Czech Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself
Service in Germany is a mixed bag. It’s lank efficient but they seem to take pleasure out of trolling tourists. We went to the Tourism Office in Hannover to try and buy a SIM card and the woman there tried to sell us a monthly train ticket. If you work in the Tourism Office, surely, you have some understanding of English and what tourists need. We had to really reach to explain SIM card and what we needed it for. She sent us to Vodafone. We couldn’t find Vodafone because her directions were absolute garbage, so we ended up in Mobicel.
The difference between a cellphone shop in Germany vs one in South Africa is the fucking temperature. If you want the experience of buying anything cellphone-related while on the surface of the sun, then Germany is your place. The okes who worked there were as useless as you’d get in the South African equivalent. We arrived at the shop, and explained that we were tourists and needed a SIM card for tourists, and we were told to sit down. While we waited we couldn’t help but notice, through the veil of sweating eyeballs, that like South African cellphone shop attendants they seem to spend a lot of time huddled and chatting with fashion haircuts and lanyards and iPads and not a lot of time helping out. Eventually, someone helped us and after a long explanation explained we’d need a resident to come and sign for us. We asked if this was the only option and he said yes.
I didn’t believe him so we searched for the Vodafone shop and were absolutely jazzed to see that it was as packed as the Vodacom shop at Liberty Mall at month end. But hotter. Obviously. We realised that communication was not worth this, and getting lost again in a shithole was preferable to spending a second longer in the moshpit of connectivity. At this point, I needed the toilet so I had to do the usual pay 1 Euro for the loo. However, this was a Euro well and truly spent because I was greeted by a self-cleaning, self-wiping toilet. The seat spins around while the mechanism disinfects and wipes the seat. This is literally the type of shit that I go bos for. If I could give my Blessedies one gift from Europe it would be this. We’d have to have it as some sort of timeshare though.
In a last-ditch attempt, we asked a random internet shop to help us with our SIM card problem and he told us we needed to go to Ortel just over there… He points. It took less than five minutes to be helped by a very friendly guy from Pakistan who espoused the virtues of Hansie Cronje while we waited.
When I look back on this trip, one of the things I’ll get misty-eyed about is the train trip from Hannover to Czechia. The first leg was pretty standard, except I got on my first-ever double-decker train and I nearly pooed with excitement. Despite all the train changes we managed a lot better and also scheduled a two-hour stop in Bad Schandau. I like to think Bad Schandau is an MMA fighter. But actually, Bad Schandau is one of the most glorious places on earth and everyone should go there immediately. The scenery is absolutely insane and the River Elba seems to be bookended by sandstone and forest.
We knew when we’d got to Czechia because the scenery rapidly changed and our last train was straight out of My First Siberian Picture Book of Communism. The doors were manual and one passenger had to ask Jono to help her get off the train because she couldn’t manage to open the door herself.
In Prague, we were greeted by one of many really grumpy Uber/Bolt drivers. Not only are they grumpy but the driving is downright terrifying. The zeitgeist around driving seems to be “go like the fucking clappers and then slam on brakes”. Repeat until destination. The trouble is that zebra crossings are HIGHLY observed and there are very few pedestrian traffic lights… You cross and drivers will stop. However, the first time you try this it’s harrowing because the cars do about 60km per hour before slamming on brakes to allow you to gently amble across.
Our hostel, read hostile, was straight from the chapter “Hostiletality for Beginners,” in The Compendium of Eastern European Communism. Despite the numerous “artworks” peddling toxic positivity none of it seemed to rub off on the staff. The hostel was clean but gave off the distinct whiff of those halcyon days when you could choose between beige or oatmeal.
Prague is known for its excellent beer. However, a lot of restaurants and bars in Prague serve Pilsner Urquell only. I don’t know why. We found some delicious beers including Kozel and Bernard. When it comes to service, in most countries it’s customary to say, “Cheque please!” I’d like to establish a new tradition in Prague, “Czech please!” Service is not fast, nor is it excellent or even good. What is excellent is the Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we nicknamed Kentucky Fried Czech-en. You might think it’s weird to go for KFC over local cuisine but I’m too old to be force-fed an assortment of beige food just so that I can have an authentic experience.
Old Town is a magical land filled with wonder and delight at every turn. There are bunches of jewellery shops, sweet shops, ice-cream shops, and places promising to have the best Trdelniks. I find jewellery shops in tourist areas really weird. Who can afford to buy jewellery when they travel? How much jewellery do you need? Is this just aimed at men keeping multiple women happy? Every country has some special stone or piece of glass or some sparkly shit that they claim is unique… Why are people duped by this? However, the sweet shops were like the kid version of the jewellery shops. I’m not even a sweet person (in all the ways) but I nearly bought my weight in sweets because environment influences behaviour. When I’m presented with a gajillion barrels filled with a gajillion sweets and then the sweet shop is themed as a mine with a mine shaft and wagons and shit I’m all in. I don’t know how those places make money though because you’d have to sell a lot of sweets to pay for the cost of the mise-en-scene they’ve got going.
Our British waiter at our favourite restaurant close to our hostel explained that the reason the sweet shops are there is because they’re a front for drugs and money laundering. I don’t even care if this is true or not. Good stories are more important than the truth (unless you’re a journalist).
For anyone who cares, and you should, the best Trdelnik is from TRDLO 13 Karlova. Trdelniks are like those spiralled potatoes on a stick that you used to get at the Royal Show. Everyone is eating them so they’re a walking advert. You can’t help but want one, and the smell is intoxicating. However, unlike the potato on a stick, which is utter crap, these are glorious. One of our favourite games was to watch people try and finish them and then commentate on how they were doing and who was likely to win. In one memorable race, a redhead and brunette were tackling their carboloaded Goliaths. The redhead got off to an excellent start and the brunette looked like she was done before she’d even reached bite four of the cone. However, she got a blast of second wind and was absolutely smashing through rings and ice cream in a sugar rush frenzy. She had about three rings to go when the redhead came back with all the excitement of 1990s Jaqui at a cake sale and the race was over. Once they’d finished you could just see the regret. Folks, this is a sharing food. Trust me.
Another thing you might want to share is a Czech meal. My one attempt at sampling the goulash was the worst I’ve eaten. If you want goulash, Google a recipe and cook it yourself.
In a strange twist of fate, we got one friendly Bolt/Uber driver. He was one of those who would be rated as 10 on the over-friendly scale if there was a form involved. Sadly, there was no form, but like I say (thanks Mands), “You either have a good time or a good story.” This driver was friendly so we immediately said, “You’re not Czech are you?” No, he’s Ukrainian. Thus followed the usual flow of how these conversations go. He told us about the fact that many of his friends have died, his town is all but destroyed, etc. His disposition was matter-of-fact and lively and he did a lot of punctuating with laughter to make us feel awkwardly at ease. Things took quite a turn though when a woman sent him a voicenote and he put it on speaker. We didn’t take much notice of the voicenote because it was in another language and at that point a tram came dangerously close to hitting us and he said, “Oh shit, I forget about the trams!” Bowels safely reinstalled to where they were supposed to be, we continued careering towards our destination.
That’s when he said, “My girlfriend keeps fucking me in the head!”
I made a noise to indicate my interest that he should continue along this story path. Apparently, the voicenote was from his ex-girlfriend, who seems a lot to me like she’s still his girlfriend. The “sitch” is that she wants more money and he doesn’t buy her the right stuff. Hence why she keeps phoning him and leaving voicenotes.
I asked if she was Czech, thinking from the disposition of those we’d met in the service industry, this would compute.
“No,” he says, “she’s Russian.”
Insert long pause.
“Russian?!” Jono and I exclaim in unison.
Not one beat skipped… “Yes, every day I get to fuck a Russian!” And then he emitted the type of belly laugh I’ve only seen from arch-villains in really offbeat foreign films.
I was in bits. But then he ruined it with a sigh and… “What can you do, women…?!”
On his imaginary rating form, he lost a shitload of points for that one. But I was in too good a mood to tell him off and give him a lecture on feminism.
And speaking of telling off. We found this spectacular outdoor space that’s this deck/platform and there’s a mobile bar and really great buskers. We saw two superb buskers and it was one of the golden travel moments where you keep pinching yourself and wondering if you’re actually alive.
You’ll know that Jono and I believe in paying for art and therefore we tipped the buskers a healthy amount. We were the only ones to do so and so Jono took it upon himself to introduce the other patrons to the phenomenon known as “not being a dick and paying musicians.” He started his mission on a table with some of Czechia’s finest teenagers. I’ve seen some faces I wouldn’t want to tangle with, but these five were something else. I watched the whole thing go down and let’s just say Jono was schooled by some of the most expert eye-rolling and bitch-face I’ve ever seen. They should become soap opera villains. Not to be deterred, the good-natured Jono persevered and once again was not thanked for his trouble. When we left a lot of people whispered and made faces and I’m glad we didn’t stay til dark because neither Jono nor I are very good at violence.
As we walked past the scary teenagers I did mutter, “You guys better Czech yourselves before you wreck yourselves.” That made me feel a lot better. Passive aggression doesn’t win in Czechia… But it soothes some of the wounds.
I Googled “Are people in Czechia Friendly” and “Is Czech service bad” just to do my due diligence, and it was a mixed bag. Our experience was that we met some amazingly friendly Czechs but that was not the overarching experience. In general, the service was pretty slow and a lot of the places seemed to be understaffed. I don’t really care though… When I’m on holiday I don’t mind waiting and I’m not going to moan. BUT I am going to write about it. What you should know is that the Czech currency will fox you and we found ourselves giving someone over R200 in tip because we had a bunch of not-very-fancy looking coins that turned out to be quite fancy.
Next Time: Are you ready for some of the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? Jono and I discovered one of the greatest street artists (possibly the greatest) was having an exhibition and we went to Czech it out. You’ll see pictures galore and who knows, I might Czech in with some more puns.