Špatný den v Praze...

This shall be a post without pictures (I got a bit crazy on the last one), in part because trying to document a cosmically bad day is a bit like snapping a picture of vampire - dreadful in person, but impossible to capture on film. Obviously this doesn't apply to catastrophic events: natural disasters, war and like, but that's not what this post is about. This post is about the sort of the day that, like an astute and annoying younger sibling, knows exactly what secret buttons to push to unleash one's private hell.

Just as every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, it strikes me that misery is articulated differently, depending on location, even if the same person (e.g., me) is always its subject. In London, transport fiascos tend to get me down, while in Warsaw the very placeness of the city can sometimes make jumping off the top of the Palace of Culture seem reasonable. That and the lack of fresh mushrooms. I tend to be happier in Prague - I should like it, considering that the topic on which I've chosen to write my thesis requires that I spend a fair bit of time here. Still, today Prague delivered a knock-out punch of annoyance that couldn't have occurred anywhere else. Today was not, therefore, a bad day but a genuine špatný den. I am not v pohodě, though I'll admit (grudgingly) that tomorrow everything may be v pořádku.

So what actually occurred?

The day began well enough - the sun was shining, if a bit less fiercely than yesterday. All was fine until I reached the metro, where a text from Warsaw informed me that I would need to vacate the flat in which I've been staying sooner than anticipated. Like tomorrow sooner. Cue manic search for alternate accommodation which immediately threw the day's schedule for a loop. Unfortunately I had one appointment I had to keep, with my doctor at the Canadian Medical Centre. I'd spoken to them twice on the phone to confirm the appointment and, accordingly, schlepped halfway to the airport to Veleslavin, crossed a massive building site and made it on time, only to be informed that the appointment had been made with the wrong doctor and I'd have to come back - tomorrow.

I went back into town and headed for the Municipal Library to do some work, where my computer, after working perfectly the day before, refused to speak the internet. I needed to make some calls for work, so headed for Vinohrady, where I ended up in a dodgy internet cafe on Americká that was full of smoke and slightly scary men speaking Russian. Calls completed, I headed for a celebratory beer at Meduza, my favorite Prague cafe, only to find that it had closed. Today was the first day it was not operational. The sign on the door said something about the owner desiring to sell the building and/or refusing to renew the lease.

This is where it began to feel personal.

Meduza's real estate fiasco echoed my own accommodation search, both of which plugged into the Prague Real Estate Curse, a major narrative thread of my personal mythology, which has its origins in last November, when my landlady did to myself and Mr. P precisely what Meduza's had done to them. Since then, I've been on a Kafka-esque quest for sensibly priced, pleasant and reliable accommodation, the unavailability of which has been tremendously annoying and disruptive to the work I'm allegedly meant to be doing here. Meduza's eviction also set off a reactionary, anti-capitalist righteous-foreigner-in-Prague streak in me of which I am not particularly proud. It drives me nuts when long-term expats become enraged by Bio potravinys, the Body Shop and Starbucks, as if it's their responsibility - and right - to determine another country's policy towards foreign businesses and capitalism in general. But Meduza was so great. And there are already two bio-cafes on Belgická street, where it's located. It's also, I should disclose, where Mr. P and I shared our first glass of wine. But, I digress...

Still reeling from the Meduza debacle, I made for one of the bio-cafes (I know...) and ordered tea. I've had Czech lessons in there repeatedly and no one has ever spoken English to me (apart from once, to explain something very complicated involving a radiator that would melt the table if I did not keep it a certain distance away). My stunned/sad expression from earlier events must have been misinterpreted as "stupid foreigner" because EVERYONE was addressing me in English. This only made me miss Meduza more, as that would never have happened there. I tend to massively underestimate my language skills, but even I know that if I can explain my thesis topic to a librarian at the Theatre Institute and order tickets by phone in Czech, then I am certainly capable of ordering a bio-tea. The fact that I now react with anger, instead of tremendous linguistic insecurity, in such circumstances is, I feel, a clear demonstration of progress...but I digress again...

Going back to the original theme, - the geographic specificity of annoyance - this sort of pique couldn't happen in Warsaw. Even if my default coffee/lunch/dancing spot, Nowy Wspanialy Swiet, ceased to exist, I know I won't be back in Warsaw regularly enough for it to effect me, whereas I'd hoped to be drinking Svijany in Meduza till I died (possibly of the secondhand smoke). Nor would the language problem occur since, unlike Czech, the Polish language and I are not (to borrow a phrase from a Czech colleague) "friendly". To cap things off nicely, the Prague-specific piece de resistance occurred just an hour ago, as I was leaving Flora, the shopping centre closest to my current abode.

One of the companies that I study is headed by an extremely talented and thoughtful individual who is brilliant in the way that strikes a respect-driven fear into my heart. I've been following his work for years and only recently spoke with him, briefly, for the first time. I was waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street when I noticed him standing two people away. What was he doing in Žižkov? How in god's name had we ended up at the same pedestrian crossing on a day so bad that there was no way I could possibly say or do the right thing. Or anything at all, as it turned out. Totally at a loss, I stood there, clutching my bag of cleaning supplies and Easter egg dye, and grinned like an idiot. He smiled back, briefly, before crossing the street without waiting for the light to change. He may have had had to be somewhere urgently, but I suspect it was fear of the lunatic that motivated him. Dear god. Random real-life run-ins were not covered in my PhD seminar on research methodology.

I am now safely locked up for the night with several DVDs and left over stir-fry, any thoughts of venturing across town to the penultimate night of Febio-fest forgotten. It's just too dangerous - the way I'm going, I'd only trip over Václav Havel or fall into the Vltava anyway.

Notes from a reluctant kitchen...

Confession: I hate food writing. In undergrad, I took a creative non-fiction writing course, during the course of which we were required to read and attempt different genres. I loathed the food segment, during which we were force-fed Amanda Hesser's insipid (to my mind anyway) Cooking For Mr. Latte, and encouraged to send food-related "dispatches" from our fall break travels. At its worst, food writing makes me nauseous. I love a good restaurant review (this one, by the delightfully acerbic A. A. Gill in this month's Vanity Fair is a gem), but I can't stomach the actual description of food itself. I've been like this since childhood - a description of french fries in Ramona Cleary, Age 8 actually made me gag. Food writing repels me in a way that echoes the revulsion I feel flipping through the love scenes of a Harlequin romance (not a regular activity, to be fair, though my late great aunt was a devotee) or when listening to undergraduates attempting to "understand" T. S. Eliot. Some experiences, eating among them, are too sensual to reduce to prose.

Far better to just provide pictures, which is the method I've chosen to share with you several Polish-themed food adventures we have recently undertaken in the Flat of Doom. What catalysed this sudden culinary activity? Essentially, we've become a bit sick of eating out and, since attempting to grocery shop the way we would in the UK (fresh bunches of coriander from the Asian grocery store purchased on a twice-weekly basis, a significant Waitrose habit, really good bread), we thought we'd go (a bit) native and see what happened. Before beginning, I should express my thanks to the Bomi Delicatessan, aka War-trose, for providing a happier shopping experience than Dirty Carrefour and consistently stocking mushrooms, the lack of which had really been getting us down:

Our first attempt took place last Friday and was not a terribly high-brow meal, being comprised mainly of pierogies and hotdogs. Accordingly, we lit candles and banned all condiment jars/bottles/etc. from the table:

We rescued the pierogies from the freezer, to which Paul had relegated them while I was in Prague. I'd bought them during one of our first Warsaw grocery shops, since they rekindled fond memories of undergrad and a certain Mrs. T...

As will be evident from the above photo-collage (diky, photovisi), the amusement factor of the meal was significantly elevated by the inclusion of these sensible, if slightly rude-looking hot dog rolls.

Yesterday, I embarked on a new adventure, this time alone. I decided I felt like cake, and that it was therefore time to investigate the baking aisle. As each country's flour is a law unto itself, I decided to cheat by using a mix. I chose lemon cake, since my body, possibly in an attempt to ward of what feels like inevitable scurvy, has been craving all things citrus. Also because I could understand the directions.

Here are the ingredients I assembled. Note the semi-terrifying long-life milk and scary baking margarine, which I am nevertheless extremely proud to have properly identified.

And here is the (not terribly glamorous) result:

.

Slightly burned, though still tasty. I shall not elaborate, as that would stray into food-writing territory. I will, however admit that, while it's been fun, and may doubtless continue, I'm quite pleased to be putting the Polish culinary experimentation on hold tonight in favor of dinner at Frida.

Inauspicious Monday

It's really hard to cheer yourself up in Warsaw. I learned this today when I woke surprisingly in need of cheering. I'm not sure what to attribute this to - the past four weeks have been a flurry of academic and grant-writing activity (hence the lack of posts), but last Thursday I managed to meet an important thesis-related deadline, so I should be feeling quite good about the world. Still, this morning I awoke feeling tired and hopeless, despite the aggressive bright sunbeams streaming through my window, which caused me to go running for my sunglasses, having misplaced my sleeping mask. Paul found this amusing and promptly snapped a photo of me in this state - a photo which will NOT be turning up here under any circumstances.

Deciding I had earned some sort of horrible girly perk, I decided to get my nails done. This seemed particularly appropriate, as I had chewed on them maniacally while rewriting the thesis, an activity which did not leave them looking particularly lovely. I phoned two manicure salons, neither of which could give me an appointment today. Strike one.

Not to be daunted, I decided to vacate the Flat of Doom (just because I've stopped complaining about it doesn't mean the Warsaw abode and I are now simpatico) to do some work at the local cafe. My old laptop wouldn't talk to the wifi there, but I figured my new one would and I could stay there until early afternoon. Wrong again.

Facing the reality that I would have to return to the FoD earlier than anticipated, I decided to pick up some sushi. As the kitchen currently resembles the set of Withnail and I, not having to cross its threshold was a decided bonus. I surveyed the sushi options in Local Cafe and decided they were uninspiring enough to warrant a search for the take away sushi place Paul showed me a few weeks ago, but which I had yet to try. I set off in what I firmly believed was the right direction. It wasn't.

Cold (the sun was cruelly misleading), I turned back, consoling myself with the thought of the chicken noodle soup I'd bought last week. This being Poland, it was instant, but at least it would be warm and tasty. Alas, when I returned home and braved the kitchen, it transpired that I had purchased not soup, but some sort of bouillon, requiring a pre-existing vegetable stock. I thought I'd try it anyway, but couldn't get the stove to work (have I mentioned that the burners function only sporadically?), as a result of which I am now eating last night's leftover salad and with a mood that is worse than it was when I decided to improve it.

I've nothing else to say, really, so here is a picture of a squirrel from Lazienski Park...

It was wonderfully tame, but alas did not wish to eat any of the nuts we brought for it. Trying carrots and bread next time.