Reflections- community and home

About two years ago, I remember writing my thoughts upon leaving for the Czech Republic. I was worried that I would not be accepted into the community, and feel like one who is not wanted, or like a 'foreigner' who doesn't belong. In contrasting this, I spoke about the comforts of Beaver County, home. The bridges that traverse the bends of the Ohio River, the Con-rail rail yards, with screeching and yawning groans that echo up the hills; the river towns that dot the banks as the Ohio winds its way south, turning in a great bend at the confluence of Beaver Creek, near the Beaver County Bowl. I was comforted by chili poured on top of some fries and the grime let over from years of men and women, of the working-class inclination, who've gone to the Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe for a quick lunch. In essence, I was reminiscing about the fact that I had become part of the community in my own small way: I had friends, became comfortable in a routine and could map the roads and by-ways of the county when I closed my eyes: The smells linger and the beat-up road signs that give mile-markers to Pittsburgh and Beaver Falls reveal themselves. I guess, two years ago, I was asking this question: "Would I have that in the Czech Republic?"

I've walked all over this city. There have been some roads that I've only stepped on a few times, but a vast majority of the alleyways and cobblestones of Policka have become well-acquainted with the tred of my boots. Walking outdoors has enable to be meet some people face-to-face; they see me in a hurry, when I'm late for a meeting; they gaze at my scrunched-up face when wind is blasting snow flakes into my ears; they've come to observe me and Jamie when we go on meandering strolls around town, looking in windows and making our way past the local brewery, up into the woods to a place called 'Lebohi'; they also notice when I shave, or when I have a haircut; when I buy rolls and what I normally eat for lunch on a Thursday afternoon. All of this would not be a reality, if I was sheltered and isolated within the climate-controlled comfort of an automobile. If that were how I made my way around Policka, who would I be to those people who walk the same path to work as me? I would never be seen here; found and heard only by the color of my paint job and the muffler of my small, 4-cylinder engine. Cars are not exactly the best way of creating/familiarizing oneself with a new community, or 'home'.

Just this past weekend, Jamie and I found ourselves at the last ball of the winter season. We were invited by our friends Jiri and Renata Blandovi. Upon entering through the giant, wooden door, I was stuck by the amount of people who I've come to 'know'. Now, their names are a definite mystery to me and I really have no idea what their job is, but I do know that I've seen them all before, and they know me. I've nodded to many of these people on the street and seen a majority of them at social gatherings; I know which of them is a good dancer, and which one was a former cyclist on the Czech-national team; I know who is the lock-smith, and which man is the lawyer who graduated with Jiri in 1993. At one point during the night, after about two hours of dancing, drinking and talking, I felt a woman drape her hands across both of my shoulders. Shocked as to who this might be, I immediately turned around in my seat, and was surprised to see standing behind me a woman about the age of 40, with creased cheeks and shortly-cropped hair with multi-colored streaks of yellow and red running throughout. Her eyes were very large and dark, which gave them a look of tenderness, back dropped with a gaze that signified a love for a party. I smelled a little alcohol on her breath. Speaking in direct and rapid Czech, she asked both Jamie and me how we're enjoying ourselves. She told us her name was 'Alena' and she thought both of us were just 'great'. Now, in most situations, I would probably assume that this woman got confused as to who we were, maybe she thought we were long-lost friends or something? But I recognized her as well; I knew her from somewhere. Then, it hit me; she is the woman who works at the bakery! Jamie and I buy eight rolls there every Thursday for our lunch. We're so consistent, that upon us walking in the door, the women who work behind the counter usually have a bag pulled out and are in the early stages of taking the cylindrical bread from its basket under the glass. Having realized who this woman was, I said back to her, "Ahh, Alena, you're our friend from the bakery! We love your rolls!" Her face revealed a deep smile, and her hands gave me two pats on the back--the kind that aunts usually give their nephews and nieces. I made an attempt at introducing myself, but the name Jeremy is so foreign to the Czech ear, that many older-generation 'Polickans' would never be able to pronounce it. I tried three times to slowly tell her my name--even getting right next to her ear--but it was to no avail. I quite trying and was content to leave the conversation there. She turned just as quickly as she had arrived, and went back to her table and her white wine. But, Jamie and I had been greeted by a woman we only knew through the acquaintance that comes with habit and routine, and it was a great feeling.

In some ways I feel I'm more intimately connected to Policka than I am with Ambridge. I mean, how many times have I walked the streets of Ambridge enough to know where in the sidewalk puddles linger after a rain? Have I been down on those streets often enough to get a feel for the movement and habits of the citizens that walk up and down Merchant Street (if there are any)? Have I ever gone gazing through windows and into stores and know who the shop owners are, and which one of them usually carries the best paper, and which one of them has the cheapest candy? In reality, my only investment in 'community living' in Ambridge has been to the gas station, to the eye doctor and the occasional trips to The Maples Restaurant or to Rooks bar--all of which are predicated on me driving to my destination.

I think in the United States we are in a very real crisis of community, and it doesn't just stem from the individualistic mentality of American culture. No, it is very real in how we physically build our 'townships' and our communities. The fact that we in America can have 'communities' that look like Cranberry, PA is almost unbelievable. Cranberry, in no sense of the word, is a community: it is a series of strip malls, targets, wal-marts Barns & Nobles and stop lights. There are houses there, but all of them are of the McMansion sort, laid out in very rational, often boring, rows. Everything looks the same: cars pulse in and out during the summer and winter, but there are no people walking. I think if I was to make a count of the amount of sidewalk that traverses Cranberry (a city that claims to be one of the fastest-growing in America), I would be shocked if I found more than 2 miles, all together. There are no local bakers, no art galleries, no private book stores, no small grocers, no butchers, no local pubs, not even a school. It's appalling. America's communities are dying from a lack of craftsmanship (working in the bakery of Giant Eagle does not count you as a 'Baker' by trade, I'm sorry), and complete destruction of centrality. Pretty soon, I envision that American cities from the East Coast to the sand-flats of New Mexico, will only be culturally unique from each other by the few food offerings that find their way onto the menu of the local Olive Garden: Maybe in Pittsburgh we'll still have our "Pirmanti brothers-style sandwich", and in New Mexico, one can order a spicy bean burrito. Let's face it, with the way all American cultural institutions are going, even our most hallowed and respected 'food-joints' will probably die off and be co-opted into large, more detached corporations.

I guess what I'm saying, is that in Policka, I've found community and place.

When friends ask me what the hardest aspect about leaving will be, I often tell them losing my routine. I know that on Monday, I can go the gym at 5 pm and pay forty krouns. On Wednesday, the waiter at my favorite pub knows exactly what I want for lunch; when I walk in the door, he immediately yells "Pivko?!" from behind the bar, which is him asking if I'll have my regular drink. Before I can even answer yes, he has grabbed a freshly-washed glass and has made the motion to open the tap. He knows what I'll say, I've been going there too regularly for him to guess (in all my life in western Pennsylvania, I've never been so attached to a place, that those who work there know my habits so well that they don't need to officially inquire). I can see the woman in the beige-fur coat, saggy eyes and hap-hazardly applied lipstick, make her morning walk to work. I know when she is late and when we are late by relation to where, along the path, we meet every morning: if she is in the park, we’re both on time, but if we're near the round-a-bout, Jamie and I need to pick up the pace.

So, I guess the answer to my question from two years ago, whether I would be able to find community and comfort in Policka like that of home, has been answered. Now, it seems I'm starting to have the possible-lack-of-community anxiety again, but this time, it's about my 'home'. Hmm, weird...