Culture Shock

Feb. 12, 2013 (continued)
The second session of the Orientation was a class in Czech history. I found a group of students (mostly Americans) walking the class and followed them. As we entered the room, one student who was actually Dutch began begging us not to sit in the front. Apparently this too was a universal emotion and not just an American one.

The lecture was like any other history lecture. The professor leading it went over some of the big figures and important events that shaped the Bohemian region (The Czech Republic.) We looked at some the geography of Europe and how divisions such as Industrialization, Religion, and, ultimately, communism shaped the culture of The Czech Republic. He talked about some of the famous kings, philosophers, and politicians. It was actually a professor from the Czech Republic that helped establish the curriculum for Harvard Law School when it opened.

Being a History lecture, it was pretty dense in the details. I admit I was yawning from time to time. What I was not doing was acting like an American. I suddenly became aware that all of the students around me were either texting or playing games on their phones. As the lecture began drawing to an end, they began packing up and leaving early. I was shocked.

After the lecture, I ran into Aaron and a few of his friends from New York and Canada. We sat down outside of the café on the upper level of the school. The conversation again turned to world issues, but the tone was different. Instead of discussing issues, it turned to name calling and criticizing. I don’t know if this conversation set me off, or if it was the culmination of it combined with the rude behavior in the lecture hall, but for the first time, I saw the “ugly American” stereotype personified.

I got up and excused myself, saying I wanted to go for a walk. I did in fact walk. I strolled up the street towards the tram station. As I passed the small square about half a block down from the school, I saw some construction people setting up some event in the square. I caught the tram and rode it back to the dorm.

As I came in the dorm, I saw Kevin heading out.

“Hey man! What’s up?” he asked.

“I’m just coming back to take a break and change my clothes before the welcome dinner tonight.”

“When are you heading over there?” he asked.

I looked at my watch. “Probably 5:30,” I said.

“Ok,” he agreed. “I’ll hang out here and meet you in the lobby then.”

I went back to my room and was again able to briefly Skype my Dad. The connection was a little stronger so I was able to tell him some more detailed stories.  At 5:30, I met Kevin and we rode the tram back to the school for the Welcome Dinner.

One feature the school had that the average High School doesn’t was a glass penthouse on top of one of the wings. This is where the dinner was hosted. We rode the escalator up. Arriving just 30 seconds late, the event was well underway. Katrina wasn’t kidding when she said, “In our country, deadlines mean ‘dead’ lines.”

A woman, who I understand was one of the deans, was speaking so we decided to wait to go in until she finished. While we were waiting a large group of students showed up and someone from the staff gave us a wave to come in. We snuck in through the door and stood on the side wall. As we looked around, it appeared as though every seat was filled. In the back corner I saw Britney and she waved at me. There were two empty seats next to her and Laura. I tapped Kevin and we quietly wedged our way across the room and sat next to them.

“There are roughly 270 exchange students at our university this semester,” the woman speaking said. “Roughly 65 of them are from America. But we want all of our students—be it one of those 65 Americans or the 1 student here from Turkey—to know that all of our students are welcome.”

When she finished, Katrina introduced the school’s cultural awareness club. Filing into the room came a group of nearly 20 people all dressed in stereotypical European garb. The men wore trousers that came down just past their knee and stockings that came up and met with the bottom of their pants. They had on white dress shirts and embroidered vests, with black caps that sat to the sided of their heads. Their hair was slicked back and well groomed.

 The women were wearing white shirts and red jumper style dresses that fanned out at the waist and came only down to their knees. On their legs they wore frilly white leggings that were large also fanned out.  Their hair was braided and covered by white bonnets tied under the chin

Half of the group played instruments while the other half sang and preformed traditional Czech dances (I have to admit, it is probably the first time in my life I’ve enjoyed an oboe solo.) The music was fun and lively and the dancers seemed to be having a jovial time.

At one point, I reached for my pocket to grab my camera. As I pulled it out, I realized that there were very few people photographing or filming the event. The only ones who were the handful of American’s sitting around me. It made me think of a joke I heard on the radio several weeks ago:

“Americans do not go on vacation to have fun. They go on vacation to take pictures so they can look at how much fun they could have had some other time when they wished they had more fun.”

I tucked my camera back away. It was enough to live in the moment and drink it in on my own.

The funny thing about laughter is that it is the same in any language. The group preformed around five dances and they were all quite funny. One was sort of a skit about a man trying to woo a woman as she did laundry. While it was all in Czech, the acting conveyed enough that the humor could be understood in any language. Another dance was a cultural song that had been written by Czech farmers to criticize the poor hygiene habits of the royalty. Again, it made each nation represented in that room burst with joy and laughter.

If I remember correctly, they performed nearly five dances. When they had finished, one of the singers announced (in English) that they were going to teach us a song. He explained that it was not in Czech but just gibberish non-sense. After we were all chanting it, they added instruments and everyone sang along. That was when the dancers began pulling people from the front row out into the center of the room to join them in dancing. Again the room burst out in cheers and excitement.

When the group had finished preforming, and few volunteered students returned to their seats, Katrina dismissed everyone to a buffet style dinner. The dinner consisted of a piece of rye bread, topped with potato salad, a few pieces of ham, and a piece of white cheddar cheese. It was like and open faced ham sandwich almost (but with potato salad on it.) To drink they served various juices.

As people finished eating, they began to head back to the dorms to get ready for the international club party tonight. Kevin told me he wanted to go because he didn’t want to be one of the last to leave the dinner, so we headed out.

As we walked back to the tram, I saw the event that had been in progress earlier that day. There was festive music and wonderful smells lofting out of the small square.

“Let’s take a peek at this,” I said, and stepped off the road.

Some people ran around in masks and costumes while couples held hands and danced. There were booths selling food on either side of the square, and at the end of it was a huge stage with a band and singers preforming.  Lights around the square were lit purple, yellow, and green.

“it must be some sort of Mardi Gras event,” I told Kevin.

"When is Mardi Gras?” he asked.

“Today,” I said.

I started to wedge my way up into the crowd to listen to the music. From the few words I could make out, I would guess that the songs were fairly patriotic.

After a few minutes, Kevin tapped my shoulder and said, “We should go back and get ready for the club.”

“What time did you want to leave?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Ivana is coming at 9:30,” I said.

“Ok,” he said.

I paused for a second. This festival was a spontaneous explosion of culture. It was the culture I had travelled several thousand miles to see. I didn’t want to just leave it.

“I’m going to stay here,” I said.

“Ok,” Kevin said, I think a little surprised. “I’ll see you at 9:30.”

Looking around there were clowns preforming and stilt walkers entertaining crowds. There were a group dressed like soviet soldiers—which initially made me very uncomfortable, but I assumed they were part of the cultural demonstration.

After another song, the band and the singers exited the stage. As they did, there was a loud commotion all around us. The crowded began to scatter and spread out. For a brief moment I thought “Oh shoot! I’m not at a festival, I’m a demonstration. I’m going to get hauled off by foreign police for being part of a political riot.”

My fears were quickly put to rest as I say that the commotion was simply the crowd making room for the clowns to perform in the center. They played accordions, drums, and cymbals, all the while dancing around and doing funny tricks. The clowns would run their finger through their own make-up and dab it on the cheeks of the people in the crowds. It was apparently a great honor to be dabbed with make up because people were crowding around to get their faces smeared with a clown’s touch. After they received a stripe on their cheeks, they appeared to do the same and share the dab of make up with their boyfriend or girlfriend.

I tried my best not to look like a tourist. The fact I was there was probably a good start. Looking around the crowd I made an interesting observation. While everyone’s voice clearly expressed enjoyment, there were no smiles. Everyone’s face remained very straight and serious while the inflection of their voices showed their excitement.  I tried my best to maintain a straight face, which was not easy to do as each of the clown’s tricks made me smile.

My effort must have been decent because at one point a man came up to me and pointing at the clowns said something in Czech. 

“Prosim,” I said (which means “Repeat.”)

He said it again.

“Nerozumim Cesky,” I said (which means “I don’t understand Czech.”)

“Prosim,” the man said.

“I only speak English,” I said.

He didn’t respond but just walked away. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but it was a start.

After the clowns had performed for nearly 30 minutes, one of the soviet soldiers took the stage. He started speaking into the microphone and again I got a little nervous. The crowd was moving closer and clapping and cheering with him. His speech built, and his volume and excitement grew louder and louder until…he ripped off the soviet jacket revealing that underneath he was dressed like a motorcyclist. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket over a white t-shirt. His pants were ripped blue jeans and on his hands he had leather, finger-less gloves with spikes on them. As he chucked his military hat into the crowd, I assumed a bandana with replace it. Instead, he pulled out a black fedora and sunglasses and donned them on his face.

Seconds after tearing apart his regalia, he was joined on stage by others that also wore the biker persona. One carried a saxophone, another carried a guitar; one had a bass, another had an accordion. The man that had been on stage initially stepped behind a drum set, and a woman wearing a green fedora and long black trench coat took the microphone.

After the count of what I assume was “one-two-three” they began singing. It was like a full on rock concert. People were jumping up and down, fist bumping and singing along. The woman in the trench coat and the man now behind the drums were the lead singers. Her voice was deep and raspy while his had a great deal of range to it. The music itself was fun and addictive. While I couldn’t understand a word of it, I quickly enjoyed dancing along with the crowd.

They must have been a somewhat popular band because most of the crowd sang along to most of the songs. Their entire set lasted well over an hour and each song seemed more fun than the previous one. When they finally concluded, I checked my watch. It was already past 8:30. A man made a series of announcements and people seemed to move over towards the food stands. There was another group setting up on stage and they appeared to be stilt walkers and acrobats.

I didn’t want to leave but the tram ride back was nearly 20 minutes. I needed to get back to meet Ivana so I could give her the money I owed her. I figured I could always come back later to see if the festival was still going. Then again, clubbing in Prague could be another cultural experience.

I will never forget the music, the joy, and the excitement of that festival, but with a heavy heart, I shuffled back to the tram station and boarded the 9 to Zizkov.