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.
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