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A Response to the Pessimism/Optimism -- Why Americans Need Therapy.

I've had some interesting conversations regarding a previous blog, entitled "I shun you pessimists", there's not too much writing here, so just scroll down... it's there.

One student/client, in particular, emphasized that the pessimism of the Slovaks isn't really pessimism, it is deemed honesty, caring, real advice. By virtue of the fact that often warnings are safeguarding against the negative future, it seems pessimistic; but, it is actually a reflection of reality. It is the cultural difference that makes it be perceived as pessimism.

Wow. See? Taking off my cultural goggles, I see that this could really be the case. It is true that there are many difficulties accompanying a business license. So, it isn't about pessimism or optimism, it is about encouragement or warning -- an issue of reinforcement or caring.

This is a constant in my business English lessons -- how we communicate differently. Americans hedge, buffer, give good news and bad news using business jargon/double speak to express negative activity. If you don't believe me, try to remember the beginning of your superior subordinate life -- the way your teachers graded your papers, or the way that a superior would say "there is some room for improvement" rather than saying "there are weaknesses". Everything is phrased positively -- this doesn't mean optimistically. "This paper/report is very thought provoking, HOWEVER... The underlying message is the same. We have become wizards at reading between the lines and knowing a compliment when we see it, or a veiled criticism when we see it. This is very hard for someone to grasp from a culture with less context or as a non-native speaker.

I've definitely experienced this in the classroom, when mid-term grades astonished my students. They thought that they were doing well, as in A+ well, because of my constant positive exclamations. Even today, I find it difficult not to compliment first before criticizing. One of my very well known criticisms is: What a very good answer! It is very logical, but wrong. This would never be said in a Slovak classroom. No wrong answer has value. It's wrong and wrong isn't "good" for any reason.

My client suggested in class that it is a result of our superficiality. I'm not so sure. When I compliment a student on their logic, it is a real compliment. He regarded these statements as false, fake, untruths and questioned the idea of whether or not one can get a straight answer from anyone. I thought about this. If anyone can get a straight answer it is from a friend... Experiment: remember the last time you asked if your clothes looked flattering?

Is this why we are a culture of therapy and self-help books? That we've skewed our self-perception to such an extent that we can't admit weakness -- its all room for improvement; it isn't that I'm fat -- it's that my clothes aren't chosen well; it isn't that I'm stupid -- it's that I have a different learning style; it isn't that I've been fired -- I've been redeployed outside the company?

Does our language enable us to avoid facing reality?
Or are we such linguistic technicians that we have the ability to encourage, let down or evade what might be considered blunt, tactless criticism?

hmmmmmmmm...

The Pillars of Hercules

I am just finishing a book entitled, The Pillars of Hercules by Paul Theroux. It is a true story of his journey through the Mediterranean in 1994. Thanks to Bennett Witt for the book.

As a public transportation user in Bratislava, I find that it is abundantly important to find some sort of escapism in reading. It is my belief that there are many ways in which we waste time during the day -- watching tv, sleeping, gazing out the window -- but if we are reading, learning, exploring the thoughts of someone or ourselves for that matter, it is no longer a commute to or through town, it is an adventure and a mind-opening experience. Of course, sometimes it is also the most beneficial to simply observe the people around you. They are the real Slovakia -- or insert your town name, and to pay attention to the stories they admit on their faces.

Anyway, back to the book. I teach all over town, sometimes even going outside of the town center into the territories known as the druhy pasmo (second zone), a veritable belt of panalaky (apartment buildings) in various conditions and village suburbs still touched by BA public transport -- the venerable MHD. This means that I spend hours on buses and trams daily. I counted last Wednesday, a busy day with lots of lessons, and I was on 7 different buses in one day.

And I read.
And I read.
And I read some more.

A particular part of this particular book brought me into a pensive mood, which, by the way, I like. The writer/traveler, Mr.Theroux, boards a boat in Italy that disembarks in Durres, Albania. He descibes a melee of begging and desparation upon leaving the ship. I had this in my head as I put my book under my arm and walked to school. I have never known this hardship. I have never been hungry, in wont of food/clothes/shelter, I have never been desperate. My hardships are related to energy and trying to prepare for lessons. This is so very trivial in the end. Imagine:

-- They fastened themselves to me, pleading. I could not brush them aside -- they were truly ruined. They looked hysterical, they were poor, ravaged, bumpy faced with pox scars -- mothers with children, blind men with boys, old hctoring crones, all of them plucking at me. 'Give me theeese!' (p. 259)
-- That vandalism was the salient aspect of Albania that I notices so far; that it was not merely poor -- I had seen poor countries and deprived people elsewhere -- it was brutalized, as though a nasty-minded army had swept through, kicking it to bits. It was not the poverty of neglect or penury... This was not melancholic, it was shocking. And this was violent. (p.263)

I tell my university students, "Don't float quotes". You have to introduce them, close them, make them your argument. I let this one float. I have no other words to weave it to my own, because I don't know this scene. I am not present. I am the priveledged representative reader, who has never had to "be" there.

I don't wish for this desperation. I don't want pain to make me stronger. I don't want to experience lows so that I can be happy with my high-points. I am happy in what some would consider my gluttony; but, I want a place to put this vast feeling of gratitude. Those who believe in a higher power, perhaps say thanks to it/him/she/them. But, I find this inadequate.

Perhaps the message here is didactic and I'm afraid that I am not one to talk. But, I feel we must walk with eyes open, read and learn of other's experiences. For they make us recognize our own graces. Find compassion. It doesn't matter if you find it in Biblical prose, a folk tale, or a modern travel log. Find it and spread it.

Teaching Children

I have found myself in the midst of the weekly stuggle to teach 4 children. And not just any children, but 4 siblings of odd ages (11, 9, 7, and the youngest 5). There is an old saying that children say the oddest things and in fact it is true. Somehow I feel that these things come out often during English lessons. Here is an example from this week:

Samo (age 11): I want to go to Harvard. Why is Harvard so expensive?
Me: Because it can be.
Samo: Oh. (pause) No really?
Me: Because the teachers who write the books, teach the classes.
Samo: Oh.

Same day -- different activity.
Samo: What is volunteering? (questioning a vocabulary word)
Me: It is when you work for a good cause, for free. You give them your time.
Samo: That's stupid. Why would anyone work for free?
Me: Because it is a good thing to do.
Samo: No, it is dumb to work for free.
Me: You need to volunteer and put it on your application to get into Harvard.
Samo: Oh.

Meanwhile, Kubo, age 9, has drawn an entire set of cars and weaponry on his worksheets, waiting patiently for me to give him my undivided attention.

The next day, I travel to their school where I teach one hour with the girls (age 7 and 5) and then one hour with Kubo again.

I arrive. Place my stuff in the classroom that we use. I take a super deep breath and go to Ema's kindergarten classroom to collect her for our lesson. I go there first because her teacher is the only nice person in the whole building as far as I can tell.

Ema sees me and smiles a big excited smile and then proceeds to hide from me around every corner. Her hiding is not so much hiding, but rather a duck and cover sort of half-game. I am not offended, I know that she likes English.

Then Ema and I go to collect her older sister. This trip up the stairs could take hours if I let it, because there are so many things to talk about. I knock lightly, peek my head in the door, the teacher gives me an "oh it's you again look" and tells Daniela, "Máš Angličtinu". Daniela dances to the door the other children stare in awe as she is singled out.

Class with the girls is a three-ring-circus. I give them mints to make them happy. They think they are candy -- can something that is sugar-free be candy? Daniela is sharp as nails, at age 7 she is reading in English and can write anything you tell her to. Her sister, again age 5, wants to go slow and color. It is hard to manage these two levels at the same time.

The last lesson Ema thought it would be funny to answer every one of my questions with the word "kovačik", after which she would burst out laughing and then hide under the table. Daniela wants my attention and screams at the top of her lungs, "Emma!!!", which Ema thinks is her name, because officially I am Miss Emily to her.

There lesson ends when their brother, Kubo, saunters in and tries to shoo them out. Ema cries and Daniela whines, while Kubo pushes them both out the door. I keep my cool and become more and more calm in the face of this chaos... I only wonder what those outside the door think.

Happy Thanksgiving, ok now time to shop

The Saturday after Thanksgiving I was with a friend of mine and I told her that in the US it is a holiday. Our conversation (in Slovak, thus it is very rudementary, but that's what makes it fun) went something like this:


Friend: What kind of holiday?
Me: It's called Thanksgiving. We eat turkey.
F: What is it for?
M: The pilgrims...
F: What is a pilgrim?
M: The first white people in the US. (Blame the lanaguage difficulties for that one.) They came from here (roughly known as Europe). (Again, I would go into religious persecution, but persecution isn't in my active vocabulary.)
F: Ok, I don't understand, but keep going.
M: Well, they were really really hungry. (I don't know the word for starving.) And the Indians gave them food.
F: Turkey?
M: I guess so. It doesn't matter. They helped the pilgrims.
F: Then the pilgrims killed the Indians.
M: No, that was later.
F: Why turkey?
M: Why not? I think because it was there.
F: Thanksgiving (practicing her pronunciation, because in fact there is no "th" sound in Slovak, so it is hard to say... just deserts, I think).
M: Giving thanks (I translate).
F: To whom?
M: God and the Indians.
F: Then they kill them after giving thanks.
M: Yes.

I guess I show my ethnocentrism when I thought to myself later -- doesn't everyone know what Thanksgiving is about??? How can one not know Thanksgiving? It is a staple. One must over-eat, feel that triptophan enduced nap, watch the Macy's parade and then hit the sales the next day. Further, doesn't every child have to create a "hand turkey" in kindergarten? You know, outline your hand, color the fingers, and zippo-chango, you've got a bonefide hand turkey. No, I guess not.

What is interesting here, in Slovakia, is that the holidays are in celebration of events occuring recently, within the last 50 years, because the state itself was never sovereign until 1938, when it separated from the Czech Repbulic, to be reunited again and separated again -- more cause for holidays. It is significant that the holidays are present in the memories of the people. They are less trite, less myth-based. It would be as if every holiday were Martin Luther King day. Full of after-school-specials demonstrating how people can make a difference in society. As usual, one can read this as a criticism of American celebration, please don't. It is simply different and different isn't always this is good, therefore this is bad. Shed that dichotomous thinking.

One thing that does make Thanksgiving important, is that it symoblizes the point at which the Christmas melee begins. Without this more appropriate later date, Christmas begins after Halloween, as it seemed to have here, and that shopping season is simply way way too long. Perhaps therein lies the real importance of Thanksgiving -- it holds the consumerism wolves at bay for a little longer.

A Strange Commute

It was a normal Monday evening and I had finished working at 18.00 (that's 6.00 p.m. for you Americans reading). I had been feeling ill, tired, that general sense of woe that accompanies the fall to winter switchover and in a haze I stepped onto an uncroweded stretch bus headed for Braňo's work. At that point I made a wise decision to, despite my fatigue, stand in the middle of the stretch bus -- that place of accordian-like movement that for some strange reason usually brings me joy, like I am standing on the moving floor in a funhouse.

I gave a precursory glance around around the bus, surveying the tired evening faces of Monday evening travel and began to observe an odd threesome. The loud one caught my attention immediately, due to the fact that he was waving a beer can in the air and speaking rather loudly to a young, clean-cut, student-looking woman. His cohort was also contributing some noise. They were harassing the young lady.

My first thought was simply "assholes". My second was that I was glad it wasn't me sitting there. My third was something like, I'll jump in and help her if they become aggressive. My last was that I was perplexed. Why didn't she move? Why didn't she say anything in return, something like "fuck off"? (Pardon my language here kids. No more, I promise.)

But, after further observation, it seemed that there was something to these guys. Something more than just ignorance, something below the surface... Maybe I am projecting in hindsight, for when the beer holding bigger of the two hooligans got off the bus, he raised his hand in a sieg heil way. Scary.

The girl got off the bus and I descended at the same time as the second skin head skum. Feeling like it was a good idea to keep low and obscure I hunched my shoulders, put my head down and began my 15 minute walk to Braňo's work. Alert, but eyes downcast, I didn't realize it at first when a man began talking to me in Slovak.

Encounter number two began with an energetic, smallish, crazy man, about my age telling me, "Vizeraš strašne unavena slečna. To je kapitolizmus, viete. Je kapitolizmus, čo zabi nás, čo robi vás unavena" (You look very tired, young lady. That's capitalism, you know. It's capitalism that kills us, that makes us tired...) I gave him very little encouragement. Avoiding eye-contact while he went on a rant that I vaguely understood through a veil of my capitalistic fatigue. He mentioned how much better it would be if Stalin were here today.

I imagine what he would have said if I had mentioned, "Som živnostnička-podnikatelka, aj som Američanka" (I'm a sole trader-business owner, also I'm American). I'm sure he would have gone absolutely bonkers. A dangerous representative from the other side, from the home of capitalist scum. Indeed, I took some silent joy in the fact that he didn't know he was speaking to an American and a business person at that. (The word "Podnik" itself during communism was considered "dirty", "corrupt".)

So, that's my story for the moment. I've been writing a lot more as the result of being offered a position as columnist for a national English newspaper, The Slovak Spectator. We shall see if anything becomes of it. If something is published, I will let you all know.

Cheers and goodwill to those strangers who make our days interesting.

I shun you pessimists

I have begun to face the reality that whether we are pessimistic or optimistic may, in part, be due to culture and that these cultural constructs are so intricately weaved into our perceptions that they are a constant influence on our daily lives, most specifically those triggered reactions, that opinion giving without thought. I write these words now as a person running my own business and upon telling people that I had acquired my sole trader's license, I had two reactions (and I paraphrase):

The Americans:
"That's wonderful! Good for you! You are going to do a great job! It will be a fabulous experience to be your own boss! Have you thought of a name!?! What a great opportunity! You are surely going to learn a lot!!!! Make sure that the government doesn't suck you dry! Ha! Ha! Just kidding." Smile, smile, jumping up and down with enthusiasm.

The Slovaks:
"Oh, that's going to be very difficult for you. You have to find lots of costs. You'd better make sure that you have a good accountant. Your income is going to be very insecure. I had a sole trader's license and it was very hard. Life is hard. The government is going to suck you dry, I'm not kidding." Followed by stories of woe and strife. Frown, frown, watering eyes.

At some point, someone taught John and Jane that they "can do" what they want to do, that the world is open to them as long as they have the perseverance and desire. At some point, someone taught Stanislav and Miroslav that the world is closed to them, that they can only raise themselves to a certain capped level, that it is so very difficult to get to another level of income, success, or prestige.

What is amazing to me is that, in fact, the American ideal, the raising of the bootstraps (or something like that), the self-made man, the Horatio Alger is a myth. As Paul Krugman suggests, America is even becoming a caste society, in which income mobility is drastically limited. You will make what your parents made. You will make the same amount of money at age 30 for the rest of you life. Thus, American culture says "yes, yes, yes, can do! can do!", when the reality is quite the opposite.

Let's look at the Slovak attitude of "No, no, no, no, can't do, can't do". In a country with such great growth in the past 10 years this attitude is ironic. With a GDP growth rate of 5.5%, compared to 3.5% in the US, and foreign investment, jobs, a new elite class bourgeoning this attitude of impotence seems foolhardy. Granted, much of that growth is represented by booms in the city centers of the country and economic stagnation in the rest of the country. However, one can conclude that there is potential ripe for the picking, a great reason to be optimistic!

Thus, a conundrum arises that Americans have no reason to be optimistic and Slovaks have no reason to be pessimistic (well, that is except for the uber sleazy government that they elected, who might just represent the end to that growth). One thing is for sure, I am thankful for this feeling of "can do" and am perpetually frustrated by the skeptical glances thrown my way in the face of my eternal optimism -- or worse yet, the rolling of the eyes and the disclaimer that I am being American. "Oh how American!" I find pessimism extremely worrisom and limiting.

There is a new generation here, uninhibited by the ever-present communist legacy when personal initiative didn't matter. For example, I have a student who started an online company when he was in high school, sold it, and now runs a Slovak on-line book store. He is a market leader and slowly becoming less of an anomaly. He certainly couldn't have done it without some optimism. These forward thinkers will reap the rewards of a growth economy (let's hope that more of them are actually Slovaks). Their vision and success is dependant upon breaking the mould. A great quote I found, by a person named Hayakawa, "If you see in any given situation only what everybody else can see, you can be said to be so much a representative of your culture that you are a victim of it". I think that fits nicely here.

Why I like piles

I like piles. I am a piler. I pile everything I possibly can and then unpile the piles into other piles that are more ordered piles. I just absolutely love piles. For example, I pile the clothes I have worn on the floor. Consequently, I divide them into two piles: one pile that is deemed "clean" or at least "clean enough" and another pile deemed "not clean enough" or "downright dirty". The first pile will then relax on the floor for an indeterminate amount of time, before it joins the piles on my clothing shelves. The latter, will join the hamper and be re-piled according to color, fabric, or a purgatory know as hand-wash or dry clean only, where it will remain (in a pile of course) for eternity or until Braňo takes the initiative to get it to the dry cleaners, where I am sure it joins another pile, mingling with other people's piles.

Another example would be my papers. I love piling the class work of my students, dividing it into work to be graded, work to be filed, work to go to the trash, work to work on... piles piles piles. The piles sometimes spill a bit, as papers are wont to do. My students will confirm that I even pile during classes, having a temporary table full of papers, organized into attendance sheets, work to hand out, work to hand in, work that shouldn't be there at all... piles piles piles.

Further, I pile while I am cooking. Instead of using the trash, which is one meter away, I make piles of discarded onion skins, cans, and potato peels. I pile up the ingredients onto cutting boards and pile up the dirty dishes. I pile. I am a piler. A veritable mountain of piling.

Some might consider this a lazy persons approach to organization. We all know that person, with a desk piled high with piles of piled papers, who can astonishingly pull out the exact document upon request. This is ordered chaos. This is the brilliance of a good piler. I can do this. Go ahead, try me, ask me to find something. It is the way the brain works, ordered into piles. I imagine, if you could look inside my brain, there would be piles. Piles of memories, piles of feelings, piles of facts (small ones)... piles, piles, piles, cumulus and grand. Some people might have filing cabinets; I have piles.

So, why do I like piles and the process of piling and re-piling? I think it is in part a result of a certain amount of laziness, but also indicative of my habitual approach to true order. I like the process of piling, movement and progress. My life is akin to a pile. I piled in the US, now I pile here. I piled in Missouri as a university student and pile in the states, helping my dad make pottery. I pile up friends and pile up family. I will eventually create piles of posts on this blog and piles of unwritten potential. There will be piles as there will be a future. And the pile itself knows unbounded possiblity, as a pile is always a pile it can grow, it can dwindle, it is constantly in flux. Ahhhh. The pile.

Povedzte mi, poznate nekoho v Irsku? Prihbeh o vratničke

Tell me, do you know anyone in Ireland? The story of one doorlady.

It is well-known in Slovakia, that the door people, those who work the reception in any given building, literally and symbolically hold the keys to the building. They have the power to deny entry, to demand an id, to spleen your morning with incorrect information -- room numbers and floors. They know that they have that power and wield it with impunity. Moreover, in a post-commie state, during which salaries were levelled, they even had status. In the states, we might consider them peons, who get reimbursed to read magazines, and smile; here, they greet you with the disdain of nobility, managing to look down at you as they look up from their low perch.

So, this is the tale of one vrátnička, who manages and controls the door in one of the largest business centers in all of Slovakia.



The first day I met Pani Vrátnička, she greeted me with the accustomed, "občiansky preukaz". Which literally translates to, "personal id". No "please". You don't say please to someone who has no power to say "no". So, I went with my spiel, "Nie som slovenka, tak tu je moj pas". (I'm not Slovak, therefore, I have no id. I give them my passport.) This opened the gates of conversation. She smiled, asked me if I spoke German -- a common question, ironically, is to ask the Americans if they speak German or Russian as the older population in Slovakia were forced to learn these languages. She, unknowingly, showed her worldview at that point, forgetting that almost no Americans speak German, let alone Russian.

Anyway, she told me the floor number in German and I was granted admission.

Upon breaking the ice with this first conversation, she decided that it would be a good idea to tell me snipits of her life eveytime I entered the building (which is three times weekly). I can paraphrase her situation by saying that "život je ťažky", or as in American, oops I mean, English, "life sucks". She has two jobs. Her husband has three. So, after establishing her professional woes, without divulging her name, she moved on to her real purpose.

After teaching one afternoon and while leaving the building at which point I usually keep a safe distance and call out a have a nice day. She beckoned:
- Oh, Miss! Come here.
And then with a conspiring lean toward her couter and me, asked:
- Do you know anyone in Ireland?
- No, I'm American.
- Oh. (As if she hadn't seen my passport 10 times already.) So, you don't know anyone my husband and I could work for in Ireland? My husband and I really want to go to Ireland.
- No, I don't know anyone in Ireland. There are many agencies in the center of town that can help you work abroad.
- Yes, but in the agencies you need to speak English.

Hmmm. And in Ireland you don't need to speak English? The conversation continued, during which only one thing was verified. No, I am not Irish and no, again, I don't know anyone in Ireland who is looking for employees.

She was asking under some basic assumptions that I have found here in the locals, more appropriately, the elders of this Slovakian tribe. Those being: first, all English speakers know eachother; second, they are willing to help you because you ask; and third, life is easier outside of Slovakia. It is worth mentioning, based on the many books I have read by Irish authors, that the Irish consider life to be easier everywhere but in Ireland. Well, I suppose she was acting on the premise that it doesn't hurt to ask, that the world is actually a small place. Travellers know the world is small because they've seen the connections; those who don't travel believe in those connections.

We ended our conversation with my side, "I'll do my best to keep my ears open", and her side "fine, I look forward to hearing from you". <<>> We haven't spoken of this encounter since. I do imagine her going home, to her apartment, which is probably identical to mine, telling her husband with a seed of hope that she had a conversation with an American about working in Ireland. That maybe this hope made their dreams that night a little fluffier, before another day of watching doors and working more than one job.

So, if any Irish people read this post and would like a very friendly woman and her husband to come work for you, please send me a comment. It's clear to me that Pani Vrátnička really wants to leave this place, where life is hard, and go to Ireland, where there are rainbows, songs, and leprechauns.

Working to live or living to work...

In one class, when we were discussing coporate culture, I used an article which defined the European attitude to work vs. the American attitude. It differentiated this value in saying that Americans live to work and Europeans work to live. Obviously, one would rather follow the idea that work is a part of life, as opposed to life being a part of work; but, increasingly I find that my emails to friends and family include the statement, "all is well. We are working a lot".

I woke up at 4.30 a.m. on Thursday, to prepare for lessons that day. In that morning haze, we all know so well, I had that sneaking diconcerting feeling that it wasn't morning afterall, it was night. I actually couldn't feel that the night had passed. I felt the same fatigue as the night before, the same lack of motivation and inspiration over the lessons, the only difference was that now there was coffee. Ah, yes, let there be coffee.

We wake up, go to work, return from work, scavenge for food in our ever-empty fridge, prepare for the next day of work, scavenge for moments of insipid entertainment, wash, rinse, repeat...

I'm beginning to wonder if this is healthy? Where is that work-life divide. Is there a way to prioritize a busy day so that the energy flows to more important things? Why does it feel like the only difference between the work week and the weekend is that one has laundry in the background? How do we find success at work, without evacuating the energy from our systems? Or is this just a time in our lives when work is key. Dear mature reader, are you clicking your tongue at me, saying, all this will change upon having a family?

Well, that's my thought for the day. It's Saturday morning. I am going to go teach. No really, I have a lesson in an hour.


Note: A further characteristic of this conundrum is that Braňo and I both like our work. Perhaps that is why we willingly let it encompass more of our lives than we should, or perhaps it is why were both so staggeringly successful. (nudge, nudge, wink, wink.)

An ode to Badminton

As a weekly workout, Braňo and I have begun to play badminton together. We started by just hitting the bird around. Now a backyard style has been replaced by something much grander. Our shuttlecocks soar, our rackets are swift, our competitive natures fight. It's great fun.

We've tried tennis, but someone like me, whose first racket sport was badminton, simply can't hit that crass big brutal ball with the umph that is required. (In other words we were too impatient to actually begin real play, so tennis remains an anomoly for me. Why the grunting? What's with the scoring? Why are you wearing jewelry while your playing?) I much prefer the subtle swift strike of a badminton racket to bird. That sound when the sweet spot sends its feathered foe up to maximum speed, which by the by is statistically faster than the speed of that non-aerodynamic yellow round tennis counterpart.

Our play has also grown as a result of my ever-growing prowess. In other words, I broke one of the rental rackets at the club where we play. No, I didn't hit it on the groud. Really. Really, I did nothing other than what would be considered fair play and appropriate racketiquette. After the breakage, I sent Brano to the reception to replace the racket. They said that they wouldn't replace it and that we had to pay for it! The audacity! Indeed, I was pissed.

So, I've since purchased two brilliant rackets, one blue and one red, for proper gender identification. I even bought birds, which unbeknowest to me were real birds, I mean the kind with actual feathers... We're really professional now.

If you find yourself in Bratislava, if you live here already. Please, let's play badminton like civilized beings. Don't hesitate to contact me for a row.

The Stamp or Mushroom

Is it presumptuous that someone might want to read my random thoughts. Possibly.
But, it those random thoughts are there, why not expell them hense (a word which is, according to my handy-dandy dictionary "archaic". Well, fie to your archaisms.)

All is well on this side of the globe. I've had very few strange experiences, which makes this a banner week. I met with Ivan, a former student and friend, who told me that is Slovak I sound like a stupid Slovak person. This comment, simultaneously praise and criticism, enlightened has really [hence forth] cast light on my Slovak communication experience. For example, I was buying a book and the cashier and I had already exchanged some Slovak pleasantries. So far so good. When I had to ask her for a stamp. [Stamps are very important here; they make things official. There is a certain power to the stamp that shan't be underestimated. Indeed, I need a stamp on the receipts I use for my deductions...] So, I said "Prosím vas, pečiatku či pečiarku. Čo je spravne?" Which roughly translates to: Please, a stamp or a mushroom, what is correct?

So, she looked at me as though she was about to call the people with the white jackets. All the while, I was simply asking a pronunciation question.

The moral of the story? I suppose it's about being open-minded to foreigners. But, more about finding a sense of comfort in being able to ask someone a simple question. I.E. I know there are these two words that sound very much alike and I know that I am going to make a mistake... Please, help me.

I continue to be ill at ease with those whom I do not know and with whom I speak. My friends laugh at the mistakes, the strangers scoff or get disgruntled. I feel that I should be congratualted for knowing that a difference exists between pečiatka and pečiarka.