A post-dated Czech.

This here post is more of a "let's sit back, grab a tissue and ponder" type of a blog. It's really a blog post for posterity rather than hilarity. So this is  just a warning. This one's a thoughtful one.

It's about how it feels to be an immigrant. I know I know...tired cliche of a topic, isn't it? But I can't help it. It's really the kind of topic that only a fellow immigrant kid can grasp. And I don't mean one of those "Oh, I'm an immigrant because my grandma moved here from Scotland when she was four" kind of immigrants. I mean, good on you for being able to phase haggis out of your systems through the generations and having some kilt pride, but this one's for the immigrant kids who moved to Canada at an impressionable age....but with plenty of motherland memories to shape and confuse their current existence.

Why am I thinking of this topic now and not at any other time? Well, because, earlier this year a new law was passed. This law amended an existing Czech law that prevented some of us from holding a dual citizenship. So, for the past 15 years, I pretended to be only Canadian. Well, on paper, anyway. Inside, I, of course, was Czech but it somehow troubled me that I had to give up who I am because of a law. It seemed unfair that some Canadian hussy who's never set a foot on the cobbled streets of Prague, but happened to marry a Czech dude could have a Czech citizenship by marriage, but not me. Heck, I lived in Prague before Prague was deemed cool by the rest of the world. I was a pioneer! Back when it was still shrouded in the foreboding cloud of communism. Yep, that's when I lived there. So, what the heck, I ask you?

And so, last week I went to the Czech Embassy here in Ottawa to properly apply for my citizenship. It's like a secret code, this Czech language.

I mean, who but a Czech person could speak it and understand it? If you hear Spanish, really, that person could be from anywhere! They could be Spanish, Mexican, Nicaraguan....or just someone who took Spanish in University. But when I hear Czech, there's a secret bond immediately. They know; I know. We both know the secret tongue. And even now, fifteen years into my life in Canada, I still find myself to have a far more intimate relationship with Czech as a language than English. I'll give you an example. The word "Summer" to me just means warm weather, possibility of camping and maybe a harkening back to the days of summer jobs.

But its Czech equivalent, "Léto" holds a far deeper meaning. When I hear or say that word, I immediately think of the lazy bright sun drowning our one-bedroom apartment in Prague. I immediately imagine the smell of it all. I imagine us returning home from camp or our grandparents' cottage. The smell of pool toys somehow lingers in the air and the apartment welcomes us with its familiar smell and light.

The Czech language just has a sense of familiarity to me when every word not only holds a literal meaning and its English equivalent, but also a collection of senses that complete its full and complete meaning.  While the word "Christmas" to me means vacation and shopping and gift exchanges, its Czech equivalent "Vánoce" brings with it a whole atmosphere. When I hear that word, my mind fills with memories of town squares speckled with artisans, the smell of mulled wine and just an overall feeling of unexplained magic. The word smells like frankincense and sounds of bells. That's that word for me.

And so, this one goes out to all the immigrant kids who had to reshape their understandings of words and meanings and culture to fit in. But in a way, this one also goes out to born-and-raised Canadians. Imagine your brain having a second layer of a completely different life and memories and knowledge. Imagine your brain having a clear-cut separation between "Christmas" and "Vánoce" - the day you moved from a place that understood the latter and moved to a place that understood the former. It's not easy and so on behalf of all of us immigrant kids : have patience! Have patience when you hear an immigrant struggle with pronunciation of certain words or when he says something silly. It's not because he or she is silly; it's because he or she is working from a new script. A script they are not yet familiar with. So, have patience. 

Scrabbling "Tsunami"

It's been a while since I put a pen to this blog...or rather keystrokes. The whole Sharpie on my screen thing was just too awkward.
Regardless. A couple of months ago I found myself in Nicaragua, because why not? The trip was sprinkled with many an adventure.
Today, I shall share a tale of abandonment, sickness, a serious gangsta grill and tsunami. Sure, you might think " this sure sounds like a hell of a life you've led." But no, this was all in a day.
The day started fairly usually: hassling a random unmarked "taxi driver" for a good deal on a trip. The three amigas (that being me, a friend we shall call Sol, and K) all shuffled into the back seat of the car, no longer even pretending to  look for a seat belt and off we went. It was a hot Nica morning, with the side of the roads only sporadically sprinkled with morning folk.
"Why so early?" you ask.
 "Why you so foolish?"you inquire.
Because we had a 3-hour trip ahead of us to our final destination, Ometepe, where we intended to kayak for 3 hours. This was ill-planned, to be sure, but under the influence of Nicaraguan rum, anything seems like a good idea.
I digress.

As we were in the cab, I realized I forgot some rather key feminine products at home. So, the kind taxi driver pulled over to the side of the road by some inconspicuous pharmacy that could've been a front and I slipped out.
This is where the story gained Hollywood-like plot twist. This would be when Liam Neeson would start narrating it.
Before I continue, let me ask you this: "Have you ever felt abandoned?" You have? Well, take a look around ....if there is in fact no one there, then it's not a feeling. You have in fact been abandoned. This was the realization  I came to when I stepped outside of the pharmacy to find zero cabs waiting for me. My friends were gone. My mind skipped to the awkward conversation when I would have to explain to Sol's parents she's been kidnapped. But before I could get too carried away with the demise that surely befell my friends, I realized that I too could be sold for parts.
I asked the one person in the street if he'd seen the cab.
"Hmm yeah, but no problem! They probably just went ahead to the beach." Hmmm that would be a problem. That was not our destination. In panic, I paced back and forth for a good 10-15 minutes, pondering my abandonment and the fate that had befallen my friends.
Suddenly around a corner comes a cab zipping through. It's them. I will concede that my first words upon opening the cab door were not ones of welcome, but rather of shocked profanity.
The excuses were eyebrow raising. Sol was on the phone, trying to get us a good deal on a taxi on the return trip. In the heat of the Spanish exchange, she hadn't noticed the cabbie was driving off.
The other excuse from K made me feel like a puppy with a water balloon: confused and unable to grasp it.

She hadn't alerted the driver to my absence because she thought he was just turning around....for 15 km! The cab driver's excuse was devilishly simple: he hadn't noticed there were 2 of us rather than 3.
Uncertain, shaken and confused, I sat back in my seat and we continued our journey. The harbour greeted us with a sketchy hustler who suggested we pay him $30 (big chunk of change in Nicaragua) and then, you know, trust him that he will call his friend, the cabbie, on the island to pick us up. We had no choice. So we handed our sweaty cash to the stranger and ascended the rickety ladder that threatened to drop us into the unruly waves below with every calculated step we took and made ourselves comfortable.
An hour later ,we shook ourselves off the ferry onto the sandy harbour of Ometepe. We didn't have much faith in the hustling taxi pimp but lo and behold, there he was, proudly holding up a sign with our names. We inched closer only to notice he was bedazzled with the kind of a grill that any rapper would be proud of. But who are we to judge the teeth by their cover? We became more alarmed when he led us to an SUV, in which was a second guy. So, to recap: three girls, two men (one with an intimidating grill), an unmarked SUV and an hour-long trip to our destination.
Bitterness over being abandoned was long forgotten. We had to stick together on this one.
"Psst," I whispered casually to Sol, our translator-in-arms, "listen carefully to their conversation. If they start discussing where they bury us, just tap me on the shoulder and we'll roll out of the moving car." She nodded.
But once again, this was an empty threat. We arrived at our destination unscathed! Sure, the internet would lead you to believe that we would end up at an established kayaking place rather than a hut with by-standing cattle and people beating their laundry on the rocks in nearby lake Nicaragua, but whatevs. We've already come so far!
We boarded our kayaks, put our valuables into the grocery bags we were given in lieu of wet bags and paddled off ! The island was magical and filled with all sorts of quaint flora and fauna; random horses frolicking about; a caiman giving us a friendly wink and a unicorn leaping over our kayak. Just magic.
Sure we had to pull our kayak on foot through a part of it, but as Sol inquired " Isn't mud supposed to be good for our skin anyway?"
It was hard to break it to that childlike face, "Hmm well, I don't think it's any old mud filled with fish shit and horse manure, though...."
"Oh," she conceded deflated and continue to drag her feet through crap collective below.
Perhaps the only blemish was my severe sunburn. I was debilitated. My legs, it turns out, took on a bright hue of red that burnt when you just looked at it warmly. Sol, who is Latina and doesn't burn ever, was intrigued by what she saw and gleefully poked at my searing red skin. My eyes filled with tears and my soul with sadness.
Let this day end, I thought. I need aloe vera, water and food. Maybe alcohol.
After another ferry trip and a cab ride, we finally arrived home.
Only to find out there is a tsunami warning.
In my state of poor well-being, I simply suggested to my comrades that we stay put and wait for the wave to come and get us.
"I'm tired and frankly, the cool water would feel nice on my sunburn," I reasoned.
They were on board.
"Yeah, we should just stay here and...like...swim if it comes down to it."
Still, we thought, we should find out the emergency plan should we be asked to evacuate. It was charmingly simple: errr run to the hills. Like that fancy pants hotel up on the hill. Run there. Yeah.
Done and done.
We made ourselves a pitcher of pina colada, pulled out Scrabble and waited for a)death to come b)warning to be lifted.
The latter came true.