Kynsperk Part Two: Králičí, Kamarádka and Karlovy Vary

Remember I said my Czech has fallen by the wayside in my old age? I realise I still know more than most people reading this, so I better give you some translations to the (ridiculously small amount of) words used here…although I think most of them are pretty obvious.

Ahoj – Hi/Bye

Vlak – Train

Alergický – Allergic

Pivo – Beer

Káva - Coffee

Králičí – Rabbit

Kamarádka - Friend

Hovno – Shit

Okay. So we left off with the traumatic departure from this world of Suzie and Ferdinand. Now, whilst a lack of appreciation for alcohol may be incomprehensible to my family, it’s comparably reasonable, even logical, to the concept of vegetarianism. And I am a vegetarian. In the past when we’ve visited, it has never really been a problem, as Dad has always been there and, as well as being a carnivore, on holiday he procures a tapeworm and becomes somewhat of a human garbage disposal– so when my plate has been piled up with four pigs-worth of pork schnitzel, a few stealthy under-the-table exchanges were all it took to rectify the situation. Without a compost bin to my left or right, it was going to be tricky. Now, I haven’t eaten meat for over ten years, and I wasn’t about to start with Susie and Ferdinand. But I knew simply saying I was vegetarian wasn’t going to cut it, so I decided the safest route to take would be to explain to my family that I am alergický to meat.

With some bleating, mooing, oinking, some histrionic gesticulations, and some rolling around on the ground clutching my throat in a somewhat melodramatic interpretation of anaphylaxis, I managed to convey that I am alergický, not just to Susie and Ferdi, but to all faunae. The reaction I received (to this information and not to my acting skills) is really quite hard to explain. Sympathy doesn’t even begin to cover it. When I was (mis)diagnosed with a tumour several years back, the expressions I received were downright joyous in comparison. The looks of horror and pity directed towards me were the sort usually reserved for news of a fatal accident, or Collingwood winning a Flag.

Once my alergie was explained, we also had to provide a reason as to why Kaitlyn could not eat S and F. I tried to tell everyone that, at home, Kaitlyn has a few pet králičís whom she dearly loves, so she cannot eat králičí …but given these people were rubbing the stomachs of their named bunnies literally moments before they landed on the barbie,

I don’t think this explanation resonated all that much. I ended up going for the ‘we don’t eat rabbits in Australia’ story. Yes, I know we weren’t in Australia at that point, but before you start emailing me with your "When In Rome" bullhovno, try and picture Ferdinand curled up in Kaitlyn’s lap, little ears twitching as she stroked his paw. Still keen to get your Roman on?

While we waited for the králičí and another third of Noah’s Ark to tenderise, it was time for gift-giving. My gift to the older family members was one third of my liver, but for the youngsters, I had actually brought gifts from Australia. For Jacob, I had an Australia beanie which he seemed to quite like – I just hope he has a summer palate which can wear fluro yellow. For Adelka and Lucka I had these uber cool little koala toys. Whilst I thought Mum and I had done a brilliant job selecting something very cute and age-appropriate, we made one fatal mistake when selecting these: buying one red and one blue. Within seconds of presentation, it was all-out combat.

At first I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but when Lucka snatched Adelka’s blue koala and went all Usain Bolt around the corner, I started to twig. Once child and toy marsupial were recovered and brought back, I did my best to try and diffuse the situation. However, more and more hovno hit the fan. Despite Kaitlyn and me professing our Christian-Bale-level love for the colour red, both girls were still determined to claim possession of the blue koala. At this point, Czech/English dictionaries even appeared to assist in ascertaining which koala belonged to which girl. I’m still not sure exactly what the aversion to the red koala was: perhaps both of them love blue, perhaps Lucka merely wanted what her older sister had, or maybe it’s sub-conscious antagonism towards the colour brought-on by painful memories of the Communist-era. What I do know is that it took only two children, one child-sized adult, and two plush toys from Paddy’s Market to incite World War Three.

Once the tears were dried and the blood mopped, it was time to eat. I was more than satisfied with bread and the selection of salads, but I kept looking up and catching people staring at me with sympathy eyes – especially kamarádka extraordinaire, BLF, who was able to shovel gigantic portions of food into her mouth without looking away from me. A few times she even tried to ask me things mid-chew – Yo! If I can hardly understand you when your mouth is empty, I’m sure as hell not going to understand you when you have Susie flying out of your mouth into my eye.

Poor Kaitlyn also got stuck eating pork which she doesn’t usually eat. Although, I guess when your other option is Peter Králičí, you’d probably choose Porky as well. Whilst Kaitlyn was taking one for the Meat-Eating Team, I was taking several for Team Cirrhosis – and I really was spoilt for choice: there was beer, red wine, white wine, sparkling wine, Czech Water. Just regular, basic, straight-from-a-spring, hydrating water would have been nice, but there was a strong correlation between my drinking and my Czech improving, so I stuck with it.

Fortunately, everyone was still exhausted from the wedding the day before and was keen to retire early. We said goodbye to the various people departing, including BLF, and made our way upstairs to bed. After getting into our PJs I went to go and brush my teeth and was assaulted with the vision of BLF in her underwear. Turns out she was also staying over. I thought the nastiest piece of awkward conversation the two of us would have would have been when she was spitting Miffy into my eye…but it was definitely nastier when the crazy gesticulations were done semi-naked, only translucent scraps of underwear reigning in generous body parts.

Despite the ridiculous heat, we were so tired we managed to drift off really quickly. And then a few hours later we woke up to the most epic thunderstorm. It was bright, loud but, most significantly, wet – even in our room, as a window had been opened. Turns out Czech windows are as foreign to me as vegetarianism is to the Czech. It was IMPOSSIBLE to shut – and not just because it was high - I think Houdini would have struggled. Who didn’t struggle was BLF, who must have heard our attempts, waddled in, and stretched her glorious semi-naked body up to secure it for us. Half of me was grateful, and the other half was left thinking being soaked and/or struck by lightning wouldn’t have been too bad.

A few hours later, the rain cleared and the lightning had well and truly stopped…which was why I found it odd there were still very loud, consistent rumbles of thunder. It wasn’t until the morning when I woke up and left the room, that I realised it wasn’t thunder, but BLF snoring. Whilst she might not be the smallest person I have ever seen, I have no idea how something her size is capable of making noise that loud. You know when men come home blind drunk from the pub and pass out on their backs? Yeah, well that’s melodious, light-breathing compared to the racket she produced. I crept downstairs to have a shower and wash the sweat and trauma off my body. When I emerged from the bathroom, I was met with the aroma of fresh bread – my second favourite scent after Dolce and Gabbana Light Blue. When I walked into the kitchen, the table was COVERED with food. There were three different types of bread, about eight different types of cheese, enough salami and ham to make a dress out of (not for me, but for a real-sized person), fruit, jam, butter, chocolate spread….and then Big Liba brought over an industrial-sized fry-pan of scrambled eggs. Kaitlyn joined me soon after, and right behind her was BLF who somehow managed to smell the food through her congested and occupied nostrils.

Now, those of you who know me are aware of the obscene amount of food I eat on a daily basis. I haven’t slowed down in Europe, and that morning I ate two bread rolls filled with egg and cheese, two slices of bread, one with chocolate spread, the other with cheese and jam, one cup of tea, two cups of coffee, and a little cake which appeared out of thin air. Kaitlyn, whilst not as gluttonous as me, also ate a considerable amount of food. After we’d finished, Big Liba and BLF stopped mid-shovel to stare at as. ‘Were we done?’ Yes, we were. ‘But your train doesn’t leave for an hour’. Correct, but it is my stomach dictating this meal’s completion, not the Czech rail system. And in a moment so very reminiscent of every meal-time growing up with my grandma, I started to get the lecture about being small and eating more. Even in a different language, I know what was being said: girls these days, too thin, anorexia, bulimia, infertility, you need to live through a war to appreciate food. I do appreciate food…I just happen to appreciate it more when it’s in my stomach and I’m not looking at it in a chunky, liquid form floating in a toilet bowl.

That day we were going to Karlovy Vary, the most famous of the spa towns in the Czech Republic and about 30 minutes by vlak from Kynšperk. Of course, the rain from the previous night had not abated, and it was still bucketing down outside. Luckily for us there were umbrellas we could borrow – lucky in that they protected us from the rain, but also provided us with weapons in case we met Wheelin’ Jack on our walk to the vlak station. Fortunately, the latter didn’t happen, but unfortunately it poured for most of the day in Karlovy Vary. But in short bursts we were able to walk around and see most of the major sights. Kaitlyn was able to try the crazy Czech spa water, which is purported to have some phenomenal health benefits, but tastes like a cross between rotting eggs and copper. 

Initially, our next destination was going to be Poland, but that afternoon whilst bumming the free Macca’s wifi, we decided that we might hit up Berlin instead. So we made our way back to the vlak station to book our tickets. That in itself was quite the production, as the language barrier again made things quite arduous. I still have enough Czech to be able to ask for two tickets to Berlin, but when the details start becoming more specific, I get confused…and there appeared to be a lot of specifics we needed to clear up before buying the tickets: time, first class or second class, smoking or non-smoking, proximity to the food cart, proximity to the WC, colour of the seats, colour of the walls. We could have walked to Berlin in the time it took to sort it all out. I could have waddled with my backpack faster.

Even though the ticket-buying process took long enough that my chances of ever having children were halved, we still had a bit of time to wait until our vlak home. Now, I’m usually firmly against vlak station toilets:however, one too many kavas at McDonald’s meant that my bladder was putting my convictions to the test…and in the end my organ won. Now, between working in a cinema, 5.30am dashes at Club Surreal, three trips to Bali, Falls Festivals, Flinders Street Station at 2.00am on a Sunday morning, and a few petrol stations, I’ve seen my fair share of disgusting, sickening toilets in my time. None can hold a candle to the one I begrudgingly used that day. To describe it as sordid would be like describing

Isaac Brock as a genius – a criminal understatement. Just by walking through the door I caught something. The place was covered in hovno, and I don’t mean that in the generic sense, I am referring to literal hovno – excrement. I also whinge about my thighs, but for once in my life I was extremely grateful that I have legs like a full-back, as they came in very handy for the hover over the bowl; I do this in 99% of public toilets, but that day I was doing it whilst simultaneously keeping the lock-free door shut, holding my bag (as I refused to let it come in to contact with any surface around me), and mentally fighting off HIV. I was also glad for the tissues I was carrying in my bag as I have no doubt the paper there was highly contaminated with countless airborne diseases. I am severely allergic to the hand sanitiser I brought with me, but that day I bathed every exposed piece of dermis with it once I left that room. Hives are unattractive, but I’d take the itching of those over the itching of scabies any day.

We arrived home in Kyšnperk to a feast - a feast of mostly vegetarian food. I’m not sure if that was because of me, or because the night before our motley crew ate the country out of livestock. Given the amount of food, I assumed that we would again be joined by a plethora of shirtless pivo-swigging men and a significant proportion of the town. However, that night was just Kaitlyn, Big Liba, Big Mirek and our favourite kamarádka, BLF, who still hadn’t managed to find her way home. At dinner, Kaitlyn was again offered every single alcoholic beverage imaginable, politely declining each and every one. We thought at that point she was home free.

After dinner, Big Mirek, sporting his customary uniform of tight fluro-orange t-shirt, and even tighter fluro-orange shorts, suggested we Skype Australia. I eventually explained to him that it was 3.00am in Australia, but that didn’t seem to be an issue whatsoever. Fortunately there was no one online, so that idea ended as soon as it began. What surprised me was that his Internet connection was good – fast, even! The day before Kaitlyn and I had spent about half an hour explaining that we were going to Poland next and, as that had been so complicated, we decided it would be far easier to continue with that story than to even attempt to inform them that we were instead going to Berlin. It made us feel pretty bad when, for the next hour, we poured over a map of Poland outlining our route, looking at sights on Google Earth, and seeing all of the photos of their trips to Poland - especially as Big

Mirek was rocking the constrictive fluro-orange combo in every second snap. By this stage we were pretty keen to go to bed, but as we were waiting for the right moment to say goodnight, Big Liba disappeared only to reappear seconds later with a bottle of advocaat, and five glasses. This time they didn’t even ask Kaitlyn, they just poured her one. They were only small, shot-size glasses, and even Kaitlyn can handle a little nightcap…at least when it’s not 80% alcohol. This wasn’t your typical, 20% advocaat liqueur – this burnt the lining of my oesophagus, practically melting a hole through it. As Kaitlyn and I were looking at each other trying to figure out how quickly we could force it down, Big Mirek put a movie on – specifically a French, slap-stick comedy from the 1960’s with atrocious Czech dubbing. It was significantly more painful than the swallowing of the advocaat. Years of working in hospitality and customer service has led me to perfect the fake laugh – I’m at Oscar level when it comes to feigning amusement. But it was hard, freaking work to believably feign amusement at this movie. Having said that, what made it a lot easier was my never-ending glass of advoccat. Like a Wonka-devised product, every time I neared the bottom of my glass, it miraculously filled right back up. Kaitlyn soon realised that the way to counter this was to drink very, very slowly. So whilst her throat was a lot less raw than mine, she enjoyed the movie a lot less than I did. The average length of feature films nowadays is 120 minutes. From this movie, I can only assume the average length of French films in the 1960’s was 480 minutes. I turned grey waiting for that movie to finish. 

Eventually it did, and eventually we went to bed. And by "we" I mean Big Mirek and Liba, Kaitlyn, myself and BLF who, in a last parting gesture of kamarádkaship, was determined to make sure I saw her splendid semi-naked form one last time. She was successful. My retinas still hurt.

Next time: We make it to Germany and the aptly named Alcatraz Hostel, discover the wonder that is Felias beginning a new obsession with terrible taxidermy, jump aboard the sexyberlinevents bandwagon, and learn cured ham is apparently not just for eating.