Grammar, Bagels, and Tony Soprano
Work has been going very well. The school director gave me three more classes. In my intermediate class, I've left the last twenty minutes for a brief and concise lesson in grammar. Some enjoy the lesson, others cringe when I start chalkig up "subject-verb-object" and "intransitive and transitive verbs." Teaching grammar is like showing someone how to ride a bike. Sure, your average Joe can show you how to keep the pedals moving and how to steer the handle bars, but you're never going to win the Tour de France. What I give my students is a high intensity US Postal-like training course--greased and streamlined by my own grammatical, semi-nerdish obsessiveness. This week I have classes Monday through Thursday.
It's Monday morning, and my future roommate and I have woken at 7 to call a property manager at 8:30. The Czech-speaking receptionist kindly did the actual calling, confirmed the manager spoke English, and set up a meeting for us at 11:00. The apartment has four rooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, washing machine, and WC. We may have five people living with us, if everything goes to plan; two are a couple and will share a room. But even if the apt is a little cramped, splitting rent five ways will keep me from boarding a plane state-ward for awhile. Johnny's Canadian, and we've talked about joining an indoor futbol club, something I've actually always wanted to do. Wednesday night Croatia and England play (J's croatian so he'll root for them, and I'll take England 'cause a rivalry always makes for a better time; in the European spirit, I plan on yelling at the tv a lot). He also showed me a great bagel shop, Bohemian Bagels, which is crowded with Americans daily--we just can't get enough bagels. I never knew bagels were uniquely American, or at least a zealous love for bagels is uniquely American. And for myself, I went to the shop the day after I learned of it.
Though the past few days have been very uneventful, the other night was the exception, when my friend (you're friends with someone if you hangout more than once and exchange emails here in the hostel) and I were at a trendy bar, and he got us invited to a party on friday thrown by a very rich man (by my standards), who drives a very nice car, and who makes his money from the two-hundred or so strippers he has working around the city, and most likely other shady activities. He was fat, with a cute girl on his arm--very Tony Soprano. How we get ourselves into this kind of stuff is beyond me. We skipped the party, however; I think I can save the "crimish" underbelly of Prague for another day.
It's Monday morning, and my future roommate and I have woken at 7 to call a property manager at 8:30. The Czech-speaking receptionist kindly did the actual calling, confirmed the manager spoke English, and set up a meeting for us at 11:00. The apartment has four rooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, washing machine, and WC. We may have five people living with us, if everything goes to plan; two are a couple and will share a room. But even if the apt is a little cramped, splitting rent five ways will keep me from boarding a plane state-ward for awhile. Johnny's Canadian, and we've talked about joining an indoor futbol club, something I've actually always wanted to do. Wednesday night Croatia and England play (J's croatian so he'll root for them, and I'll take England 'cause a rivalry always makes for a better time; in the European spirit, I plan on yelling at the tv a lot). He also showed me a great bagel shop, Bohemian Bagels, which is crowded with Americans daily--we just can't get enough bagels. I never knew bagels were uniquely American, or at least a zealous love for bagels is uniquely American. And for myself, I went to the shop the day after I learned of it.
Though the past few days have been very uneventful, the other night was the exception, when my friend (you're friends with someone if you hangout more than once and exchange emails here in the hostel) and I were at a trendy bar, and he got us invited to a party on friday thrown by a very rich man (by my standards), who drives a very nice car, and who makes his money from the two-hundred or so strippers he has working around the city, and most likely other shady activities. He was fat, with a cute girl on his arm--very Tony Soprano. How we get ourselves into this kind of stuff is beyond me. We skipped the party, however; I think I can save the "crimish" underbelly of Prague for another day.
posted by Garrett at
11:42 PM
1 Comments:
Well, well. Tony Soprano huh? Sounds like some kinda crap Mimi and I would get into in Vegas. But unfortunately, we never have the time to discriminate against those activities. It typically ends up that we do attend the party, then go, "what the hell are we doing? trying to get shot and left for the buzzards in the desert?" Then we leave hastily (as if we have more important things to take care of...) and laugh all the way to the bar!
The apt sounds....cozy. But affordable! :) Hope you'll post pics of your humble abode once you're in! :)
Love ya,
H.
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