Prague: Penises and Pierce Brosnan (in the same day!!)

One word that sums up Prague: Interesting. It's a magical place where ABBA is still beloved, where beer is cheaper than water, and where you can buy terrifying puppets on the side of the street. It's a place where you can be flashed in the forest and see a famous person in the same day. Last week, my friend Missy and I spent four fantastic days wandering the cobbled streets and investigating churches, castles, and synagogues that make up Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic.

We stayed with wonderful friends of my parents, Nancy and Rick Johnson, who have lived in Prague for the better part of a year, and took great care of us. Every morning we ventured out to see various sights the city had to offer. We bought a pass to the Jewish Museum, which is made up of multiple synagogues and an extremely interesting cemetery, all housed in the Jewish Quarter. The cemetery is about four meters above street level, because they didn't have enough room to expand and kept piling more and more graves on top of each other. The gravestones were all moved up, though, so it's completely filled with them, leaning every which way. However, not everyone in the Czech Republic seems to have used this method when attending to graveyard issues. On our third day, Missy and I took a day trip to Kutna Hora, a small town about one hour outside Prague. The attraction to Kutna Hora is a small church on the outskirts of town, which is decorated with thousands and thousands of human bones. Apparently, centuries ago, during the plague, the cemetery started to fill up, and they had to dig up all the old graves. Naturally, the strange folk who ran the church thought it would be a dandy idea to use these old bones as decoration for the interior of the church. Like I said, the Czech Republic is an odd place. But, it makes for one heck of a tourist attraction.

Most days we would go to the grocery store and get lunch for later, spending way too much time marveling over interesting new foods and the large variety of breads. The groceries in CR are interesting not because of the kinds of food, but because normal foods are rendered unrecognizable due to strange packaging and completely incomprehensible language. We knew which chocolates were good, though, and were delighted to discover (once we'd painstakingly calculated the strange crown to dollar ratio) that they were much cheaper than the same brands in France. I bought an 8 pack of Kinder Bars to take back with me (they're gone now) and some marzipan, which was really popular in Prague as well. I'm starting to like beer, which is great, because I definitely need to add to the list of things I like that make me fat. But it was cheap in Prague, so it was consumed frequently as well. One night Rick and Nancy took us out to eat to a traditional Czech restaurant and we all had some goulash, which is a meat stew with "dumplings," or slices of doughey bread that soaks up the sauce. It was heavenly.

The amount of walking we did there definitely made up for the amount of food we ate (or at least I like to think so). I may have permanently damaged my feet, but it was worth it. One day we decided to take the trail up to the top of the large bluff that overlooked the city, on top of which rests a monastery and a very small replica of the Eiffel Tower. I have to warn younger readers and those who are easily offended to skip this part, because something that was kind of disturbing (funny now, though) happened to us up there. We were almost to the top, and were quite alone, when an old man walked past us on the trail. Good for him, out-hiking two college girls at that age, we thought. As we were standing there, contemplating where to go next, this man popped out from behind the bushes. I wasn't really even looking at him until Missy started shrieking, and there he was, making this really frightening, lecherous face at us. It took me a full couple of seconds to realize that it was not, in fact, a hot dog he was wiggling around out of his pants. Hmmm. How does one react in that sort of situation? I didn't scream, but did manage to made a kind of offended sound and shout some expletives at him. I informed him of how disgusting he was, and we turned around and walked very fast back down the trail. Looking back, it's a good story and quite hilarious, but at the time I had a stick with me on the rest of the way up the hill "in case he came back." I also contemplated going back and throwing rocks at him. So many options. But what we really did was continue to enjoy our day and eat bread overlooking Prague, while laughing hysterically about our strange lives.

However, I'm really glad that all happened, and here's why: If we hadn't made that detour, we wouldn't have seen something (or rather, someone) that entirely made up for seeing that old man's family jewels. I'll explain. A bit later, we were semi-lost (90% of our trip was in this state) and wandering around looking for the castle, which was remarkably hard to find. We came to a street that we recognized, and about to turn onto another, when a car pulled up and some fancy people got out. Three men in suits and one very pretty blonde woman, all wearing sunglasses. They walked ahead of us for about twenty feet, and were about to go into this restaurant, when one of the men (the less-beefy of the three) turned around and said in a British accent, "Oh! I forgot my scarf!" The others said something to him, and he turned around and went into the restaurant, and at this point I realized that the man who had forgotten his scarf was in fact, PIERCE BROSNAN. JAMES BOND. (Well, one of them) THAT ONE GUY IN MRS. DOUBTFIRE. BASICALLY JUST A SUPER FOXY BRITISH MAN. I turned to my friend and re-affirmed this just as the girl in front of us turned around and said, "I know! I'm texting my sister about it right now!" We freaked out for about 20 minutes and took stalkerish pictures of him standing on the patio from about 100 feet down the hill where we had a good view. It was great. He probably looked at me, since I was standing directly in front of him. Luckily I hadn't at that point yet made the connection, so my face was completely expressionless and nothing like the face I made about 5 seconds later when I realized I'd just seen the guy Sally Field dated in one of my favorite movies. Definitely a high point in my life.

So all in all, Prague was a success. Any place where I can see history, art, some old man penises, and celebrities is okay with me.

Pastry Wednesday: Late

Pastry Wednesday came and went, and I had no pastry. Midterms were in full swing, and I didn't have any time that day to get a pastry. It was a sad day (as was my performance on some of my exams. Let's not talk about that.) However, yesterday, I was wandering around enjoying the GORGEOUS weather with some friends, when we felt the need to sit down and have some pastries in the setting sun. Wise decision, right before dinner, but I felt entitled to my weekly pastry!

We went to a Brioche Dorée, which is like a café chain, but since it's a FRENCH café chain, it's still really delicious. I bought this puffy thing that immediately caught my attention, because it looked like a cross between a really big cream puff and strawberry shortcake (two of my favorite desserts.) We sat down and watched the people on the street. People-watching is a great thing to do in France. It mostly consists of oo-ing and ah-ing over people's clothes and ingenious outfit combinations, but sometimes you get the odd fasion-disaster. That's always fun. Yesterday I spotted a woman wearing some kind of extremely tight black dress (not flattering, I might add) and you could see her large, pink underwear through it. Luckily, in France, when you're just starting to feel bad about your own fashion knowledge, someone usually comes along to make you feel a bit better in comparison.

My pastry had a really long and complicated name, and I agonized about actually ordering it because I didn't know how to say it. But I somehow pulled it off because the smiley brioche man understood what I wanted AND didn't start speaking English back to me. This is a common problem, here. I think people are trying to be helpful, or practice their English, but it's kind of depressing, especially when you only say about one word and they immediately know you're not French. My accent isn't that bad, is it? When I was in H&M the other day (bad idea) literally the only words I said to the check out guy were "bonjour," and "merci," and he still said as I left, "Heve a nize dayyy!" And, when I was walking to school, a woman came up to me on the street in a WWF smock saying, "Hello! You speak English?" HOW DID SHE KNOW? I WAS WEARING A BLAZER, FOF GOD'S SAKE. I angrily ran away saying, "Non!" Oh, France.

Anyway, back to pastry, it was delicious. It was also really pretty. It tasted exactly like a cream puff (only slightly eggy-er and lighter crust) and had little nuts sprinked on top. Definitely an awkward thing to eat, though. I had to take the top off and eat it separately, and then the bottom. There was SO MUCH whipped cream. It was wonderful.

Awkward Metro Moments pt. 3

France doesn't have open container laws. This means, if you so desire, you can walk around with an open bottle of wine and nobody arrests you or judges you (well, maybe a little judgement). On Friday and Saturday nights, this leads to quite a bit of fun on the metro. It can be really awkward if you're going to your friend's apartment to watch "The Notebook" and drink tea and everyone is taking huge swigs out of their various bottles, dancing, singing, etc. But if you are one of these people, it can be a blast. It's a magical time of night when everyone on the metro becomes friends and shares bottles, etc. I've had a girl offer me some of her whisky, once. (I didn't take it though, she looked kind of dirty)

Last night some friends and I were on our way to a get-together of international students, and we took the metro. I didn't have a bag, so I was lugging a sizeable bottle of vodka and two cans of Red Bull. Healthy, I know. We sat down across from some guys carrying a few bottles of their own. However, I was pretty apprehensive of them. There is a kind of guy in France that is very unlike the usual hipsterish, peacoat-wearing, swooshy hair type. These boys (usually they are teenagers) can not be described by any other word but "hooligan." They wear shiny, puffy jackets, track pants, and sneakers, and they all have the same bizarre hairstyle. It's really short all over the entire head except the VERY top, where there is so much gel on the remaining hair that it stands up in wet-looking tufts that I'm sure are quite sharp and not at all normal hair texture. I'm not a fan. If there is anyone ever causing trouble in the street, or in the metro, 90% of the time it is these boys. I don't understand who they are, why they always seem hell-bent on making everyone around them uncomfortable, and most importantly WHY they wear their hair like that, but whenever I see them I literally cross the street because the chances that I'll be harassed are very high.

So when I sat down across from these guys, I was kind of nervous they were going to give us trouble. But as soon as they heard us speaking English, they got really excited and started trying to talk to us in English as well, which was hilarious. The most talkative one's name was Mahmoud, and the only phrases he seemed to know were things like, "I have 24 years old," and "My name is Jack Daniels." They seemed to mean well, though, and soon we were all conversing happily. And by conversing happily, I mean they were talking to us and we were laughing at them/trying to ignore them. They were drinking some kind of sketchy off-brand soda out of the can, and apparently wanted to mix them with something, because one asked me if I had a "goblet." Sadly, I did not have such a thing, although I think I'd like one so I could feel like Harry Potter when I drink out of it. Anyway, lesson learned, I suppose. Even hooligans can be nice, apparently, on the magical night train. I'm going to do some more research next weekend.

Exercise: French Edition

The title of this blog is quite the oxymoron. Here's why: as a whole, French people don't exercise. At least not in the same way Americans do. There are two types of Americans: fat ones, and super intense health freak ones. French people are not like this. They are moderate. They eat moderately, they walk around, and they smoke a whole lot. They also have miraculous metabolisms that allow them to eat vast amounts of carbs without gaining weight. As a result of this phenomenon, I rarely see people running here. If I do, it's either men or middle-aged women who's carbo-loading has finally caught up to them. Girls my age DEFINITELY do not run.

Unfortunately, I don't possess the French girl metabolism. I watch what I eat, and used to work out every day back home. Here, I don't have access to a gym, but I told myself that as soon as it was warm out, I would go run outside. There are some nice parks around, and the river is also nice to run on. Today, I suggested this idea to two of my friends, and we set off to this really nice park. We had to metro there, which meant we had to walk to the metro in our running clothes. This posed a problem, as we had to walk past cafés and the shopping mall that the metro stop is on. I don't know how the French who go to the gym get there, but I never see them walking around in their workout clothes. The amount of carbs they eat in comparison with how thin they are means magic must exist, so maybe they apparate? Or teleport? Puzzled, we awkwardly walked past staring people stylishly sitting at their tables and sipping coffee. And when I say staring, I mean STARING. I actually heard one woman say, "Quel horreur!" Humiliated, we darted into the solace of the metro. But it wasn't much better in there. None of us spoke in order to draw the least amount of attention to ourselves. I felt like I wasn't wearing any clothes, the way people were looking. Finally, we got to the park, where at least some people were running.

These people didn't look like us, though. The few French people who do run dress very differently than American runners. Despite the fact that in their everyday life, the French are usually impeccably dressed, their workout style is quite lacking. I know it's not important what you look like when you work out, but I'm used to the spandex shorts and colorful workout tops people wear at my recreation complex at Mizzou. At the rec, you dress to impress. I never go without earrings. I'm serious. I had no idea people would look so incredibly dorky when they worked out here. On women, I saw a lot of ragged sweatshirts, too-short track pants (the ones made out of that swishy material that were popular in the late '90s) and bad shoes. I even saw one girl running in DENIM SHORTS (the only female runner I saw under age 40) Everyone was also wearing way too much clothing for how warm it was. Long sleeved shirts with jackets over the top, and long pants. I felt like a complete floozy in my capris and tank top. I felt worse for my friends, who were wearing shorts. The men, however, dressed on the opposite end of the spectrum. I saw many alarmingly-short shorts, and very small tank tops.

All in all, it was a successful run, workout wise. Fashion wise, I don't know what I'm going to do. Probably take up night running.