To the countryside

We spent our last full day in the Czech Republic with Vendy Petrinova's family in Kublov, a village of 600 people 45 minutes' drive from Prague. Vendy, age 7, had been my English student. Vendy and her sisters were eager to show me their house, but I wasn't much good on their trampoline.

Later, we hiked in the Bohemian forest and did some rock climbing with the girls, with considerable assistance from their mother, Daniela. The view was magnificent, and well worth the anxiety that I'd fall to my death. Meanwhile, Vendy and her sisters pranced around like little antelopes.

Joe managed to lose his glasses while he was hiking.

Can there be too much Mozart?

"Please," said the woman. "You have to buy my CD. Only 10 Euros. You will like it. It's country music. I want to get out of this stupid place and study in Nashville."

In the crowded street, merchants were hawking Mozart bauble heads, waitresses were wearing dirndls, and kids were playing excerpts from Eine Kleine Nacht music on violins and accordians.

"Boring!" said the woman. "I was born here. It never changes." Notwithstanding its beauty and culture, Salzburg is a tourist trap. People are so busy selling you stuff that there is no time for authentic conversation. We bought a CD and took the woman to dinner where she showed us some songs she had written.

Sound of Music Country

Salzburg is the birthplace of Mozart and the setting for The Sound of Music. The scenery is spectacular. It's a wonderful place to hear chamber music, view cathedrals, and enjoy rich desserts. But to tell you the truth, I prefer my "workations" where I develop relationships with people as they go about their lives.

Let the buyer beware

We weren't sure of our pickup point for our tour of the the Alpine lakes, so we caught the bus early yesterday morning.

Once we had found the location by the Mirabel Gardens, we looked around for a place to have brunch, and we happened upon a charming Italian grocery store and restaurant whose proprietor inquired if we were American. Waving his hands as he spoke, he addressed us in a combination of Italian, minimal German and pidgin English. We ,in turn, responded in English and minimal German. I don't like spaghetti that much, nor do I often eat ham; and I don't like high backed stools, since my legs are short. But the man was so expansive, so persuasive, that I went along with all this. He never showed us a menu, but I wasn't worried about the cost. This place was clearly a neighborhood deli, though a bit upscale. We got to watch the man talk loudly and wave his hands at his Austrian customers, who were pretty reserved. It was fun, and the food wasn't bad. At the end of the meal, the proprietor smiled and rang up the sale: 68.60 EUROS. At the current exchange rate, the meal had cost $91.39. Easily the most expensive meal of our trip. And in the absence of a menu or prior agreement, we had to pay it. The man had seen us coming and pegged us as idiotic Americans. In retrospect, our behavior was stupid. Normally, I pride myself on my street smarts. Moral of the story: Always ask for a menu!

Without knowing we know

In Vienna, we visited the Albertina Museum, which houses a combination of traditional and contemporary art. Currently featured is the work of Gottfried Heinwein, a contemporary Austrian artist whose work explores violence toward the weak and helpless-- everything from sadism, Nazism, to school shootings. His adoration of the Magi piece depicts the Wise Men as Nazi officers interrogating the mother of Jesus and reminds us they were deployed because a tyrant wanted to murder the Christ Child-- A foreshadowing of Hitler's "final solution."

The images, which include children being tortured, are difficult to view but very powerful. I am including only a few mild examples.

Heinwein believes it is the function of art to remind us of what we know, without realizing we know it. Reminded me of the play we saw about art in Terezin.

Parable of the three rings

Although the weather was hot, Joe and I went ahead with our scheduled walking tour of Vienna. The cathedrals of Vienna are magnificent.

Our tour guide, in discussing religious history, related a parable，which he attributed to the 17th century author and dramatist, Gottard Lessing: A man possessed a ring which conveyed on its owner perpetual grace before God and man. However, he could not decide which of his three sons should inherit it on his death. Therefore, he destroyed the original ring and made three identical copies. Upon his death, each son received one of these copies, along with a note that his was the true ring. The sons consulted a judge, but he could see no difference at all between the three rings. The sons began trying to outdo each other with goodness, and when they tired of this, they were cruel to each other and tried to kill each other. This, said our guide, is the story of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And continued our guide, when there are no Jews or Muslims around, Christians like killing each other. A cynical attitude? Perhaps. But difficult to dismiss, in the light of history.

Concentration of Evil

I used to teach middle school, and one of the works on our curriculum was Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It relates the story of a scientist who develops an elixir that concentrates extreme evil in one part of his personality in the hope that another part of his nature will reflect sublime goodness. His experiment succeeds partially. He creates an alter ego, Mr. Hyde, who manifests intense evil. But the exalted alternative never develops, and the evil Mr. Hyde takes over. I thought of this during the trip to Terezin (Thereseinstadt) I made with our mission team the day before leaving the Czech Republic. The Holocaust was an unbelievable concentration of human evil, the more staggering because of its use of twentieth century technology and its roots in the civilization that produced Beethoven, Wagner and Bach. I have a personal connection to Terezin. Elizabeth Stark, my second Great Aunt died there. Her son, my Uncle Wilfred made it to America after a couple of years at Dachau. I imagine his mother spent her life savings to get him out. Other members of our family died in the Holocaust, but I don't know their names. Hilda Stark, Wilfred's widow and my Great Aunt by marriage, is the only member of my family willing to talk of these things. I said Kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead) in the memorial section of Terezin. I was touched that our team of American Christian missionaries joined me, though for the most part they are less familiar with this ugly chapter in human history. Below: The sign at Terezin's gate translates as "Work Makes You Free." The inmates were initially told Terezin was a work camp and learned their fate only gradually.

Vo ist ein Bankomat?

The project over, we have moved on to Vienna. We needed to get some Euros and were looking around for an ATM machine. Today, banking is international, it isn't necessary to visit a bank to exchange money. We use our American money cards to withdraw from our American accounts, and we get the local currency. The fees are pretty similar whatever way we change money. I figured I could communicate-- my grandparents were German speakers, and I heard a lot of the language as a child. Besides, the sound system of German is easier for an English speaker than Czech's, and its vocabulary more similar. So checking Rick Steven's German Phrasebook, I approached a gentleman and say carefully "Vo ist ein Bankomat ?" The guy chuckled and responded "You'll find an ATM over there." Is it any wonder why we Americans are so lax about learning other people's languages?

Signs of Life

The project went well, though personally I prefer longer ones as there is only so much you can do to improve people's English in a couple of weeks.  But I cannot deny I'm exhausted after rising at 5:00 AM to plan lessons, teaching six hours each  day, and going out almost every evening.

The night before last, we went to see Signs of Life, a play about inmates of a Nazi concentration camp who preserve a sense of order and personal meaning. during their imprisonment. Ceasing to believe in God in the face of unimaginable cruelty, the characters use art as a form of transcendence. The play is thus a work of Secular Humanism, an approach to life grossly misunderstood by the religious community. The setting is Terezin, also known as Theresienstadt, a Nazi concentration camp about 40 miles from Prague.  .

Signs of Life ran off Broadway in the US; this performance was sponsored by the International Psychoanalytic Society, whose annual meeting was held this year in Prague.  The cast was transported here from New York and toured Terezin, so this must have been a very expensive proposition.  But the cost of attendance here was modest-- I suspect the play was intended to educate the public here in Prague.  In all, a class act.

After the play, there was a "Talk Back" session moderated by Stefano Bolognini, President elect of the International Psychoanalytic Society.  She made a fascinating connection between the Nazi's secrecy about their objectives and lies we tell ourselves about goals and our personal past.

A stack of Bibles

Last week's mission team gave all the children English Bibles.  It was one of the easier translations, and there were lots of suggested activities and kid friendly study helps.  Still, the Bibles weren't in Czech. Even though I came to teach English, I think there's a lot to be said for reading scripture in your own language.

So Joe and I visited Prague's Methodist bookstore and cleaned them out of kid-friendly Bibles.  There weren't enough in any one edition, so we got a variety. They were well receive.

  

Reconciliation

Two young ladies from the seminary made a point of attending Vacation Bible School for several hours.  They sang, prayed and ate with us.  They even helped in the kitchen. They returned again the next day, despite their other responsibilities. I was touched.

Alex, (pictured above) said she knew how some members of her cohort had behaved toward us, and she apologized. "We don't want you to have a bad impression of the Czech people." 

I assured her I did not. Sharing space isn't easy, and language and cultural differences make it more complicated.

Different Strokes

The United Methodist materials we're using has an excellent balance of activities: Bible stories, music and dance, crafts, games, even science experiments.

But one seven year old finds our offerings unbearably juvenile.  She let us know she wanted to study the Bible.  In English.   She is being homeschooled, understands our language reasonably well, and is beginning to read it.  So she and I are working together.  Her concentration is excellent.

In addition to reading the Bible in Contemporary English, we create shopping lists and go to the local grocery store for items Michelle needs. I speak to her in English; she translates into Czech and speaks to the store clerks.

Small things

Living together is a challenge, especially when there are differences in language and culture. The place we are staying is called a "seminary," but it's actually a hostel for Christian students in Prague.  Some study theology, but others study subjects like medicine and humanities. All are professed Christians, and they worship together several times a week. In the summer, there are many vacant rooms. We and the mission teams are housed here at the invitation of the Methodist church, which owns and maintains the property.

Faith does not exempt anyone from egocentrism, pettiness, self-importance, or bad temper. It does not automatically enable harmonious life in community.  Some of the "seminarians" don't want us around, finding our presence an irritant. This comes out around such issues as space in the communal refrigerator and use of the toaster.

Signs informing us of community norms have popped up like mushroom.

The doors here are difficult to close and open; Michelle hears complaints when we slam doors in early morning.  We, on the other hand, are annoyed when students are noisy, and we are trying to sleep.

A girl of perhaps twenty knocked on my door at 8:00 AM Sunday to complain that a single spoon, coated with yogurt, was left in the sink.

My response did not reflect the fruits of the spirit, among which are gentleness and self control "This was worth knocking on my door about at this hour?! Have you any idea how often I wash the stuff you and your friends leave in the sink."

"No understand," she said.  "I don't speak English."Her English had seemed quite fluent up until then.

I could not deny the offending spoon had been mine, and so I apologized.  My tone, however, suggested obscenity.

My sister in Christ backed away. The sign she posted reflects some knowledge of English.

"I will not be talked down to by a sanctimonious undergraduate," I told Joe. "I'm not pledging some Christian sorority."

Joe reminded me that 'undergraduate' is not a cuss word.

God forgive us all.

I did get home

Jana Dobesova, a former ETSU student and Czech national who reads my blog, wanted to know how I finally got home Friday, when I got lost.

I had left for my walk at 6:00 AM. It was 7:45 when the bus let me off a block from the seminary. I was no longer queasy; in fact I was giddy with the exhilaration that from experiencing such a range of emotions in a brief time. It's probably bad for one's mental health; nevertheless, I'd enjoyed it.  

Joe  was standing by the door.  He denied being worried, which is typical for him.  He'd thought I'd be in the kitchen starting the soup, he said.  When he didn't see me, he'd assumed I'd gone out to buy some missing ingredient. Because it was early, no one else had noticed my absence. I got to work in the kitchen, and I'm told that the soup was excellent.

A new American team has arrived at the seminary, and its members are being instructed to carry a card with the address any time they go out. Michelle is using my story as a cautionary tale.      

Spelling counts

It's been hot here, so early morning and late evening are the best times for walks. The sun comes up well before 5:00, so 6:00 AM is a perfect time to get exercise.  I've grown more confident about my ability to navigate Prague, and I've located a lovely park three quarters of a mile uphill from the seminary, where there's a rose garden.  Friday morning was clear, and if anything cool.  Taking only my keys, which I stuffed in my bra, I made for the park.  The air smelled of summer.  The start of a glorious day.

Feeling adventurous and knowing approximately where the seminary was in relation to the park, I did not retrace my steps.  Descending the steps from the park, I passed gated homes, with vine-covered walls and crossed a busy street where there was lots of graffiti. Confident I knew where I was going,  I became absorbed in watching people boarding buses and trams as they traveled to work. I noticed workers repairing the cobble stones and people buying their morning papers. Czech is alphabetic, and I was trying to puzzle out the environmental print: kava for coffee; restaurace for restaurant.  I was enjoying my walk. Only when I came to a modernistic clock tower I had never seen before, did I realize I was lost.

 I had left the park at perhaps 6:30, and it was now nearly 7:00.  Without a pack, I cover a mile in 15 minutes.  I might have walked a couple of miles in the wrong direction.  I was supposed to start a big pot of soup for our lunch as our cook had the morning off.  I needed to be back at the seminary in 15 minutes or so. I was totally lost.  Michelle's business card lists the address of the seminary, but I'd been too cocky to carry one.  I did remember the name of the street-- Plucko, or something like that.

I was now in a rundown neighborhood.  There were workers around who appeared to be fixing a water main, but none of them spoke any English. Nor did several other people whom I approached.  A young man wearing a tie said he understood English, but he'd never heard of Plucko Street.  He referred me to the nearest Metro Station-- Jinho z Podebrad. "There will be an information station.  They will help you."

I descended the steps and looked for the information booth. All I found were small shops selling newspapers, water, and coffee.  Wanting to know the booth's location, I said, "Informace?"

The store personnel, who had limited patience with lost Americans, shouted "Ne!"

A woman who was passing out leaflets was a bit more accommodating and answered my inquiries-- in Czech.  I must have looked pretty upset.  When I told her, "Nerozumim"-- "I don't understand"-- she walked me to the booth herself.

The attendant behind the barred glass window spoke English. When under stress, I have tremors, and now I was shaking all over. I told the attendant I was an English teacher, and I'd gotten lost on an early morning walk.  He smiled, and it was clear he wanted to help me. Then he told me there was no such street as "Plucko."  He asked if I was staying at an apartment  or a hotel.  I explained I was staying at a seminary.  He fiddled with a computer.  He could not find anything.  I remembered the Number 135 and X22 buses stopped by the seminary, and the building wasn't too far from the large Tesco market.  

"Ah," he said.  "This helps very much." The Methodist seminary was actually on Pluku Street, in Prague's 10th district. I had spelled the street's name incorrectly. "You are not very far away," he told me.  I was to take the subway one stop to Namisti Miro (Peace Square) and then take the 135 bus about a mile and a half.

But I needed to go on foot, since I was not carrying money, and the three day transit pass I'd purchased was back at the seminary.

"I will give you a ticket," said the attendant. "That will be better."

Still shaking, I found my way to the platform.  My five minute wait for a train seemed very long. When it arrived, the door nearest me did not open.  I scrambled to find another. I hung onto a pole as we traveled to Namisti Miro. The door did not open when we arrived at the station. There was a button that had to be pushed, and I did not know this.  A  fellow passenger helped me.  Namisti Miro is one of Prague's major transportation hubs, and I'd been there a number of times.

  There's a major bus stop across from the church near a gelato shop. But buses 135 and X22 had been crossed off the list.  I would have to make inquiries.

Here at Namisti Miru, there were many well-dressed people going to work. It was not hard to find an English speaker. A woman told me the buses I needed now stopped across the street.  The 135 arrived very quickly.

Though I'd ridden this route several times, it appeared unfamiliar, and I wasn't sure we were going in the right direction.  The shops and building facades did not look familiar.

This wasn't good. My stomach tightened. I'd been feeling queasy for quite awhile. Would I ever get back to the seminary?  Then I remembered my temporary transit pass entitled me to a ride in the opposite direction, if necessary. Either way, I was almost home. When the bus turned right after coming down a long hill, I realized we were on Pluku Street.  This is the way you spell it.  As I often remind my students, spelling's important.

Big tent project

It's amazing this week has worked as well as it has.  Ours is a so-called "big tent" denomination where many theological, philosophical and political perspectives are represented.  Gary and Michelle subscribe to "relational evangelism," where missionaries represent the presence of the church by their concern for other people. In largely atheistic countries like the formerly Communist Czech, this approach is especially effective.

However, several members of the Bible school team prefer direct evangelism. They  corner Czechs on the street, telling them about Jesus, pass out tracts on public transit, and in general attempt to "save" every person in this country on a one week mission trip.  Those who've worked here the longest say the strategy alienates the people we're here to help.  

Admittedly,  I am the other extreme. All I do is teach English.  I never speak about faith unless asked directly. 

 

Our team avoids talking politics.  A very good thing. It's clear we're all over the map in that area.

Somehow, it works. What team leader Amelia Brown calls "A God thing." 

Short career

Rayanna Greg is our Bible music and dance leader. She is every bit of nineteen, and the kids love her.  She hopes to become a pediatrician.  This will be a second career.  She was a ballet dancer but had to quit when she injured her hip. She teaches in a ballet school part-time, but no longer dances. She enters Carson-Newman this fall.

She spoke of this when we attended a performance of Swan Lake at the National Ballet yesterday evening. She doesn't sound bitter-- faith is an asset in such situations.

The brevity of a ballerina's career is astounding, especially since their training is grueling. Ordinary people's careers go much longer. I, for example, did seventeen years a social worker, thirteen years as a public school teacher, and have worked at a university another eleven years.  But I cannot move about like a swan.

When it's in English

Technically, I'm here to help run the English camp which occurs every afternoon; Vacation Bible School occurs in the morning. Turns out I'm also needed for VBS too.The team running Vacation Bible School is quite experienced, but they've never conducted their program with non-native speakers.

One of the parents interprets, but it's good to use English when possible-- the exposure is good for the kids. I'm showing the teachers how they can simplify their language to make a curriculum designed for native speakers comprehensible to the children we work with.  Six year olds who speak English natively will usually know the word 'souvenir'; those first learning English will not-- so 'gift' is a better choice.

The program is being well received.  Though most of the participating families are Christian, Vacation Bible School is an unfamiliar cultural form-- apparently it's an American concept.  The parents are sticking around and participating enthusiastically.