Hoppity, Easter's on its Way

I'm fascinated by learning about and participating in cultural traditions from around the world. I make an altar for the Day of the Dead, leave my shoes out for St. Nicholas, and wear a Bulgarian martenista to welcome Spring. So imagine my conundrum when I found out about the Slovak Easter Monday tradition of hitting women family members and friends with a korbac, a switch made of tree branches, and dousing them with water. And to literally add insult to injury, the women are expected to give gifts of money to the boys and men that hit and wet them. In this case, the feminist in me had to win out. I marched to the Easter market and bought my own korbac. Just try it, boys. I dare you.

Stay tuned: 30 Again

Service with a Snarl

Up until yesterday, the worst service I had ever received in a restaurant was maybe an uninspired teen at IHOP who only refilled my coffee two rather than four times. Ukrainian customer service, however, makes aforementioned teen look like a contender for waitress of the year. If I can manage to see through the smoke to find my way to a table, the real challenge is to get a waiter to pay enough attention to take my order and eventually bring food to the table. Never mind if it's not what was ordered (not that I actually know what I order anyway since the menu is in Cyrillic, the waiters speak in a mix of Ukrainian and Russian, and I communicate in an awkward mix of English, rudimentary Slovak, and sign language).
My only comfort is knowing that this surly service isn't reserved only for tourists-it seems to be the status quo. So, while I wait for my check to come, maybe I'll practice my Ukrainian glare: What do you think?

Sabaka!

Beware of dog

Cheeseheads Unite

You never know how and when where you're from will come in handy. Having missed all buses across the Slovak border into the Ukraine, my traveling companion and I decided to walk on across. For some reason, though, despite a clearly marked pedestrian walkway, we were informed that walking across was not an option available to us. Growing a bit concerned , since we were literally in the middle of nowhere and the sun was rapidly setting, I was surprised when the Border Control officer, in perfect English, asked where we were from. In a strange twist of fate, it turned out that said officer had spent an enjoyable couple of years working in nowhere other than the lovely Wisconsin Dells. With the Wisconsin connection now firmly established, it was only a matter of minutes until the officer had spoken with the driver of a car crossing the border and arranged for us to hop in and get a ride all the way to our hotel. Turns out Wisconsin has far flung powers and admirers in the most unexpected of places.

Spring Break! or Changes in Longitude, Changes in Attitude?

As many of my teacher friends pack their bags in preparation for Spring Break trips to islands surrounded by crystal-blue waters or lush tropical rainforests, I am packing for...wait for it...Ukraine! That's right, it's no bikini and margaritas for me! It will be babushka and borscht! In a preemptive strike against the Slovak foreign police, I am leaving the country before they kick me out, in the hopes that in the meantime, my documents will arrive from the FBI. Then, I can reenter the country, arrange for my visa, and then stay until August. Simple, right?

I Have Asphalt or Erin Go Braugh

I learned the other day in class that if you´re having bad luck, the way to express it in Slovak is "Mam smolu," which literally translates to "I have asphalt." In the spirit of the lucky Irish today, I decided to conduct some informal research by asking my Slovak friends about the origin of this saying. It was not conclusive, but the best explanation I was given was that if you traipse trough newly-laid asphalt, it is quite smelly and and sticks on your shoes for a long time. If you´re unsuccessful at finding the pot of gold today, I at least hope you watch where you´re walking. Slainte!

Look, Ma, No Guardrails!

These are the types of photos that my mom likes to see after I´m home, safe and sound.

Moj otec

On his birthday, here are the top five ways my dad is not like your dad
1. He is a master at window cling decorating
2. He can do a mean Twain impersonation
3. He pronounces his last name differently than everyone else in the family
4. He routinely sported lederhosen during a certain period of his life
5. He has recreated Route 66 in his front yard

Happy birthday!

Survivor

Embarrassing confession time-For at least half an hour a day while I´ve been here, a half an hour that could have been spent studying, or reading, or sleeping, I have watched MTV reality TV. Shows like Queens of Scream, on which buxom yet incredibly untalented actresses compete for a role in a horror movie, and my new favorite, From Gs to Gents, on which gangsters from the hood strive to clean up their lives and win 100 grand in the process, are making me dumber by the second. But they´ve also inspired me to come up with a reality TV show idea of my own-Drop 15 Americans in the middle of Eastern Europe and watch them struggle for survival. Weekly challenges could include correctly pronouncing words spelled with seven consecutive consonants, rapelling down castle turrets, deciphering a map written in Cyrillic, convincing a taxi driver not to charge you an arm and a leg, and finding a supermarket cashier who has the ability to smile. Automatic victory would be awarded to any contestant able to acquire a temporary resident permit.
The ratings for Survivor, Eastern Europe may not be as high as others, since most contestants would be wearing babushkas instead of halter tops, but I, for one, would surely tune in.

Stay tuned Broken Yogurt

Haters

Notice who´s listed first. Just a coincidence?

Desat, Dvadsat, Tridsat, Styridsat, Patdesiat, Sestdesiat, Sedemdesiat, Osemdesiat a...

I was reprimanded the other day in Slovak class by the substitute teacher for not knowing my numbers well enough. But there is one number I´m sure of today. Marybelle turns devatdesiat! Happy 90th! We´re so lucky to have you in our family!

Vineyard Vulgarity

Everyone has their archrival. The Cubs have the Sox, BMHS has Janesville Craig, the Bloods have the Crips, and Jim has Dwight. As an outisder, if you're smart, you recognize whose territory you're in, and, to win friends and stay safe, you remain loyal to those whose turf you're on. I didn't do such a good job of that this evening.
While sipping my first Slovak wine with a random assortment of very new acquaintances (English students of a less new acquaintance), the topic of Eastern European wine regions and varieties arose. Shockingly, despite my complete ignorance of the topic, I decided to open my big mouth, proclaiming, "Oh, Tokay, isn't that a Hungarian wine?" From the glares I received you would have thought that I had cursed their mothers, grandmothers, and the starting line-up of the national hockey team. Apparently, Tokay is a Slovak wine, and Hungary is Slovakia's Dwight.

Stay tuned: Surfing Safari

Mother Tongue

I guess Slovak isn't the only difficult language to learn...

High Sticking

Hockey fever is in the air, and I have apparently caught the bug. The evidence? My alarm went off at 5:00 AM this morning, and, without hitting snooze, I threw on my coat and headed down the street. Following the noise of Jock Rock tunes and cheers, I arrived at the square, where a crowd had assembled to watch, on a big screen, Slovakia play Finland in the Olympic bronze medal match. Despite all of the Slovak enthusiasm, replete with inflatable noisemakers and beer bottle-shaped kazoos, not to mention a 3-1 lead going into the third period, the white, blue, and red were defeated. At least for me, though, one small victory came out of the match. As the crowd chanted "Chceme gol," I knew exactly what they were saying.

Stay tuned: Stork spotting

A Stretch

Maybe not quite this warm, though...

It's Sprung!

Today was THAT day. My favorite day of the entire year. The day that winter decides to give in and let spring present a glorious sneak preview. A balmy 14 degrees (C) in Bratislava, and it seemed that everyone, myself included, had the same idea: get outside! We shed our bulky coats, once again becoming human shaped (if you consider the supermodel shape of women here human), dug our sunglasses out of wherever they had been hibernating, and beelined to the nearest park, playground, or public outdoor ping pong table (what a country!)

I found a spot to study next to a thawing lake. Maybe it's time to learn the Slovak word for sun.

It's a Girl! (Thank Goodness)

Welcome Fiona Alice! We've been waiting for you for a long time!

Birthday Wishes x 2

Sending much love today to my mom (the boys had better have taken you to a nice dinner!) and to Em (I'm so glad Ruston and Sabaka are so close alphabetically!), birthday twins.

Awaiting the Arrow

If I had some chalky pastel hearts and a printing press, I would send you all a box full of candies saying MISS YOU, SKYPE ME, YOWZAS! and L'UBIM T'A.
XOXO, K.

Say What?

Something I hadn't considered before arrival in a country (Bulgaria) that employs (and, in fact, invented) the Cyrillic alphabet: How do I read the street signs?
Oops!, or should I say сбърквам ?

On the Tip of my Tongue

I find them in the least-expected places.  One with the word chladnicka on one side and refrigerator on the other turned up between my sheets several days ago, and another (operavat'/to fix) was found inside the sleeve of my sweatshirt.  These little scraps of notebook paper showing up here, there, and everywhere are my flashcards, and memorizing the words on them seems to be my only shot at ever being able to communicate in Slovak past the "coffee, please" stage.
As teachers of language learners, my colleagues and I spend countless hours discussing and strategizing about how to increase our students' vocabularies, both in their native language and their second language. Despite the amount of time I've thought about this topic and the amount of articles I've read about it, it truly hasn't been until now, that I'm starting a language from scratch , that I can understand both the importance of building a deep and wide vocabualry base early on and the the real challenge that language teachers face when it comes to helping students develop this word bank.
My frustration lies in the fact that, despite the compelx grammatical struture of the Slovak language, I kind of get it.  I just don't have any words to plug into that structure.  So, I know that to say that I have a pencil or a purse or a crazy idea (like moving to Slovakia to study Slovak?), the ending of the words need to change based on their placement in the sentence.  I just have no clue how to say pencil, purse, or crazy idea.  Thus the scraps of notebook paper, whirling around the room when I forget to pick them up before turning on the hairdryer, a vocabulary cyclone of sorts.

Glass 3/4 Full

One of my favorite parts about traveling to new cities is checking out their busking (aka street performing) scene.  I've witnessed some great street performance in my day, from the stilt dancers in Venice to the bucket drummers at Comiskey to the silver pinted stutue peole in Guanajuato (how can they possibly stand so still?) And of course, there's the South Amercan indigenous band that has graced every corner of God's green earth with a rendition of El Condor Pasa.  (Come on, be honest, how many of you have purchased the CD?) But I think that I may have today witnessed my favorite street performance of all time.  On a square in Budapest sat a man playing glasses, filled with water to varying levels (thus different tones), marimba style.  The nerd teacher in me couldn't help but think about the possibilties for science lessons, while the musician in me was impressed with how, when one of the glasses became out of tune, the busker was able to add the correct amount of water, with a syringe, to tune his instrument right up.

I've often thought about what I would choose to do if the time came when busking was a necessity.  The obvious option would be flute playing, but I think I would want to do something more unusual and attention-grabbing.  Caricatures comprised only of doodles? Flamenco dancing in scuba flippers? A human juke box? When the time comes, I'll tell you in which underpass I can be found.

Stay tuned: When No Means Yes

A Missed Calling

 

Maybe I should have been an electrical engineer. Yup, that's an adaptor connected to a convertor (held together with a hair tie) connected to a charger, all precariously balanced on the side of a foot stool. Brilliant.

Fairy Tale Personal Ad

 

Wanted: One prince to complete the picture

P. Phil's Got the Right Idea

I drowsily awoke this morning and walked to class (it was an hour earlier than usual due to a scheduling conflict). On the way home, I looked for my shadow. But alas, it was cold and gray outside, so I took a cue from the good old hog and climbed back into my bed for a nice, cozy nap, awaiting Spring.

8 Kilometers in their Shoes

Each Wednesday afternoon since I've lived in Bratislava, I've made the 8 kilometer roundtrip pilgrimage to the Foreigners' Police Office. The office's location in the Communist-style concrete jungle of the Petrzalka neighborhood might lead one to infer that the Foreigners' Police would prefer that no foreigners ever actually find the office. But, with the assistance of a crude map and some helpful Bratislavans, I found the tiny, hidden office four weeks ago and have been a regular visitor ever since.

The reason for my treks to this very off-the-beaten-path locale? I'm working on securing a pesky little document called a Temporary Residence Permit. As a US citizen, I'm only allowed to stay here for up to 90 days permit-free. The trouble is, the documentation required to obtain this permit is excessive.(involving x-rays and FBI clearance)

Additionally, it all needs to be officially translated into Slovak, notarized, and paid for with some sort of magical Slovak currency stamps.
After my first trip to the not-overly-welcoming-to-foreigners Foreigners' Police, I walked away a little discouraged and frustrated. How would I ever get all of this paperwork together? Why couldn't the people at the office be more helpful?
But since then, I've readjusted my attitude. Part of my rationale for coming to a completely foreign country in the first place was to put myself in the shoes of my students and their families, immigrants to the US. While our reasons for "immigrating" are obviously quite different ( mine for curiosity, enrichment, and diversion; theirs mainly out of economic necessity), my experience with trying to secure this permit definitely has given me a small glimpse into what navigating within a giant, bureaucratic system when not able to speak the language and not necessarily feeling overly welcomed is like for immigrants (and visitors) to the US. Additionally, I realize that in my "worst-case scenario," I am forced to leave Slovakia for a few months, travel to some other exotic, fascinating countries, and then reenter, while those desperate to come to the US to make better lives for their families have a legitimate right to be overwhelmed and frustrated by the tedious immigration process.
I have 60 days left to prove that I have no criminal record in Slovakia, find a notary, convince my landlord that I won't lose his property letter (whatever that is), translate my bank statements, resend my fingerprints to the FBI, and take a blood test.
Or maybe I'll start packing for Montenegro.

Stay tuned: Squash