Our house... is a VERY, VERY, VERY Turkish house...

At first, it was romantic...

Every morning, Emily and I would walk down Istiklal Caddesi, jump on the 2nd oldest metro in the world (it used to be pulled by horses), then embark on an epic journey across continents, gliding across the sparkling waters of the Bosphorous, sipping Turkish tea, and gazing out at the ivory minarets framing one of the most glorious wonders of the ancient world, the Hagia Sofia....

That was the first week...

After that, every morning, Emily and I would trudge down Istiklal Caddesi, fighting our way through the tired transvestites and gridlocked traffic, and squeeze into the 2nd oldest metro in the world (it used to be dragged up a steep hill by horses), then endure a rather tiring ferry ride across continents, slicing through the disgusting sludge of the Bosphorous, clutching my tea to keep warm, and squinting through the air pollution out at the dirty, crumbling minarets framing the most badly upkept, overpriced wonder of the ancient world, the Hagia Sofia....

In truth, the trip is really very interesting, and it can be quite beautiful, when you don't have to do it twice a day, every day. However, we did, so having grown weary from our ocassionally epic, but more often hectic, journey, Emily and I jumped into the first apartment in Kadiköy we could find.

Let me explain Kadiköy... First, it's very old. Back before Istanbul became the senses-assaulting megalopolis that it is, Kadiköy was different city, inhabited by the Chaldeans, whom you may have heard of if you stayed awake in HST 101. Yes, it is a rag-tag mix of decayed old buildings and decayed new buildings, but it IS cosmopolitan, and it IS pretty action packed, and it does have a hell of a lot of really nice cafes, bars, and even a nice old man who sells pirated porn DVDs, right next to the fish market, from sun-up to well past sun-down (his method of evading the police consists of kicking over the shoebox where he keeps the porn and running when he sees cops). So, when our head teacher said that he knew a student who had met a guy who had a friend who was renting a flat in Kadiköy, only a three minute walk from English Time, we called him immediately, and we met Akif, THE stereotypical Turkish man, although he doesn't wear a fez.

He's old, maybe 65, but very squirrely and excitable. He has two teeth on top, and is missing two on the bottom, so that his smile looks like a jigsaw puzzle, and he walks around, massaging his oversized belly, flipping his Tespi around and around, moaning Allah, Allah, Allah about the price of everything in the stores, cafes, restaurants, and streets. He told us he wasn't the landlord, but rather, the landlord's cousin. Because Akif speaks English, and Hasan, our future landlord, doesn't, he came along to translate. And to tell us all about his amazing business opportunities in Bulgaria, Greece, and any other county with exploitable resources (Turkey has already exploited all of its own).

So, he showed us the flat. It was an office in a really old building and as such, it has tile floors, a tiny bathroom, no kitchen, and no gas heat. Oh yeah, and everything's pink. Of course, we took it, and moved in right away. Since a kitchen is really optional with the number of hole-in-the-wall kebap shops in Istanbul, we decided that our number one priority should be a bed, and we spent our last 100 YTL on a fantastic mattress that, despite the faint smell of cat urine, must be the most comfortable thing in all of Istanbul.

Now, 100 YTL is around 75 US dollars, and this is a huge, reasonably nice mattress, and I tell you that even in Istanbul, that's a steal. How did we pull that off from a city that prides itself on its ability to rip off foreigners? Simple. Akif and the shopkeeper argued about the price for a half hour until Akif finally thrust 100 YTL into the bewildered old man's hands and began dragging it down the street. Then, he tricked a young boy into carrying it the rest of the way to our flat, laughing and rubbing his belly all the way back.

So, for the first few weeks, Akif was our friend. He gave us a sofa, although it also smelled quite strongly of cat urine, brought us tea in the mornings, and eventually helped us acquire a Turkish carpet, which only has a little bit of cat urine on the corner. (This city has cats like Ohio has squirrels). When he asked me if I wanted to go into business with him, I decided to humor him saying, "Sure, Akif, sure!" and shaking his hand vigorously.

The next night, he cornered me in the street and dragged me into a nearby kahvehane (dingy old place where old Turkish men in slippers drink tea and gossip about everyone else - a sort of Turkish Waffle House), where he told me that he wanted to make an office out of my living room (which, to this day, is used only for sucking all the heat out of my room and the kitchen), get the internet and a few phone lines, and make business. When I nervously asked him what kind of business, he didn't seem to know. Just business. Sell things. Make money. Turkish business...

Hasan, our real landlord, showed up the next day at English Time, urgently looking for Emily, me, or Mary Ann (our other roomate). Exasperated, he told us, through a translator, that Akif is in no way related to him, and that we should, under no circumstances, have anything to do with him. The best translation we could find for Akif was "creepy fuck." So, we decided to avoid him in every possible way. Of course, the fact that he did nothing but stand outside our apartment and rub his belly every day, asking people if they had seen his business partner, made it hard to keep away from him. However, through negotiating an elaborate system of alleys and passages, and ducking behind parked cars, I have sucessfully mangaged to avoid talking to him for one whole month...

Naturally, there were many other problems with the flat besides scummy old men. For example, Emily, Mary Ann, and I are quite regularly nearly electrocuted to death. For the first few weeks, we saw sparks everywhere. From the lights. From the sockets. From the circuit breakers. Even in the shower! Once, while I was making tea in our electric kettle, I stuck my finger in the water to see if it was hot, and - you guessed it - I was electrocuted.

Every time something like this happened, of course, we would call Hasan, who would then bring the electrician. The twelve-year-old electrician. Well, actually, he was probably closer to sixteen, but I think the electric currents must have stunted his intellectual development, because he would always investigate the problem with a metal screwdriver, and when the outlets blew up in his face, which every one inevitably did, he would giggle, and dive straight back in, like a hawk making second pass at a wounded snake. I'm not sure if he's managed to kill himself or not, but Hasan's been bringing a new electrician around. And this one's quite capable, I think. Whereas our old electrician would fix problems by adding more and more wires until we had more live wires outside our walls than in, this new guy actually pulls out the old, decayed electric lines, and puts new, safe ones in! We love him.

And now, we have a kitchen too. Of course, our sink has no hot water, our stove is just a silver tank of natural gas and a cheap piece of sheet metal fashioned into a range top, and our refrigerator is our window ledge... Still, Emily and Mary Ann are able to fashion delicious and nutritious meals while I take full advantage of being a man in Turkey, and do nothing.

This winter is going to be a bit rough though. I mean, we have enough space heaters to keep us warm and break our piggy banks, but since our apartment building only consists of the Mex Club on the bottom floor, which cheerfully provides us with free music every night until 4:00 AM, and 7 or so empty offices before culminating in flat at the top, every killowatt we use on heating, upon touching the air, immediately vanishes out of our 70 year old windows into the cold, Istanbul night air, or creeps through our walls and floor, heating the abandoned offices, which, unlike in most apartment buildings, refuse to contribute to a happy, heated building.

But, despite all our wacky adventures as Turkish tenants, I am growing more and more comfortable here. The culture is becoming less alien, the food is become more digestable, and the scenery, while still often disgusting beyond measure, is growing on me like the mold that Emily and Mary Ann spent last night scrubbing off our bathroom walls.

And, you'll all be happy to know that I've finally decided what I want to be when I grow up: an old Turkish man. Oh, those stately little fellows! They dress like a dapper mix between an English lord and a leprechaun! What class! What savoir faire!

Thomas - see you in a month, man. Bring some coffee yogurt from Matka Praha! That stuff's worth its weight in gold here. Oh, and if you can grab a couple of bottles of Pilsner Urquell as well, I'll be a happy, happy man.

Beer Goon in Istanbul

I had a good day in Istanbul today. As none of you know, right now is Ramazan Bayramı, a 3 day holiday marking the end of Ramadan, and the beginning of regular calorie intake. Hence, English Time is closed, and we are officially on holiday. Being that these are my first few days off in... oh... a month or so, I decided to head over to Sultanahmet.

After a brisk (It's about 8 degrees Celsius here. I have no idea what the hell that means. It's cold, but water is still wet) ferry over to Europe, we took the nice, new, air-conditioned tram a few stops down to the heart of Istanbul, Sultanahmet. Now that Ramazan's over, the area is actually navigable. We paid our 15YTL (12 USD) each to enter the Hagia Sofia, and wandered around inside for about an hour. This Church-cum-Mosque-cum-Museum dates from near the beginning of the Byzantine Empire, some 1500 years ago. And, like most really old things, it is impressive. However, it is much more impressive being that it is really old, and still absolutely gorgeous (a rare commodity here in Istanbul).

Afterwards, Em and I decided to take advantage of our situation, and explore the area a bit more. So, we headed for the back alleys of Cemberlitas and found some really, really nice areas. We had a great dinner in a traditional-seeming-for-the-tourists restaurant, where the food was actually the same price for Americans as for Turks! Then, we had tea (and Emily had nargile, but when I smoke the stuff, I feel like I'm going to die) in a charming tea house, which was, oddly enough, in the middle of a cemetary. Those enterprising Turks... Feeling satisfied and satiated, we walked back along the tramline, window-shopping, and admiring the beautiful shops and lanes (Yes, lanes! And not highway lanes! Lanes, lanes! There are actually peaceful, cobblestone lanes in Istanbul! And I found them! Ha Ha!). We stopped for bone-full fish sandwiches near the Galata Bridge, before we caught our ferry back to Kadikoy.

Now, as I finish this email, Emily is preparing for our friend Ibrahim to come over. He's bringing sarma dolma for Bayram, and he's got a bottle of wine he picked up in London. Tomorrow, we're going to our students' house for a Bayram dinner, and Sunday, our roomate's friend/lover/spiritual guide is taking us to see him whirl (he's a dervish).

Why did I just tell you about my day? Why should you care? What the hell is sarma dolma? Here's the point: Being dropped in the middle of foreign country is difficult, especially when you have no money, have no friends, and are shooting vomit all over your beautiful new dorm room. Sometimes it's even more difficult as time goes on. As you are consistenly charged 3 times the price for things because you're an American. As you spend hours every day cutting through the most insane traffic you've ever seen. As you learn, the hard way, not to turn the lights and the shower on at the same time in your new apartment. As you begin to forget about things you always took for granted, like safety, politeness, and honest business practices. And sometimes, it doesn't get any easier. Just when you think you might be being too harsh, you see a man attack a woman with a machete. Or, you see an animal slaughtered on the street. Or your landlord's friend tries to turn your living room into the office of the import-export business you "promised" to open up with him.

And maybe they're never going to improve. Maybe I'll always feel uncomfortable here in Istanbul. Maybe I'll always feel like a piggy bank surrounded by hungry kids waiting to crack me open. But hey, if I wanted comfort, I would have stayed in America. If I wanted things easy, cheap, and clean, I would have stayed in Prague. Much of the world is dirty, polluted, seedy, and insane. And I wanted to see the world, didn't I?

Episode IV - The Anatolian Menace

Everything is ok here in Istanbul. We're still adjusting to this crazy place. Oh, how I miss the Cestina. Merhaba and Tesekkuler don't sound nearly as nice as Dobry Den and Dickweed (er... Dequi).

Istanbul is... alright. So far, I haven't been many places that aren't totally, insanely, disgustingly crowded. Of course, I don't go out much. I don't really know how to, for one thing. The public transportation system here is a joke compared to Prague. I have no idea how to get anywhere, or even where I'd want to get for that matter. Unless you know exactly where you are going, every street looks more or less the same. Lots of cafes and random little shops stocking everything from pantyhose to screwdrivers.

And the supermarkets are terrible. I mean, they're really nice inside and everything, it's just that if you can eat like a Turk, a meal would cost about a dollar. However, I don't know how to eat like a Turk, so we spend way too much on groceries. It's like 8 bucks for a nice box of Museli, and the yogurt here - great for cooking, horrible for eating plain. You want Western food (canned vegetables, frozen pizzas, basically anything besides yogurt and fresh vegetables)? Expect to pay 4 times the price. You want Turkish food? You're getting change for a quarter. Oh, and one of the most remarkable things about that--cherry juice! It's everywhere! Liters of cherry juice for a dollar! Cherry tea! Cherry-freakin-everything! Imaging drinking Cherry pie filling... I can make that happen.

Also, one of the really nice things about Prague was that you could take off in any direction and just kind of pub crawl for an evening, for like 5 bucks. Here, 5 bucks MIGHT buy you 2 beers, depending where you go. All alcohol is heavily taxed, regulated, and often wrapped up in paper sacks to hide it from Allah's eyes. So, I don't go out many nights...

Now, the good. Fortunately, Istanbul has rampant piracy! You can get any DVD, CD, or game here for between 2 and 5 dollars, and you only have to walk through a seedy little alley! Cheap entertainment! The tea here is really good, and the culture around it is refreshing. Sitting outside and drinking tea is less good than sitting outside and drinking Pilsner Urquell, but probably quite a bit better for me. In fact, my entire lifestyle is probably a lot more healthy. I tried the nargile (hookah pipe), and didn't really like it, so even that anticipated vice is nonexistant.

Also, the people here are incredible. Really, really nice. Genuine, warm, and uniformly capitalist. Yes, capitalist. It's weird, but they have managed to make buying and selling goods a surprisingly bonding-type experience. Of course, Em and I have very, very little money right now, and not nearly enough hours in the near future, so that sort of bonding is a bit uncommon for us. Oddly enough, eating out here is actually cheaper than in Prague. The supermarkets are more, true, but a meal sized kebap or durum is about 2 bucks, and a whole meal can be had for around 4-5 bucks, and that's in the center of downtown... As much as there really is a center, which is not at all.

So, that's my impression of Istanbul so far. However, the city is GODDAMN HUGE, and I have seen so very little of it. And we haven't been to any of the touristy stuff yet. After our Balkan adventure, I didn't really feel like being a tourist for a couple weeks. Just now, we're finally begnning to explore. Unfortunately, we can barely afford the buses... So, my impression could drastically change.

Gotta run; the Turks are starting to line up for their colonization, er, language lessons...

Millions of peaches, peaches for me...

It's official, Emily and I are now REALLY, REALLY FAR AWAY FROM HOME.

Geographically, sure, but spiritually as well. I realized just how far we had gone when I popped into the Migros supermarket and found that the only yoghurt I can find is the plain, goopy, sour kind, in huge paint buckets. No good for breakfast :( Sure, musli is available here, but it's like 8 bucks for a little bag. We offically have no idea how to shop here! Everything Turkish is dirt cheap, and everything "western" is either completely absent or more expensive than a reasonably well-done sex-change operation in the back alleys of Istiklal Caddesı.

You know, I suppose the biggest shock has been that although we're in a city of about 15 million Muslims (calm down, my American friends, they're friendly savages), I can get a six pack of beer and go to the erotic shop, while Emily can walk around in Taksim square in a miniskirt (not that she ever would), and no one will bat an eyelash. Of course, it's amazing some of the things we can't do. Apparently, it's a state crime to insult Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey. By the way, I found that out by telling my head teacher how creepy looking he was. Whoops! It's also a state crime to insult the flag. But their flag's really cool, so, no worries there!

During the millilon hour train ride from Bulgaria (where I literally had to beat trendy-looking gypsy womens' hands out of my pockets), it became very apparent that you should never, ever, ever eat anything in Bulgaria. Ever. After some sketchy looking cheesy bread, I spent the entire train ride, and my entire first day in Istanbul, vomiting up a liquid whose color does not occur in nature. Emily found some pills for me here that seemed to help, but made my urine look like orange juice. I have never before reacted adversely to a region's cuisine (except England's, but that was more of an moral protest "My god, how can people really enjoy this crap?"), but Bulgaria and Turkey have united their powers to prove my digestive tract a sniveling little wussy. In fact, I'm convinced that they sprinkle some sort of sickness-dust on everything in Bulgaria. I spent the whole day today clutching my stomach because I ate some peanuts I got there... Peanuts!

So, we've been here for just a couple days now, checking out the school, resting, and pointedly not doing anything touristy. After 2 weeks of the hassle that is the Balkan countries, I really just want to sleep and drink tea. Oh, the tea here is fanstastic. Apparently by the sounds drifting up to our bedroom window (we live just off of the busiest street in Istanbul), the only thing Turks do for fun is drink tea and play backgammon.

One of the greatest benefits of working at English Time is that we get as much free tea as we want while we're at work. They are going to regret that. I promise. The one thing that's going to kill us is the commute. To get to work, Em and I have to walk 15 minutes to the world's smallest metro (500 meters), take it down the hill, walk another 5 minutes to the ferry port, take a boat FROM EUROPE TO FREAKING ASIA, then walk another 5 minutes to work. That comes to about 2 hours commuting per day, as well as like 6 dollars in tickets. Plus, on most days, we'll be working split shifts, which means that between about 2 and 6, we will have nothing to do but walk up and down the streets, bargaining for absurd prices for things we don't really need, and have to then carry home. Or, we can just drink tea for hours. :) Yeah, they're going to regret that.

Forever your sandpaper on the ass of humanity,

Aaron Rotsinger

Facing East

Well, I'm pleased to say that I haven't come across a single angry donkey yet on this trip. All the donkeys that we have met have been very friendly, well fed, and safely stabled on lovely, if boring, islands. In fact, we haven't had any problems with the wildlife here in the Balkans, although they have had some problems with us. Did you know that if you rip a lizard's tail off, it keeps writhing around for about 15 minutes? Well, we found that out. Oh, and we started a kitten revolution here in Sarajevo. Hopefully, however, this revolution will be more peaceful than the last.

Sarajevo is an interesting city. Truthfully, I came here for the thrill of exploring a recently war-torn capital, but instead, my three days here were much more leisurely than I would have thought. Emily and I have been strolling around the charming, though not quite fully reconstructed, city, stopping for Bosnian coffee practically everywhere: in front of churches, synagogues, and mosques; next to shopping malls, supermarkets, and peddler stands; close to skyscrapers, recently-renovated houses, and burned out husks... Sarajevo is fascinating for the way it is pulling itself back together, but it's just as fascinating for its diversity and plethora of experiences.

The Croatian coast, on the other hand, just 50 kilometers away, is less of a mix of Serbs, Croats, and Muslims, as it is a mix of rich Italians, Germans, and French. The beaches are boulders, the beer is more expensive than in the US, and, while the islands are certainly charming, they pale in comparison to the more historic, cheaper and warmer Greek islands.

So, Emily and I are off to eat some orgasmically good Bosnian food and catch a train to Serbia. When we get to Istanbul next week, another post will follow. Until then I hope that everyone is doing as well as I am, and I look forward to hearing from you all... Or, most of you at any rate... Oh, and for those of you that are complaining about the gas prices in the US, just remember that it's $4 a gallon here, and has been for years. You don't know how good you had it.

Istanbul (not Constantinople)

As most of you know, Emily made it here in time for my birthday. Although she was totally wiped out from the hell she went through getting here (you can ask her about it), she was kind enough to ignore her various aches and pains and party like a (much less annoying) frat boy with me. She even kept her spirits up in the hospital! Good times.

My summer here in Prague has been wonderful. It is one of the most enchanting cities in the world, with cheap enough beer to keep the enchantment going long after the first month. However, my time here is nearly at and end. On Tuesday, Emily and I will pack our things up, and jump on a train bound for Slovenia.

Slovenia???

That's right, Slovenia. Hmmm.... Yes, we are spending a fun-filled 2 weeks exploring all the unfortunate countries that have relatively recently been bombed to shit.

From Slovenia (which, to my knowledge, hasn't actually been bombed to shit recently), we are heading to Rijeka, Croatia, then heading down the Adriatic by ferry to Hvar, Korcula, and Dubrovnik, the pearl of the Adriatic. After a few sunny days in crystal clear waters, we're going off to Bosnia and Serbia to watch the people pick themselves up. What an interesting time to be in former Yugoslavia. Hundreds of thousands of buried landmines just waiting to be discovered.

From there, we'll be checking out good old Bulgaria, which probably ties Moldova for the coveted title of "European Countries Noboby Ever Thinks Of." And, at the end of the trip, we'll be crossing our final border for a while, from Europe into Asia, into Istanbul (not Constantinople), where we'll settle into a janky apartment somewhere down by the Bosphorous.

That's right, I'm not moving to Poland. The reasons? Simply, they're big fat liars. Er... Not the Polish in general (as far as I know), but rather the particular Poles who offered me a job. Well, at least, they were dishonest with me about several things, including work visas and the question of Emily's employment. However, a very kind lady in Istanbul, at the English Time franchise, offered us both reasonably decently paying jobs in Istanbul, and although we'll be working illegally there as well, I have it on good authority that no one really cares. Plus, we get a free trip to Bulgaria every three months for our visa run, where I've been assured that they do fry cheese.

I've got to run. A neurosurgeon is waiting for my supple, English-speaking tongue to instruct him. Ciao!

Why don't the babies fall?

Dobry den,

I trust everyone is well. How could you not be in the country with the best health care in the world, right? Hahaha.

While life on this end hasn't been totally packed with excitement, I have been doing a fair deal - and working quite a bit. I picked up a few temporary jobs, doing some data entry, proofreading, and... teaching small children. It's a nightmare. Imagine me, all tweeded up, singing "London Bridge is Falling Down" to five year old Czech kids, while they climb all over me, sticking elbows in my sides and fingers in my ears, and Oh, it's terrible! And it pays 4 dollars an hour. So, after public transport there and back, and lunch, I have a net profit for the entire day of 10 dollars, just slightly less than my rent. I'm no economist, but I'm pretty sure that's less than ideal.

Things are still on track as far as Poland goes. We've accepted the job, and are in the process of getting our stuff together for the visas, which is kind of a sore subject right now. Wish us luck... Emily will be here soon. We're thinking about going to Croatia for some beach time, and maybe Bosnia for some landmines. If you have any recommendations regarding Southeastern Europe, please let us know!

Cheers, my worthy, worthy comrades...

Half-Sincerely,

Aaron Rotsinger

Did I ever tell you that I'm a determinist?

Hello there, my red, white, and blue friends (although not necessarily in that order, Morgane),

As many of you know, I am disillusioned with academia. As Milan Kundera writes in The Unbearable Lightness of Being:

When a society is rich, its people don't need to work with their hands; they can devote themselves to activities of the spirit. We have more and more universities and more and more students. If students are going to earn degrees, they've got to come up with dissertation topics. And since dissertations can be written about everything under the sun, the number of topics is infinite. Sheets of paper covered with words pile up in archives sadder than cemeteries, because no one ever visits them, not even on All Souls' Day. Culture is perishing in overpopulation, in an avalanche of words, in the madness of quantity.

Part of the reason that I was no longer happy was that I saw the futility of what I was producing with my life; I realized that the work I was straining myself to produce was, while occasionally intelligent and well-written, ABSOLUTELY POINTLESS. Expending my spirit writing fluff just to prove that I am "intelligent" to people about whom I care nothing finally disgusted me to the point that I had to flee - The University, America, Academia. Of course, I assumed that if I ran away to Eastern Europe, I would escape the prison of Academia...

So, this week I made a journey to Elblag, Poland, 17 hours by train north of Prague. It's a provincial town near Gdansk, on the Baltic Sea, 50 miles from Russia. As you know, Emily and I will begin working there in September. This was my little slice of NOWHERE. Certainly in Northern Poland, I would be able to live a quiet, only mildly pretentious life, trading scholars for cows, academic journals for equally cold ice, and the publish-or-perish system for post-communist era bureaucracy. However, when I arrived, I quickly realized that fate (a convenient name for a mind-bogglingly complex set of circumstances) had other plans for me. This "Regent College" is actually the largest private school in Poland, directly supervised by Gdansk University. It's kind of an experiment by two expatriate professors, and they've created this bizzare yet idyllic New England-style boarding school in the middle of an otherwise drab, communist-looking provincial Polish town. The school is a bit like Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Children, only much, much smaller (and the Polish kids' powers aren't nearly as cool).

It turns out that these two professors, one American and one Scottish, have big plans for me. Over beer and pizza, the Scottish guy, an immensely likeable man, admitted to me that they really, really want me to join their little conclave of elite hyper-powerful expatriate intellectuals. The three of us, he said, will eventually come to dominate all thought in Northern Poland, before expanding to Western Russia and the Baltic States. Apparently, they are attracted by the work I did in subliminal messaging back in '92, and have taken steps to secure my expatriation and emigration to Poland. And last but not least, between equally desperate pleas for me to commit "long-term" to their provincial Polish experiment, and for me to get my PhD in Linguistics at Gdansk University, they tempted me by saying that if I stick around, I would get to teach Latin and Greek.

So, here I am again, in the midst of academia. Perhaps this will be quite different than my experiences at a conservative Catholic university in the heartland of America, but somehow, I don't really think so. However, they make a tempting offer, and I shall have a lot to think about. Oh, you who sympathize with my plight, remember poor Aaron, who could not, no matter how he tried, remove pen from inkwell at the desk of inanity.

Forever chained to the card catalogue,

Aaron Rotsinger

Our house, is a very, very, very Czech house.

The last couple weeks have seen me living a jet-set life of cheese, beer, English teaching, and public transport. Fortunately, I've got them all fairly well figured out. Cheese is good fried, beer is good large, English teaching is good when it's spontaneous, and public transport is good all of the time, but only, only, only with a proper ticket.

Yesterday, I paid the commission on a flat. Jess, an Australian expat who really wants to work in Prague, but can't be bothered to actually apply for a job, Thomas, a French immigrant who stays out late every night and sucks down the juice (occasionally he mixes apple with grape, the crazy fool!), and I are moving in to a 3 bedroom place (with a loft--I feel like I'm in Friends or something) tomorrow. Really, the place is spectacular. It's in Prague 6, the nicest part of Prague, with a (small) view of the castle and a (large) view of the highrises on the hill. But the highrises are just far enough away to make them look quaint. It's got a nice balcony, a fully modern kitchen, and we're converting part of the loft into a little tea room.

In other news, I'm off to Poland next week for a visit. Regent (the school where Emily and I are going to start work in September) wants me to come up and check the place out. After what will be a month exclusively within the corporation limits of Prague, it will be nice to do a bit of traveling, even if I will have to go a week without fried cheese... Or maybe they fry cheese in Poland as well... Different kinds perhaps.... Mmmmm.....

It's a beautiful day in Holesvoice, Praha 3!

This first sentence may not surprise you: I didn't get a job today. The next probably will: I got four yesterday. That's right... Four. Let me explain.

I had an interview yesterday at the Prague Institute, a little house converted into a school up in Praha 8, near the end of metro line C -- in other words, a bit of a journey. So, I walk in, and the nervous young Czech girl gives me a form to fill out. Of course, the form is in Czech, so I just kind of scrawl personal information across it wherever I think it looks the most official.

15 minutes later, she comes back into the little room and says, "Ok, so, do you, um, have a TEFL certificate?", to which I hesitantly reply, "Well, no."

She responds, "Ok, do you, uh, have any TEFL experience?", to which I am forced to reply, "Not exactly."

She says, "Right. So, are you, uh, legal to work here?" I hang my head in the shame of an illegal immigrant and reply, "Nope. Not at all."

She fidgets a bit, looks around the room anxiously, and says, "Can you teach a class in 20 minutes?" I reply, "Sure." She throws a book down on the desk, and just like that, I'm in.

Lenka and Marcela were very nice, although a bit shy to speak English. Luckily, Petr brought a bottle of wine, so everyone loosened up. Damn, I love this country. The class went smoothly, and the young lady behind the desk put me on the schedule. It's part time, but hey, each class gives me enough money to sleep for the night.

Of course, not knowing that I would have to teach a class, I was late for my next interview at 7:00, in an Irish Pub all the way across town. This was for a job at Angel Club, an upscale joint opening in a few weeks near the Mala Strana, west of the river. So, I literally ran across Prague, my tweed jacket billowing behind me, map tightly clenched in a white-knuckled fist. Sweaty and out of breath, I stumbled into the Pub at 7:50, found my contact, a middle-aged Australian woman, and ordered a water with gas.

After introductions, the first question she asked me was, "Saturdays are going to be gay night. You will get propositioned. Are you okay with that?"

"I don't mind a bit," I replied, remembering my college days. Don't misunderstand; I'm straight. But if a guy's going to buy me a beer or tip me better because he thinks I'm cute, no complaints here.

After a bit of chatting, Simone quite frankly told me that what I lack in experience, I make up for in presence. Oh, and she said I'm cute, bought my water, and told me about her menopause. After the interview, she said she'd be in touch, and that I will have a job at Angel Club in a couple weeks. Right on.

The third job came when I got back to Sir Toby's, my rad Christian hostel (there is only a little bit of sarcasm there. It is Christian, and it is the best hostel I've ever stayed in. Yes, I'm having difficulties with that.) There was an email from Regent school, offering me a contract teaching English in Poland, where native English speakers make more money than doctors. It's a 13 month contract, starting September 1st. I haven't signed it yet, but once they tell me how the visa situation works, that sucker is getting signed.

So, I got three jobs yesterday. But, I said four, right? Well, the fourth isn't mine. Regent has offered Emily a contract as well. I just talked to her on the telephone, and she's going to accept it. So, if you're friends with Emily, go buy her a drink while you can, cause she's moving to Poland. On second thought, make her buy her own drink. She's had enough free drinks lately.... So, I'll be in Prague for the next couple months. Come on over! Watch those American dollars stretch on and on and on and on... And on... And on... And on...

It's that time of the month again...

I hope this finds everyone in good health and good spirits (preferably Absente). Predictably, I have failed to find a job in France, and given that just breathing here exceeds my daily budget, it appears that it's time to pack up my crap and head east to the land of promise and cheap vodka. Try and find a difference there, I dare you. So, the good news is, I'll be in Eastern Europe.

As for the my time here in France, well... Let's just say that I came across a unique and timely opportunity to spend some time with nice French family in a little French village. I realize that this probably conjures up pictures of vineyards and chateux, of sweaty afternoons smashing grapes and lazy evenings sipping wine over miraculous sunsets, of wearing white and black striped shirts and bicycling down to the pattiserie to pick up baguettes, but this isn't exactly the case. This is a planned French villiage, a sort of socialist scheme to mask poverty and wealth by basically building a bunch of prefabricated housing and selling them according to income. Now the only things seperating Pierre de Luc and Jean le Bouffon are concealed behind frilly lace and stained rayon, respectively.

That's not to say this place isn't nice, mind you.

In the interim, Morgane and I managed a nice little road trip out to Finesterre (the end of the world), where we relaxed at Le Cap de la Chevre (The Cape of the Goat). This is real Breton, folks. Out there, everyone smells and no one shaves. (Contrary to popular belief, that is not typical of France in general). Needless to say, it was primarily an olfactory experience.

Anyway, my job hunt is going to take me next to Elblag (pardon me), Poland, a port city up on the Black Sea. If that works out, great. If not, well, I'm sure there are plenty of opportunities in the Czech Republic for a young, well-educated, bright-eyed American boy. Right?

Right?

Anyway, summer is peeping it's melanoma-encrusted scalp over the horizon, so if anyone wants to fly out to Eastern Europe, drink Absente, and sneak around some old pawnbrokers' flats, let me know. I'm up for anything!

And the immigration begins...

As you read this, my American rear end is firmly planted in a cafè\bar\park\cell in Rennes, France. This is, of course, where my good friend Morgane lives, and where I'll be staying for a little while, as I look for a job and beg for Euro. Actually, the job thing is looking bright; there's a school in Poland, up on the Baltic sea, that is very interested in my CV. In the meantime, I plan on volunteering down at the Franco-American institute here in Rennes, and hopefully taking some French classes, if I can find someone to trade language lessons.

The mad dash through Portugal, Spain, France and the Netherlands was a lot of fun. A lot of Ron's preconceptions about Europe were totally shattered, and he's decided to win the lottery and start a foundation that sends 18 year olds to Europe for a few months, just so they can see how screwed up America is.

Amsterdam was great, as usual. The highlight of my trip was running into a Nato conference there. I barged into the conference, rushed the podium, and got a few good swings in at Bush before Secret Service dragged me away. Luckily, Bush was feeling pretty peaceful (even he couldn't manage to stay out of the coffeeshops), and gave me an official pardon, telling the Dutch police, "Nah, he's coool man."

Actually, I had my first job offer in Amsterdam. It wasn't really what I had in mind, but I suppose I could do worse than selling dildos and blow-up dolls to young Brits on stag-dos. I seriously considered it, but eventually turned the kind offer down when I realized that you should never make a job out of your hobby. I studied literature for six years, and now reading feels like work. If I lose porn too, how on earth will I ever relax?

Anyway, I'm enjoying myself here in Rennes. I guess I'll just bum around here until I can figure out what to do next, or until Morgane's patience runs out. I suppose I can only drink so much cafe au lait and eat so many crepes before I start to lose my mind (or my heterosexuality).

Where there's a will...

First let me say, ha! There's more than one way to cross an ocean! I'm in Portgual! And let me add that it feels great! I nearly wept with joy when I changed my dollars to Euro. Then I nearly wept with sadness when I saw the exchange rate. But, hey, at least I'm here.

The boat was nice. I read a couple of bad books, ate a lot of good food (though not as much as the anorexic chick at the table next to us), and got the best of some Russian spies.

That's right, Russian spies.

We met them at dinner on the first night. I amicably turned to the nice older couple sitting beside us and asked, "where are you from?" to which they very confidently replied, "Ve ar from Kanada!"

For the rest of the trip, I always found them just nearby. When I turned around, one of them was just stepping into a nearby room. When I was swimming, one of them was peering stealthily over a newspaper (note: they didn't actually sell newspapers on the boat). All of this espionage culminated in the midnight chocolate buffet just after Ponta Delgada. I had my camera out, admiring the fucking huge chocolate bald eagle in the center of the dining room, when I spun around to get Ron's attention. And there behind me, hidden behind a flowery watermelon, was the KGB, taking a photo of me! Without raising my camera, I quickly snapped off a picture of her, and in the interest of avoiding the seemingly inevitable kung-fu fight, I slipped my camera in my pocket and pretended to be very interested in the caviar.

Ron had a nice time too, while he wasn't being seasick. Bermuda was kind of disappointing; it reminded me of Brighton, only with more black people. I realize if you've never been to Brighton, that last statement was totally vacuous. Sorry you missed out on that one. Or rather, I'm not so sorry.

If anyone has any ideas how I can make some Euro, please let me know. I dislike manual labor, but at least I don't have any pesky morals to worry about!

Obrigado!

Avast, ye landlubbers!

My holiday has officially begun for the second time. I finished my job at the Belly Poke on Sunday. Michel and his family are off to France to meet his new granddaughter, and that means the cafe is closed until the 15th. At that point, I'll be in Bermuda. The goodbyes were hasty but warm; Michel forced me to drink a Heineken with him, and Manuella donated an entire box full of perishable food items to the homeless prep cook (me). Most of said perishable food items were later eaten by Josh and Michelle, but hey, if I have to pay my rent in croissants, fair enough. Michel also told me that if I have any friends who work as hard as me, he will hire them on the spot. So, if any of you want a job making $7 a hour in one of the most beautiful little towns in the country, come to St. Augustine, FL, and look for La Belle Epoque on St. George St. Oh, and you have to be male. Michel was adamant about that. I'm not sure why exactly, but I've got my theories...

Emily's coming down tomorrow. And she's 21 now. Which means we don't ever have to leave Backstreets Bar and Coffee House. For those of you who are still clinging to that Christian concept of heaven, get down here and check out Backstreets. She'll be staying until Saturday, when Josh, Michelle, and I head down to Ft. Lauderdale to meet up with Ron, who's coming with me on the cruise to Portugal. This boat, the Legend of the Seas, has a damn miniature golf course on it! Not to mention the 4 whirlpools, 2 movie theatres, opera house, casino, and rock climbing wall. Yep, backpacking is all about roughing it.

And when I get to Europe, I'll be unemployed, as well as homeless. But, never fear, there are plenty of unscrupulous Asians/Eastern Europeans/sex traffickers willing to hire young, experienced American men.

This will likely be my last stateside email, so you'll likely not hear from me again until we dock in Portugal. So, good luck with the end of the school year... Suckers! :)

Arrrrr! The Pirate's Life for me!

So, I'm in St. Augustine, FL. The train ride down was a good bit of training--19 hours. It was nice to find that American trains are just as efficient as their European cousins, though so much less social. I should have been doing shots of homemade Absente by the second hour with some Romanian hippies; instead, I sat next to some fat guy who drank Miller Lite and pretended to be asleep just so that he didn't have to talk to his wife or daughter. They were on their way to Disneyworld. Oh, the American dream in action!

I stayed at Sweigart's for a while, but it didn't really work out. Philosophical conflicts, as it were. He insists that the nature of the universe is ύλη, but I insist that it's more of a verb, like αρχή τής κίνησεος. After hours of arguing, we realized that the friendship would have to end, and I left.

So, now I'm at a funky little hostel called the Pirate Haus. It’s a decent place in downtown St. Augustine, with free pirate pancakes in the morning (and yes, Conrad, the owner, does dress up like a pirate while serving them). Besides, it's fun to be able to wander around the hallways muttering "arrrr..." without anyone looking at you strangely.

Anyway, it's confirmed - my ship leaves for Portugal on April 10th. The Legend of the Seas is the name. Yeah, it's a cruise ship. I know a freighter would have been much more romantic, but for some reason, a ride on an oil rig is like 4 times the price! I guess there are a lot of rich people who'll pay a lot of money to forget the fact that they're rich. Now, how much sense does that make? I don't know if there'll be internet or phones on the boat, so I may not talk to anyone for a while - rest assured that I'll be too busy enjoying Bermuda and the Azores anyhow.

So, in the interest of not being completely worthless for the next few weeks, and in order to offset the cost of the boat ticket, I basically went door to door downtown looking for a job. It was actually easier than I thought. Now, I figured that most Americans wouldn't give me a part-time job for 3 weeks, what with all the paperwork and stuff, so I was lucky enough to find a nice little French cafe called La Belle Epoque. Yes, that is pronounced "Belly Poke." Michel, the owner, has no problem paying me under the table (silly Americans and their rules). I just stand in the kitchen, dish out quiche, and try to look superior to the customers (I'm trying to blend in).

You know, I don't know the best way to live life, but I do know that, at the very least, I want to go to sleep every night being excited to wake up in the morning. And I know that, for the first time in years, I am.

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

The Adventure Begins...

If you've been given this link, it means I like you. If you don't like me, or if you simply don't want to hear anything about my exploits and adventures, please feel free to surf back to your favorite porn site or whatever.

As most of you know, I have finished graduate school a bit early, given away most of my possessions, and headed east adventure. As most of you don't know, I didn't quite make it. Yet.

Here's what's up: Emily and I took our flight from Dayton to Philadelphia as planned, with me, as usual, shaking and blubbering for the entire 45 minute flight.

Yeah, I'm afraid to fly. Don't misunderstand; it's not that I fear my plane crashing; I know it's actually more likely that I'll get killed by a donkey than a plane crash (especially where I'm headed). Strangely enough, I'm not afraid of takeoff or landing either, during which something like 86% of all plane crashes happen (not something like. Exactly. But whatever). Even more oddly, the big planes bother me more than the small ones. I feel much safer on a creaky old turboprop than I do a 767. Why? Well, I figure it goes like this...

When I'm in a wee, rickety McDonnell Douglas, I feel like I'm actually in an airplane, and I can accept it. However, if I'm in a massive Boeing, I don't feel like I'm in the air. It's more like I'm on a huge bus, careening down a 16-lane highway. Then, when we hit the smallest bit of turbulence, and I find myself praying to the god you all know I don't believe in, I realize that I'm actually thirty six FUCKING thousand feet in the air! (Do you know how high that is? Do you really? Imagine falling off the top of the Empire State Building... 28.8 times. Fuck.)Perception and reality cease to coincide, and I find myself in the middle of a psychological paradox. Realizing that I can't be both in a bus and on an airplane at the same time, I start whimpering and pee myself.

Ok, well, at least I'm not alone. Plenty of people are afraid of flying, but it's just something you have to do in the modern world, isn't it? I've flown to Europe before several times, and I lived through them all. All I really need to do is sit down and explain to myself calmly and rationally that everything is going to be fine, right? Right?

Well, if you know me, you know that staying calm is NOT one of my strengths.

Perhaps it was the result of a Dramamine overdose, perhaps it was the cheap American beer, or perhaps it was just years of neurosis finally boiling over in a Molotov cocktail of that famed Rotsinger stubbornness, but sitting on that 767, I decided that there has to be a better way to do it than this. Why can't I have my cake and eat it too, goddamnit? People have been traveling the world for thousands... no, millions of years without airplanes! Why should I torture myself all the way over the Atlantic like that? If I'm going to do this thing, goddamnit - if I'm going to explore the world; if I'm going to head east, young man, I'm going to do it MY way!

So, I got off the plane. My luggage didn't, but that's another story.

What now? Well, Emily and I have been in Philadelphia for the last few days. Nice place, really. Bit scummy, but you know, a fresh layer of scum on the top just keeps everything pure underneath.

Of course, I couldn't ask her to give up her vacation for me, so we exchanged her ticket, and she's sitting at her gate right now, getting ready to board her plane.

Me, I bought myself an Amtrak ticket to Orlando. There's a ship leaving from Ft. Lauderdale on April 10th that stops in the Carribean and eventually ends in Lisbon. I intend to be on it.

And you know, I don't regret anything that's happened. I have no idea what is in store for me - where I'll end up or how I'll I get there. What will I see? Who will I meet. Will I end up giving blowjobs for spare zloty in the bathroom of a Polish nightclub? Will I marry an Arabic princess and inherit the Sheikh's oil fortune? Will I drink myself to death in a coal mining town in northern Siberia? All of these things are possible - how exciting!

All I know know is that I've got my life savings of 4,000 dollars in my pocket and a burning desire to abandon the sinking ship that is the United States of America.

Maybe that wasn't the best metaphor.