Train ride, Munich to Prague

There are signs everywhere that this train splits in half part way through the journey – only part of it goes to Prague, the rest somewhere else in Germany. I make sure I’m in the right half. In my compartment there’s a couple from Bosnia, who now lives in the States, a blond Czech girl who speaks both English and German fluently. The Bosnian woman asks her husband to go get her a drink. He doesn’t come back for an awfully long time. Then she hears her name being called over the intercom.

The drink and food car is in the part of the train that doesn’t go to Prague, and her husband was in it when it split in half. He got off at the next station, but now they have to figure out how and where they’ll meet up again. She’s distraught, poor thing.

Once she’s worked out a plan, and the tears have subsided, the three of us chat. Bosnia was part of Yugoslavia when she left, and when the Czech girl was young, it was Czechoslovakia. They talk about ‘before the war’, how its hard for the older woman to go back to Sarajevo where she’s from. How Czech was able to split peacefully, and Yugoslavia not so much.

“And who wants the split? Not the people,” says the Bosnian woman.

The Czech girl nods, puts her hand up and waves it side to side, to indicate the ‘higher ups’, the proverbial ‘them’ is who wants these things. She shrugs.

When the train arrives in Prague, the Czech girl is heading in the same direction as I am — I tag along with her through the metro station, she tells me where to get off the train. I wave thanks, and wander the dark lanes to my hostel.

Ode to My Pub

I am sitting in a pub in Bedford, England, having just consumed a microwaved fish and chips and a questionable pint. I placed my order at the bar, and my food materialized in front of me a few moments later, delivered by a waitress that said only ‘fish and chips, table 62′, before disappearing, never to be seen again. No ketchup, no brown sauce, to vinegar to be found with my fries, and no one to ask if I wanted some. That was no chef-prepared meal, and this pint of John Smith’s, my friends, is no Belhaven Best.

In short, I am missing my pub.

I arrived in England today, will attend Tamara’s wedding tomorrow, and will fly back to Edinburgh on Sunday. Then, I will start my very fancy ’shift supervisor training’, which means I get to change kegs and lock the door. And a raise!

I started working at my pub about three days after arriving in Edinburgh. It was mid-festival season, and was insanely busy at all hours. I made mistakes with the orders, didn’t know where to find anything, and generally felt that I was in the way. Now that I’ve settled in, and I don’t make mistakes, and the pace is much more manageable, I’ve come to feel comfortable there. It’s a wee family-run pub, and it starts to feel like the staff is family: The other girls there who are going to uni, and the boys who work in the kitchen; the owner and his (French-Canadian) wife who on Sunday had their first baby. The regulars.

We have two ‘pairs’ of regulars: John and John, and Bill and Bill. John and John are in almost every day (one drinks a pint of Belhaven Best, the other a double Famous Grouse with ice and a straw). Bill and Bill are best friends who come in every Friday. Chris is in at midday, every day, for two quick pints, and again later for another before heading home on the train. Stuart drinks white coffee and does the crossword puzzle, and goes outside for frequent cigarettes (I mean, uh, fags).

We have a chef, who makes good food from scratch. Haggis. Fish and Chips. Cullen Skink. Crofter’s Chicken. We have good wait staff, who are friendly as all hell, which is good because our customers are mostly tourists.

My favorite American tourist story, so far:

American tourist to Aussie bartender: ‘So when’s the best time to visit Australia?’

Aussie bartender: ‘Anytime really, but right now it’s getting to be our summer, so it’s going to be really hot. October is a good time.’

American tourist: ‘Right – your summer is our winter…’

Aussie bartender: ‘Yeah.’

American tourist: ‘So should I go in your October or our October?’

My other favorite is when American tourists are surprised to find out I’m not Scottish. Somehow it completely escapes them that I have almost the exact same accent that they do.

Anyway!

At the moment, from my table, I can see eight tables waiting to be cleaned off, and I’ve yet to see the waitress re-appear. I should know better than to expect more from Weatherspoons, but still.

In short, I’m back in England for a precise purpose, and happy to know I’ll be back in Scotland shortly.

 

 

 

 

remember your brolly.

Edinburgh Rule #1: Never leave your flat without an umbrella. Mine has orange polka dots.

I was walking home last night from my second shift as Bar Wench Extraordinaire, when I saw an exitable man with a German accent pointing his cell phone camera at the sky. As I approached, he started exclaiming: “Look! A full moon! I can see a full moon! In Edinburgh!”

He was right, the moon was there, and full, only partially covered by clouds, and he was trying to capture it on his phone to prove to others that he’d seen it.

“I’ve been in Edinburgh for a month, and I haven’t seen the moon! Or stars! Oh LOOK! THERE’S A STAR!”

It’s true that you rarely see the sky here. I’ve been here officially one week, and have yet to really see the sun: it has come out twice in the afternoon that I’m aware of, and both times I was working inside at the time. I haven’t even taken pictures of Edinburgh yet, because I’m waiting for a day with blue sky. I may be waiting awhile.

But oh, what a beautiful city this is. Oh my.

overheard at the manor

I’ve now worked three shifts at the reception desk at the posh hotel down the road, and my job has been to…sit at the reception desk. For long periods of time. Doing not much.

Occasionally people check in, and I enter them into the computer, and occasionally people call and ask questions I can’t answer, and I find the GM and he answers them for me. Occasionally the bar staff comes by to tease me about how little I do. I look for odd jobs, like taking empty glasses off tables into the kitchen. I wear a white blouse and a black blazer and look entirely unlike myself.

The hotel hosts a lot of wedding receptions, in the summer one every Friday and Saturday at least. I’m going to start taking a book to work, so I don’t creep people out by having nothing better to do then stare at them all while they mill around in their wedding garb and large hats.

I’ve also taken to writing down amusing conversations in my spare time:

#1: I’ve actually had this exact conversation twice, so far. It goes like this: I’m introduced to a man in a suit.

“Really,” they say, upon hearing my name. “I’ve got a laptop called that.”

“That’s Acer,” I explain. “ERRRRR. My name is Aasa. AHHHHH.”

My name does not work well in a British accent.

 

#2:

“Why would you come to Britain?” one of the bartenders asked.

“Why not?” I said.

“Britain’s a shithole,” he said. “It’s full of nothing but drunks and tramps and crime.”

“I think it’s quite lovely!”

“No,” he said, looking at me skeptically, “It’s a shithole.”

 

#3: At Friday’s wedding

A woman in her mid-40s bursts into the washroom. I’m washing my hands.

“Are you good at putting wigs on?” she blurts.

“I’ve never put a wig on before,” I admit.

“I’ve just won this, and I need to put it on.”

She holds up a bubble-gum pink novelty wig in a plastic bag. I help her put it on.

“That’s no good,” she says, appraising herself in the mirror. “You can still see me own hair! Maybe that’s what this hair net is for!”

She takes off the wig, tucks her hair under the hair net, and I help her back on with the pink hair.

“Right,” she says, “I quite like that.”

 

#4: At Saturday’s wedding, overheard from my desk

The groom’s father comes down the stairs, and announces to a friend at the bottom: “I’ve just had an orgy!”

“Really!” says the friend, to the elderly gent. “With who?”

“With all of them!” he says, gesturing to the three women and two men descending the stairs behind him.

From across the room, the groom looks up and sees his mother, who’s now crossing the room towards him.

“How was the orgy?” he calls.