remember november

Ahoj, and welcome back to blog-world. I'm still a little sick and cloudy, but I needed to blog!

Above is the film crew that followed my class this Tuesday, November 17th, which was the 20 year anniversary of an epic student march. My art history teacher, Otto Urban, was one of the thousands of students who took to the streets, only to be stopped by police officers. Many students were brutally beaten; my teacher managed to hide in a building for several hours. Young people, most of whom were tiny children or not yet born during the communist occupation, took to the streets again, this time for a celebration of Czech culture and freedom. The police were there, this time to protect the marchers.

I missed the bulk of the festivities, because we followed our professor and the film crew to artist Jan Hisek's studio. He talked to us about the repression of art and culture under communism, and clandestine Frank Zappa records traded in the forest, but mostly about art and angels and creating whatever your heart tells you to create, regardless of political atmosphere.

The cops, ready to break up any funny business. Apparently they beat up some neo-Nazi demonstrators. Czech cops get stuff done.


Candles in tribute to the 1989 march.


Artsy close up of candles.


The weekend before last, however, was spent far from the bustle of the city, in the Bohemian Paradise, Turnov, Czech Republic. One of my Czech friends took us to her hometown, nestled in giant rocks, autumnal beauty, and adorable small town atmosphere. Some highlights: salty, fatty Czech food, a long, epic hike through natural beauty practicing the language, and bowling. It was a comfortable, delightful trip, away from all the smoke and noise.


The golem and I are equally amazed and terrified by our hands.


just another run-of-the-mill gorgeous castle in the Bohemian countryside.

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And a short note on Tuesday night karaoke, one of my favorite traditions here:

It's been a little hard for me to catch my breath --

the terrifying exhilarating newness,
the chronic sinus infection,
the smoke.

Smoking here is a national sport:
football
ice hockey
lung destruction.

It's a contact sport:
I have cigarette burns on my arms from shuffling in the street
and dancing too close to the sun.

This week, I sang karaoke, like every Tuesday,
(musical theatre, thank goodness,
is acceptable cultural currency)
and saw a lady through the veil of smoke
with a small Jewish star charm on a necklace.

"Your necklace!"

and she:
"It's small, because only my father is Jewish,
so real Jews think I'm dirty.
But my father was in Auschwitz.
My family perished in Auschwitz.
And they say I'm not a real Jew."

I tell her
I accept her
and she smiles

She is about to tell another story
express something profound

but she hears the opening notes
of a Czech pop classic

"This one's for me!"

And she hurtles herself toward the microphone
and sings and smokes
and smokes and sings