Hey guys! Long time, no post, I know, but I've been busy conquering Europe. Sorry! Really though, I haven't even been keeping up with my journal. I am slack. Really I've just been saving up to talk about a specific event.
Philippe, one of my teachers, who is pretty down as far as Europeans go (I've mentioned this before), invited me to as a special guest to one of his classes. It's an English class on American history, and right now they're talking about "The African-American Experience" (hence the title of this entry). As I am probably the only African-American who has ever been through Louvain-la-Neuve, he asked me to come help him out with the class.
Have I ever mentioned how awesome being the only Black chick for miles (exaggeration) is when it makes me a hot intellectual commodity? Oh? I haven't? Well it's awesome. I should patent myself.
Anyway, this was a series of 2 classes, and the first one was last Friday at 8:30 AM. I know. Already off to a bad start, right? We talked about slavery mostly, and segregation. We made it all the way up to the 1950s, and stopped right at the Civil Rights movement. We talked about Negro spirituals, songs that were sang in the field, the Black church, house slaves vs. field slaves; we even got into the colorism a little bit (colorism is just a fancy word for valuing one complexion over another), and Thomas Jefferson and all his illegitimate slave babies. The reference to TJ cracked me up; for some reason I find him really hilarious, and it didn't help that Philippe already knew why I was laughing.
THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT JIM CROW LAWS ARE IN EUROPE. When no one knew what Jim Crow laws were, I kind of bugged on the inside. Then Philippe and I taught them, and now Europe is a more educated place. On day 2, we talked about the Civil Rights movement all the way up to Obama. They wanted to know my stance on Obama, the healthcare proposal, and the tea party. When we talked about certain things, I got to tell fun family stories. Here's an example: when we got to the part in the I Have A Dream speech where it says, to be brief, that Black people are living on an impoverished island in a sea of prosperity, I told the story about Sick Granddaddy where he put his own gas tank in the yard when no one in Clinton would sell him any. We talked about passing for white, and why the blues was called the Devil's music, and The Great Migration.
Philippe asked me how I managed not to hate white people (really, he did) considering all the dirty stuff that went down between my people and, well, them, and I just shrugged, and told him that no one I knew had ever enslaved anyone, or taken their rights, or lynched anyone, etc. (I did, however, also mention that there are certain movies that I cannot watch because they make me hate all white people for at least a week. Mississippi Burning is one of them) He also asked me if, growing up, I was afraid of white people, to which I again answered no. I wasn't raised like that. And what's there to be afraid of, anyway? Have you met me lately? 2 words: ill-tempered hoodlum. 4 more words: prone to violent outbursts. That answers that, simple and plain.
I talked to two guys Friday after the class, because one asked me how I felt about Obama's relationship with the Middle East and Africa, and how he always seems to have encouraging/positive words for them. He compared Obama's messages to the region to Bush's fear mongering, and I said, "It's easy to create that fear--we don't learn about Africa or the Middle East in school, and the region has been demonized to us." (don't play like it's not true) They both sort of gave me the "...you're joking." face (I'm not kidding; they both went completely flat), to which I said, "Twelve years of public school and I've never learned about Africa."
That is not entirely true. As a child, I learned that Africa is where slaves come from, and in 10th grade we spent a week on the 5 great kingdoms of Africa.
Long story short, they couldn't believe it. They didn't understand how the educational system could skip an entire continent--2, really, because all I know about Asia is the silk road went to China and World War II. I don't get it either.
Truthfully, I agreed to come to the class to see how a Belgian viewed my history, and I was impressed. He knows his stuff, that Philippe, even though I think me being there made him a little nervous. It made me feel important that he even asked me to come, and I felt even better when one of the girls said to me that she thought that it was really cool that I came to speak to the class. I like to feel appreciated.
All in all, it was worth getting up at 8 AM on a Friday morning for.
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Rawrawrawr
Thursday in class, I had what I call a "slave rant". "Slave rants" are what happen when I need to rail on someone about how unfair society in general has been to black people. They happen completely spontaneously, and I have absolutely no control over what comes out of my mouth during one.
Anyway, we were in Philippe's class (French Civilization), discussing the differences between English and French like subtle nuances, different ways to say things, etc., when somehow we got on the topic of whether or not it's better to embrace everyone's culture or keep your own under a chastity belt. I made a face (completely on accident) when someone said to embrace everyone else's, Philippe saw me, and asked me my thoughts on the matter.
I told him that I think it's better to keep your own. That is not to say, I added, that you shouldn't learn about other people, but you need to keep what's yours. I kept going, saying that maybe people would disagree, but I was speaking from the perspective of a black American: my people's culture was forcibly taken from them.
I then went on a 2 minute rant about how because of this, I know nothing about myself, really: I don't know where my people come from, I don't know what language we would have spoken, what food we would have eaten; I have nothing that, by divine right, is mine and that I can rightly call my own. There's "American culture", sure, but at the end of the day, is there even such a thing? I don't think so. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.
Not even gonna lie, afterwards I was very impressed that I did all of this in French and didn't mince words too badly.
Now, Philippe's pretty "down" as far as Europeans go. He used to live in Louisiana, he knows what gullah means, that sort of thing. Turns out he's doing a class in a couple of weeks on the African-American experience, and invited me to come. It should be interesting; I'll let you know how it goes.
Philippe also told me that my French is very good and seems effortless. Just thought I'd throw that in. Really though, it's nice to get compliments on it because I think my French is awful. :]
Anyway, we were in Philippe's class (French Civilization), discussing the differences between English and French like subtle nuances, different ways to say things, etc., when somehow we got on the topic of whether or not it's better to embrace everyone's culture or keep your own under a chastity belt. I made a face (completely on accident) when someone said to embrace everyone else's, Philippe saw me, and asked me my thoughts on the matter.
I told him that I think it's better to keep your own. That is not to say, I added, that you shouldn't learn about other people, but you need to keep what's yours. I kept going, saying that maybe people would disagree, but I was speaking from the perspective of a black American: my people's culture was forcibly taken from them.
I then went on a 2 minute rant about how because of this, I know nothing about myself, really: I don't know where my people come from, I don't know what language we would have spoken, what food we would have eaten; I have nothing that, by divine right, is mine and that I can rightly call my own. There's "American culture", sure, but at the end of the day, is there even such a thing? I don't think so. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.
Not even gonna lie, afterwards I was very impressed that I did all of this in French and didn't mince words too badly.
Now, Philippe's pretty "down" as far as Europeans go. He used to live in Louisiana, he knows what gullah means, that sort of thing. Turns out he's doing a class in a couple of weeks on the African-American experience, and invited me to come. It should be interesting; I'll let you know how it goes.
Philippe also told me that my French is very good and seems effortless. Just thought I'd throw that in. Really though, it's nice to get compliments on it because I think my French is awful. :]
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
I call shenanigans.
It has been beautiful for the last 2 days in Louvain-la-Neuve. Pleasant weather, sun shining, fluffy clouds... Clearly God is rewarding me for something. Probably for not doing what I'm about to tell you about.
Also, that hair salon I thought I found? Not a hair salon at all. Disappointment.
Today, I'm going to get political on you guys. I've been typing this post for a few days now at the suggestion of a few people, but nothing important like Sunday Dinner has happened so I can finally upload it today. I've probably told this story a thousand times since it happened (okay, 4; whatever), but one more time won't hurt. This, ladies and gentleman, is the story of last Thursday night.
WARNING: if you want to keep believing that I'm not a snarly beast, stop reading right now.
Thursday, Nick decided that I was going out; no excuses. To be fair, I've had a lot of excuses. I've been sick since before I went to Prague and I just don't like parties, especially ones where you're told to "dress to get dirty". I don't own things that can get dirty. No thank you. It was a convenient excuse. After a bit of half-hearted kicking and screaming, I gave in and sacrificed a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of shoes to the great kraken known as The Cercle Party.
Let me explain. The "cercles" are fraternities here. They throw crazy insane parties Sunday-Thursday, and none on the weekends because everyone's gone home to recover. According to our Belgian associates, Thursday is the biggest party because it's the last one of the week. These parties, from what I've been told, are disgusting. There's beer on the floor, some may get on your body, and there's a good chance you will be vomited on. There is no way you can convince me that this is fun. It's just not going to happen.
But I went, mostly so I could say, "That was miserable, I'm never doing it again." and never do it again. I digress.
We started the night at Kate's apartment. Kate is one of the girls here from Clemson; her roommates (all guys) are cool people, and they do a pretty good job of taking care of us poor, hopeless Americans. This is especially pathetic as half of them are American freshman age. I am being chaperoned by high school seniors: look at my life; look at my choices. Anyway, we hang out at Kate's for a few hours, playing card games and generally enjoying ourselves, and when the time comes we head to Casa, which is where the night's big shenanigans were supposed to happen. We're a pretty jolly bunch, all skipping and singing down the road.
And then it happened.
We're walking down the street in a mob acting like your typical 18-22 year olds on a Friday night only it was Thursday. Dylan (on of Kate's roommates), and I are making up the back of the line; we all love each other and everything is wonderful, and when Romeo, the only other black kid with us, makes what I assume was a joke (I honestly have no idea what he said), Dylan laughingly responds with, "Somethingsomethingsomething, you crazy n-word-which-I-refuse-to-say."
Oh no. He. Di'n't.
Yes. In fact, he did.
And I went from 0 to 500 in a very impressive half second.
Nick, bless him, was in the middle of Dylan and me, and I think he knew exactly what was about to happen because he looks at me with this miserable look on his face as if to say, "Oh God we are all going to die."
Me being me, which is to say an ill-tempered hoodlum prone to violent outbursts (no, really; it's true), reached across poor Nick and shoved. Hard. And then I stomped off, glaring and still pretty unhappy (to make the understatement of the year and it's only February), to the front of the group with Grace and Karen O., who I think saw me shove but did not hear what happened, and who now want to know why Dylan is looking after me, horrified and afraid for his life. (mild exaggeration; but if he wasn't he should have been)
I got over it in record time, and that says a lot because I get mad and stay that way for at least 3 days (no exaggeration). After a minute or 2 I stopped snarling, and I was almost okay with the world again when I look up and who is in front of me but Dylan, with Nick behind him for what I assume was moral/physical support: moral because the kid still looked petrified, and physical in case I decided to break his nose for funsies.
Dylan, poor boy, tried to explain to me that he didn't mean it like that, and it doesn't mean bad things here in Belgium, and he's not a racist (exact words: "I love black people!"). I'm not hearing it. I'm about to pound on dude's face, and I think Nick can sense this because he starts saying to him, "Say you're sorry. Say you're sorry. Tell her you're sorry." It was a step in the right direction, but we're a bit past sorries, love. Sorry. (see what I did there?)
Eventually, Dylan and I hugged it out in the street, but he spent the rest of the night coming up to me at random intervals and apologizing, even after I told him it was okay. We ended the night dancing together at Casa, and we all agreed to come out again together this week.
Now let's get down to business.
Truth be told, I was waiting on it from someone. Not from anyone in particular, but I was waiting on it because I've been around people and I know what to expect. People never grow out of that good old trial-and-error "let me see what I can get away with" thing kids do. The n-word is a big shiny diamond of "I might get my butt kicked for this but I'm gonna see how far I get", and who do you know that wouldn't go for a big shiny diamond? Exactly. NO ONE.
I do not expect this from everyone. Really I don't expect it from most people. But you never know. Even I've been wrong before. (EGO)
Moreover, I, for one, am having a hard time believing that the n-word is not offensive here. Everyone has their own version of it, and it's horrible in any language; you tell me it's not and I'll call you a liar. I fully realize that "punk" was originally British slang that referred to prostitutes, but the n-word was created to dehumanize and demoralize an entire race of people--it worked, too, and it looks to me like it's still doing a pretty good job of working to this day. It's an evil word, and I've never known evil things to reform themselves. I'm going to look into this, and if I'm wrong then I'm wrong, but as of right now, I call shenanigans.
If you don't know what movie that's from, you're obviously neither my age nor in college.
Also, that hair salon I thought I found? Not a hair salon at all. Disappointment.
Today, I'm going to get political on you guys. I've been typing this post for a few days now at the suggestion of a few people, but nothing important like Sunday Dinner has happened so I can finally upload it today. I've probably told this story a thousand times since it happened (okay, 4; whatever), but one more time won't hurt. This, ladies and gentleman, is the story of last Thursday night.
WARNING: if you want to keep believing that I'm not a snarly beast, stop reading right now.
Thursday, Nick decided that I was going out; no excuses. To be fair, I've had a lot of excuses. I've been sick since before I went to Prague and I just don't like parties, especially ones where you're told to "dress to get dirty". I don't own things that can get dirty. No thank you. It was a convenient excuse. After a bit of half-hearted kicking and screaming, I gave in and sacrificed a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of shoes to the great kraken known as The Cercle Party.
Let me explain. The "cercles" are fraternities here. They throw crazy insane parties Sunday-Thursday, and none on the weekends because everyone's gone home to recover. According to our Belgian associates, Thursday is the biggest party because it's the last one of the week. These parties, from what I've been told, are disgusting. There's beer on the floor, some may get on your body, and there's a good chance you will be vomited on. There is no way you can convince me that this is fun. It's just not going to happen.
But I went, mostly so I could say, "That was miserable, I'm never doing it again." and never do it again. I digress.
We started the night at Kate's apartment. Kate is one of the girls here from Clemson; her roommates (all guys) are cool people, and they do a pretty good job of taking care of us poor, hopeless Americans. This is especially pathetic as half of them are American freshman age. I am being chaperoned by high school seniors: look at my life; look at my choices. Anyway, we hang out at Kate's for a few hours, playing card games and generally enjoying ourselves, and when the time comes we head to Casa, which is where the night's big shenanigans were supposed to happen. We're a pretty jolly bunch, all skipping and singing down the road.
And then it happened.
We're walking down the street in a mob acting like your typical 18-22 year olds on a Friday night only it was Thursday. Dylan (on of Kate's roommates), and I are making up the back of the line; we all love each other and everything is wonderful, and when Romeo, the only other black kid with us, makes what I assume was a joke (I honestly have no idea what he said), Dylan laughingly responds with, "Somethingsomethingsomething, you crazy n-word-which-I-refuse-to-say."
Oh no. He. Di'n't.
Yes. In fact, he did.
And I went from 0 to 500 in a very impressive half second.
Nick, bless him, was in the middle of Dylan and me, and I think he knew exactly what was about to happen because he looks at me with this miserable look on his face as if to say, "Oh God we are all going to die."
Me being me, which is to say an ill-tempered hoodlum prone to violent outbursts (no, really; it's true), reached across poor Nick and shoved. Hard. And then I stomped off, glaring and still pretty unhappy (to make the understatement of the year and it's only February), to the front of the group with Grace and Karen O., who I think saw me shove but did not hear what happened, and who now want to know why Dylan is looking after me, horrified and afraid for his life. (mild exaggeration; but if he wasn't he should have been)
I got over it in record time, and that says a lot because I get mad and stay that way for at least 3 days (no exaggeration). After a minute or 2 I stopped snarling, and I was almost okay with the world again when I look up and who is in front of me but Dylan, with Nick behind him for what I assume was moral/physical support: moral because the kid still looked petrified, and physical in case I decided to break his nose for funsies.
Dylan, poor boy, tried to explain to me that he didn't mean it like that, and it doesn't mean bad things here in Belgium, and he's not a racist (exact words: "I love black people!"). I'm not hearing it. I'm about to pound on dude's face, and I think Nick can sense this because he starts saying to him, "Say you're sorry. Say you're sorry. Tell her you're sorry." It was a step in the right direction, but we're a bit past sorries, love. Sorry. (see what I did there?)
Eventually, Dylan and I hugged it out in the street, but he spent the rest of the night coming up to me at random intervals and apologizing, even after I told him it was okay. We ended the night dancing together at Casa, and we all agreed to come out again together this week.
Now let's get down to business.
Truth be told, I was waiting on it from someone. Not from anyone in particular, but I was waiting on it because I've been around people and I know what to expect. People never grow out of that good old trial-and-error "let me see what I can get away with" thing kids do. The n-word is a big shiny diamond of "I might get my butt kicked for this but I'm gonna see how far I get", and who do you know that wouldn't go for a big shiny diamond? Exactly. NO ONE.
I do not expect this from everyone. Really I don't expect it from most people. But you never know. Even I've been wrong before. (EGO)
Moreover, I, for one, am having a hard time believing that the n-word is not offensive here. Everyone has their own version of it, and it's horrible in any language; you tell me it's not and I'll call you a liar. I fully realize that "punk" was originally British slang that referred to prostitutes, but the n-word was created to dehumanize and demoralize an entire race of people--it worked, too, and it looks to me like it's still doing a pretty good job of working to this day. It's an evil word, and I've never known evil things to reform themselves. I'm going to look into this, and if I'm wrong then I'm wrong, but as of right now, I call shenanigans.
If you don't know what movie that's from, you're obviously neither my age nor in college.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
First week of serious business!
Classes have started! Schedules are mad confusing, and everything conflicts but I'm slowly wading through this. I made a chart on Excel to map out all the overlaps, and if only I could figure out one last class I'll be all done! It's exciting. I like making lists.
I had my first Japanese class in Belgium yesterday. Not gonna lie, I was terrified about it. Here I am, with my English speaking self, taking a Japanese class at a French university. How many things in that sentence don't match? What am I thinking? Look at my life; look at my choices.
Turns out it wasn't so bad! We mostly watched a series about a guy named Yan who likes this girl Okata, but Okata has OBVIOUSLY friend-zoned him and is moving to the country with her parents anyway. Sucks to be that dude. In class I met 2 girls: Amélie (like the movie!) and Bathilde. Maybe one day I'll make Belgian friends? Fingers crossed!
This story I'm about to tell is proof that I can make just about anything a political statement and/or a lesson Black People (it should honestly be class). Today, we had Modern French Civilization with Philippe, who is the lovely, whimsical Belgian man that helps run our program. He wanted to spend some time getting to know us, and I don't rightly remember how exactly this exercise was relevant to the class (it was though), but he went around the room asking everyone where their families were from (historically).
Now I know what y'all are thinking. How am I supposed to answer that question without doing 1 or a combination of the following:
1: looking totally lame and going "America" since I can't rightly break down what countries my ancestors came from because of that whole slave thing
2: going off on a rant that would go something like, "What the heck kinda question is that my people were SOLD and no one kept records RAWRAWRAWR!"
3: just going, "Africa." and give everyone the gimp eye
4: just going, "I'm Black." and being done with it.
All those options ran through my head. I have no idea what country my people came from for obvious reasons. This has always worked my nerves, so to speak, because I've always been really interested in genealogy and that sort of thing. Everyone I've ever known can go, "Oh, my family is -insert 10 countries/nationalities here-" and I can't and I hate it. Fortunately, I recently learned a bit about my family history and was at the end of the line, so by the time Philippe got to me, I had formulated a proper response.
Philippe: Et toi, Alyssa? (And you, Alyssa?)
Me: Ma famille vient des pays africains, et de l'Allemagne, et j'suis amérindienne aussi. (My family comes from African countries, and Germany, and I'm American Indian as well.)
He made the greatest face at me. Philippe always makes REALLY great faces; he's very expressive. This one was sort of like a kid that's found a really fascinating toy. Anyhow, he makes this great face at me, and then says,
Philippe: Tu est comme Tiger Woods! (You're like Tiger Woods!)
I laughed on the inside. Seriously I did. Never made that comparison before, but I guess it works.
Who wins at being fascinating? I do.
Yes, that picture was necessary.
Happy Black History Month!
I had my first Japanese class in Belgium yesterday. Not gonna lie, I was terrified about it. Here I am, with my English speaking self, taking a Japanese class at a French university. How many things in that sentence don't match? What am I thinking? Look at my life; look at my choices.
Turns out it wasn't so bad! We mostly watched a series about a guy named Yan who likes this girl Okata, but Okata has OBVIOUSLY friend-zoned him and is moving to the country with her parents anyway. Sucks to be that dude. In class I met 2 girls: Amélie (like the movie!) and Bathilde. Maybe one day I'll make Belgian friends? Fingers crossed!
This story I'm about to tell is proof that I can make just about anything a political statement and/or a lesson Black People (it should honestly be class). Today, we had Modern French Civilization with Philippe, who is the lovely, whimsical Belgian man that helps run our program. He wanted to spend some time getting to know us, and I don't rightly remember how exactly this exercise was relevant to the class (it was though), but he went around the room asking everyone where their families were from (historically).
Now I know what y'all are thinking. How am I supposed to answer that question without doing 1 or a combination of the following:
1: looking totally lame and going "America" since I can't rightly break down what countries my ancestors came from because of that whole slave thing
2: going off on a rant that would go something like, "What the heck kinda question is that my people were SOLD and no one kept records RAWRAWRAWR!"
3: just going, "Africa." and give everyone the gimp eye
4: just going, "I'm Black." and being done with it.
All those options ran through my head. I have no idea what country my people came from for obvious reasons. This has always worked my nerves, so to speak, because I've always been really interested in genealogy and that sort of thing. Everyone I've ever known can go, "Oh, my family is -insert 10 countries/nationalities here-" and I can't and I hate it. Fortunately, I recently learned a bit about my family history and was at the end of the line, so by the time Philippe got to me, I had formulated a proper response.
Philippe: Et toi, Alyssa? (And you, Alyssa?)
Me: Ma famille vient des pays africains, et de l'Allemagne, et j'suis amérindienne aussi. (My family comes from African countries, and Germany, and I'm American Indian as well.)
He made the greatest face at me. Philippe always makes REALLY great faces; he's very expressive. This one was sort of like a kid that's found a really fascinating toy. Anyhow, he makes this great face at me, and then says,
Philippe: Tu est comme Tiger Woods! (You're like Tiger Woods!)
I laughed on the inside. Seriously I did. Never made that comparison before, but I guess it works.
Who wins at being fascinating? I do.
Yes, that picture was necessary.Happy Black History Month!
Friday, January 28, 2011
PRAHA
GUYS. I love Prague. Seriously. I love it. It's cold, and it snowed for 2 days (blegh, says the Southerner), but it's a beautiful place (albeit a little sketchy looking in some parts) and the people are friendly and everything is so impressive! I love it.
First and foremost, I must gush about today. Lately, I've been all grumbly and depressed acting because of the lack of sunlight in Louvain-la-Neuve (it seriously rains EVERYDAY), and today... IT WAS SUNNY IN PRAGUE. We walked out of the hotel and I felt like a kid on Christmas with too many presents. I hope tomorrow is gorgeous as well!
Today, we toured the castle panorama, which is on top of this MONSTROUS mountain/hill. I swear, if I don't have the best legs/bum in America by the time this is over I will eat the large furry hat I bought from a souvenir shop today. There was a church that took 600 years to build, and galleries, and so much grandeur I didn't know what to do with myself!
Y'all know how cheap I am. Seriously. I could get blood out of the metaphorical turnip, which is why I must reiterate that the Czech koruna is worth absolutely nothing. It's fallen 2 ck against the US dollar in the 3 days since we've been here, so I'm in cheap stuff heaven, unlike in Louvain-la-Neuve. Right now, $1 US is worth almost 18 ck. It kills me though, because there's very good stuff in the Czech Republic, but it's not priced accordingly. Food around here, for example, is therefore very cheap: tonight is the first night I've spent more than $7 US on dinner, and that was just because we splurged a bit and went to this nice Italian place we found the other night. I had spicy spaghetti, and it was delicious. Speaking of the food, I'm glad y'all asked about it because I was going to tell you.
I have discovered that I like Czech food. It's got much more of a German influence than I expected it to, what with all the sauerkraut and sausages, but it's also Slavic food, like dumplings and grog (yes, grog) and garlic soup. Garlic soup is supposed to be a big thing around here, or so Karen said, but we only found it at 3 places. We had it today at lunch while we were touring the castle and I liked it. Garlic is one of my favorite things ever, so that was pretty much a guarantee.
The Czech Republic is also famous for its apple strudel, so I tried it. Hated it. Absolutely hated it. To be fair, I knew I would hate it when I ordered it. I don't like cooked fruit; never have, never will, but it's a big deal around here according to Karen, so I thought I'd try it for the cultural experience. THERE WERE RAISINS. I HATE RAISINS. I was honestly grimacing the entire time I was eating it. It was a well made apple strudel, sure, and the drizzling of chocolate sauce helped, but it's just not something I would eat ever again. Ever.
All in all, there's a varied food scene in Prague. Apart from traditional Czech food, there are lots of Italian restaurants and Chinese places, and there's a Parisian cafe down the street from our hotel. There's also KFC and McDonald's. I've actually seen more KFCs than McDonald's, which is very random/odd.
We've been to every souvenir shop in the general vicinity of our hotel, and even some in the Jewish quarter. There are Swarovski crystal shops EVERYWHERE, and nearly every souvenir shop sells crystal and glass figurines. They're very cute, but can get a bit pricey.
I was standing around in the souvenir shop the other night, waiting on either Karen or Annie to finish buying stuff, and one of the shop owners came over and talked to me. He was a nice Arab man, and he must have heard me say something in my funny accent to one of the other girls (we've been running around Prague pretending to be British) and asked me if I spoke French. I answered him, in French of course, and he started asking me other things, also in French. He asked me if I was African, and I said, "No, I'm from America, but I guess that counts as being of African origin, yeah?" We had a laugh over it, and it turns out that he was from Tunisia, where the first in this latest series of Arab uprisings was. We chatted a bit more; he said he assumed I was African because lots of African countries speak French as their official language (which is true). I told him that all of my professors think I'm Haitian (which they seriously do), and we had a laugh over it. When the other girls were finished, we said goodbye. He really was a very nice man.
You guessed it. I'm about to get introspective/political.
I find it much less offensive when people here assume I'm anything other than American. One, they don't run into very many Americans, not as many as other English speaking Europeans anyway, so it's just not the first thing they assume. Also, to be frank, there's not very many black people in Europe, as evidenced by the fact that I can't even find freaking hair grease in Louvain-la-Neuve, and most of the ones that are here came from (gasp) Africa, seeing as it's so close. I guess it seems more like a natural train of thought that when a European (or African/Arab immigrant, as in this case) sees me that they assume I'm African, and not insulting like it is when my American professors (and high school teachers) say to me everyday "Are you Haitian?" or "Is there any French in your family?" No. If they want to get technical, if I can for sure claim any European country as my heritage, it is Germany (hoorah for the Subers out of Clinton!). In America, it just seems like they look at me and go, "Oh, she's ethnic (I hate that word) and can speak another language; obviously she's not a regular black person and that language is in her heritage." It's demeaning to me, and I take it very personally.
I've also taken a bajillion pictures, but you'll have to wait until Sunday to see them. Know why? I'm a complete and total boob and left my camera cable back in Louvain-la-Neuve. Who's brilliant? I am!
Srsly though. Tune in Sunday for a photo dump.
Things I have learned:
1. They do not split tabs in Europe. It is therefore best to carry around bills.
2. Grog is real. It is a drink. No, I did not try it.
3. In the Czech Republic, beer is cheaper than water (surprise)
4. It is the Czech Republic. Not Czechoslovakia.
5. I like sauerkraut.
First and foremost, I must gush about today. Lately, I've been all grumbly and depressed acting because of the lack of sunlight in Louvain-la-Neuve (it seriously rains EVERYDAY), and today... IT WAS SUNNY IN PRAGUE. We walked out of the hotel and I felt like a kid on Christmas with too many presents. I hope tomorrow is gorgeous as well!
Today, we toured the castle panorama, which is on top of this MONSTROUS mountain/hill. I swear, if I don't have the best legs/bum in America by the time this is over I will eat the large furry hat I bought from a souvenir shop today. There was a church that took 600 years to build, and galleries, and so much grandeur I didn't know what to do with myself!
Y'all know how cheap I am. Seriously. I could get blood out of the metaphorical turnip, which is why I must reiterate that the Czech koruna is worth absolutely nothing. It's fallen 2 ck against the US dollar in the 3 days since we've been here, so I'm in cheap stuff heaven, unlike in Louvain-la-Neuve. Right now, $1 US is worth almost 18 ck. It kills me though, because there's very good stuff in the Czech Republic, but it's not priced accordingly. Food around here, for example, is therefore very cheap: tonight is the first night I've spent more than $7 US on dinner, and that was just because we splurged a bit and went to this nice Italian place we found the other night. I had spicy spaghetti, and it was delicious. Speaking of the food, I'm glad y'all asked about it because I was going to tell you.
I have discovered that I like Czech food. It's got much more of a German influence than I expected it to, what with all the sauerkraut and sausages, but it's also Slavic food, like dumplings and grog (yes, grog) and garlic soup. Garlic soup is supposed to be a big thing around here, or so Karen said, but we only found it at 3 places. We had it today at lunch while we were touring the castle and I liked it. Garlic is one of my favorite things ever, so that was pretty much a guarantee.
The Czech Republic is also famous for its apple strudel, so I tried it. Hated it. Absolutely hated it. To be fair, I knew I would hate it when I ordered it. I don't like cooked fruit; never have, never will, but it's a big deal around here according to Karen, so I thought I'd try it for the cultural experience. THERE WERE RAISINS. I HATE RAISINS. I was honestly grimacing the entire time I was eating it. It was a well made apple strudel, sure, and the drizzling of chocolate sauce helped, but it's just not something I would eat ever again. Ever.
All in all, there's a varied food scene in Prague. Apart from traditional Czech food, there are lots of Italian restaurants and Chinese places, and there's a Parisian cafe down the street from our hotel. There's also KFC and McDonald's. I've actually seen more KFCs than McDonald's, which is very random/odd.
We've been to every souvenir shop in the general vicinity of our hotel, and even some in the Jewish quarter. There are Swarovski crystal shops EVERYWHERE, and nearly every souvenir shop sells crystal and glass figurines. They're very cute, but can get a bit pricey.
I was standing around in the souvenir shop the other night, waiting on either Karen or Annie to finish buying stuff, and one of the shop owners came over and talked to me. He was a nice Arab man, and he must have heard me say something in my funny accent to one of the other girls (we've been running around Prague pretending to be British) and asked me if I spoke French. I answered him, in French of course, and he started asking me other things, also in French. He asked me if I was African, and I said, "No, I'm from America, but I guess that counts as being of African origin, yeah?" We had a laugh over it, and it turns out that he was from Tunisia, where the first in this latest series of Arab uprisings was. We chatted a bit more; he said he assumed I was African because lots of African countries speak French as their official language (which is true). I told him that all of my professors think I'm Haitian (which they seriously do), and we had a laugh over it. When the other girls were finished, we said goodbye. He really was a very nice man.
You guessed it. I'm about to get introspective/political.
I find it much less offensive when people here assume I'm anything other than American. One, they don't run into very many Americans, not as many as other English speaking Europeans anyway, so it's just not the first thing they assume. Also, to be frank, there's not very many black people in Europe, as evidenced by the fact that I can't even find freaking hair grease in Louvain-la-Neuve, and most of the ones that are here came from (gasp) Africa, seeing as it's so close. I guess it seems more like a natural train of thought that when a European (or African/Arab immigrant, as in this case) sees me that they assume I'm African, and not insulting like it is when my American professors (and high school teachers) say to me everyday "Are you Haitian?" or "Is there any French in your family?" No. If they want to get technical, if I can for sure claim any European country as my heritage, it is Germany (hoorah for the Subers out of Clinton!). In America, it just seems like they look at me and go, "Oh, she's ethnic (I hate that word) and can speak another language; obviously she's not a regular black person and that language is in her heritage." It's demeaning to me, and I take it very personally.
I've also taken a bajillion pictures, but you'll have to wait until Sunday to see them. Know why? I'm a complete and total boob and left my camera cable back in Louvain-la-Neuve. Who's brilliant? I am!
Srsly though. Tune in Sunday for a photo dump.
Things I have learned:
1. They do not split tabs in Europe. It is therefore best to carry around bills.
2. Grog is real. It is a drink. No, I did not try it.
3. In the Czech Republic, beer is cheaper than water (surprise)
4. It is the Czech Republic. Not Czechoslovakia.
5. I like sauerkraut.
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