How To Say Good-bye

We had already hiked through about four miles of mud, hunched our backs and pushed our knees up numerous steeply-inclined hills, and stopped to have a quick lunch of apples and peanuts at a picnic bench that had a look-out over the sprawling valleys of rolling hills and pleasantly-nestled villages when Honza yelled, "Jamie! Jamie! Honem! Podivej!" Everyone of us in our line of meandering hikers bolted in a full-on run to where Honza, who was about 30 feet in front us, was standing--book bags swinging from side to side and hands flailing about in an attempt to maintain a sense of balance on the quickly-eroding road. I saw it first, as I was right behind Honza, and couldn't quite make out what it was. It was black, like an oily black, but I saw spots of a very sharp, almost banana-bright yellow. The creature seemed to be in a hurry and was obviously frightened of the giants, one who was standing above it and the others who were running in thunderous fashion towards it. The little body was clumsily making its get-away over the sticks, rocks and leaves that made up the road; attempting to steer clear of Honza's thirteen-sized boot that he incontinently kept placing right in front of its nose, impeding its path. Its head would swing the left and its tail would whip around in the opposite direction, grabbing the back legs and pulling them along with it; it's whole body looked like a contorted 'S' each time it would take a step. I got up closer and from behind the boot, I could make it out: it was a SALAMANDER! And not just any salamander, a tiger salamander, and he (or she) was dressed in beautiful spots of yellow and had grown to a fairly large size. Aside from the fact that I hadn't seen one of these little amphibians in more than two years, I was more pleased to see one here in the Czech Republic, as they are extremely rare. Everyone got in close and stared, each one of us trying to see the smallest detail of its face and eyes. Does it live along this path? Can it see very well? Is it poisonous? Is it true that they look as if they wear a perpetual smile? Many of us wanted to touch it and hold it, or take it back with us and put it in our pocket. For me, personally, I would have been content to have found more--a family perhaps! As it crawled off the side of the road and into the moist leaves that had lain there since the fall, we all said our good-byes to the tiger salamander and returned back onto the path to continue inching up the little blue lines on my map. And, as I reflected on the experience a little later, I was surprised to realize that almost exactly two years ago on this blog I wrote about the fact that there 'will be no more tiger salamanders to hold' once I'm in the Czech Republic--making reference to one of my jobs at Camp Willson--and I was happy to see how wrong I had been.

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The final scene in the movie Big Fish is very powerful me. I don't know if many of you have watched the film, but it is a dying scene. It's sad and beautiful and completely poetic. Yeah, its a happy ending of course, as a son finally connecting with his father who he has been at odds with for nearly ten years, comes back to his father's death bed to listen and tell stories, together, again, one last time--but aside from the fact that it could have easily been warped into a cheesy, feel-good kind of ending, it stays above that fray--at least for me. His son begins to recount and tell a tall-tale of what his father’s funeral will look like. It's awash in adventure, women, a car chase, rebelling, running through the woods and being carried in the arms of his loved ones. And, after the action has ended, his son begins to depict how they both are slowly making their way to the river bank, and as they get closer to the water's edge, people from his father's life begin to reveal themselves from behind the trees to say one last farewell. Hundreds of them. The tale his son tells is a culmination of a life lived well, even though not always truthfully or perfectly, but one that was imaginative.

Recently--in fact, yesterday--I felt this way. Jamie and I planned one final presentation in the church, where we were going to talk about our 'cultural shocks' about the Czech Republic. Yet, we both didn't just want to make this presentation about the comparison of life between the U.S. and the Czech Republic, even though there was a good amount of that too; no, we wanted to say good-bye to many of the Czechs who've come to accept us as their own. We knew that this might be one of the last times we would be able to see them all in one place, as time is running up. However, we were unsure of who would come. I had some people in mind who I knew I wanted to be there, but I really didn't know: it could have been five to forty-six people. So, as the time ticked down to 6 o'clock and only three people had arrived, I was a little bit nervous.

I started to speak first at about 6:00pm. The translator that night was Vlada Hancil, the man who patiently taught me and gave me a foundation in Czech language; laughing at my grammatical mistakes and feeding me wine and whiskey as we went along. The presentation started slow, and soft as both Vlada and I tried to judge each other: how fast would I need to talk? Does Vlada understand everything I'm saying? Should I listen to his Czech to make sure he's translated it correctly? At about five minutes after I started into the introduction, the door opened up, loudly, and two of my students walked in. Petra, who has blond hair and is no older than me and her boyfriend, who lived and studied in England for the past six years. both of them last year, upon meeting me, proclaimed their dislike for Americans, but have since then come to enjoy the class and have recently invited me for beer with them in the pub to 'shoot the breeze' and develop a closer relationship. Being slightly frustrated at the intrusion into my introduction, I carried right along, with Vlada at my side, when, once again, the door was pushed open and another man walked in; this time, it was Vlada Gracias, the local glass artist who has become one of my closest friends in Policka. It doesn’t matter that he is 56 and I am only 24; we talk about life, we run together on Tuesday mornings, I visit him in his studio and look at his work, he talks to me about his marriage and just recently, he personally made Jamie and I our very own glass coffee mug set. He took his seat in the far back corner of the room.
Jamie began to speak after me, and she started off a little bit nervous and slow. I looked around the room, as I sat at the computer and controlled the PowerPoint. Renata Blandova was sitting next to me, and her daughter Martina, who is only 6 years old, was with her. They came with their grandpa and Martina sat on his lap. I know them all very well, and I remember the times I got to spend with Renata's family almost every Saturday when Jiri and I would go 'lifting' for about thirty minutes and then inevitably head down stairs for about two hours of beer drinking and socializing with Renata and Jamie. I remember that Renata always wanted to prepare us dinner, and she would vicariously ask through Jamie what my favorite meals where, so she could try her stab at them. I didn't know she did that for nearly two years, until only three months ago. Now I know why I thought Renata had the best kitchen in all of Policka.
As Jamie began to speak about the sweets of Policka, I shot a glance to right-hand side of the room and saw "Pani Novotna" sitting amongst the crowd. She is a widow who lives all alone except for her seven cats, which she talks about every Sunday. The first time she came up to me in the church, I didn't understand what she was saying, but now, I'd say that were friends from afar. Every Sunday morning I ask her, "Pani Novotna, jak se maji tvoje kocatky?" And she replies, "Jsou dobry, ale pocasi je hnusne. Nemam kitky na zahrade." It's a beautiful exchange. I remember one time when Pani Novotna came into my office carrying the rest of the wine from the communion table. It was just me and her. She wanted to get rid of the wine, however, there was still quite a lot left in the jug. She took out two classes and filled them to the top. We toasted each other and gulped down the sour, red wine, and when she smiled, I could see that her teeth had a purple tint to them.
Jamie continued in her speech and my eyes drifted over to where Kaja, Premek, Martin and Bara were seated. They all graduated this year (except for Bara), and have invited me to numerous parties with their friends. With Kaja, I remember that she was the one who told me that her mother was a dentist and would be able to fix the gaping cavity I had in one of my back molars; she came and translated for my first visit. Now, we are friends and I've been to her house for dinner--her mom makes the best potato salad. Premek is a close friend of mine, and I remember that he is actually our official landlord: Jamie and I live in his deceased grandfather's apartment, so Premek is actually the rightful owner of the place. It doesn't matter thought, he isn't very tough, especially when he is the one bringing the bottle of wine to our house party. Martin and Bara are a couple who've been together almost three years now. They both are quiet people, but love to invite Jamie and I over for barbeques. I remember the first time Jamie and I hung out with Martin and Bara, we ended up taking pictures in their yard holding a bazooka, landmine and a large bomb.
When it was my turn to speak, I abruptly looked down at the front row and saw the Janeceks. I know that Ivo is the local editor of the Policka newspaper, and he teaches people how to properly fire walk. My best memory from the Janeceks was when Jamie and I went over there for dinner and Eva, the mom/wife, prepared the best potato dumplings and roasted duck I've ever had in my life.
I steered the presentation to its final conclusion and I knew that it was going to be good. I wanted to make a final statement on who the Czech people were, and I wanted to tell them what my answer would be if people back in the United States asked me that question. But, as I got to the last side, I could see in the back of the room Vlasta and Mila Plecharcek. They could tell by the tone of my voice that I was wrapping up the presentation. I could see tears begin to form in her eyes, but not of sadness; her face looked extremely content and happy. Mila leaned his head against the wall as I began to tell them all that in the Czech Republic, people are people. Sometimes, you will find those who have 'big' ambitions and dreams, and some who have 'little' ambitions and dreams; sometimes you will meet people who will be friendly, and sometimes people who will be not so friendly; sometimes you will meet people who will open up to you and reveal their inner-most thoughts, and sometimes you will meet people who are closed and reserved. Consequently, it's hard to say who the 'Czech people ARE.' I ended the presentation by saying that whoever asks me who the Czechs are, the best answer would be to show them pictures of the friends we've made here. And with that, the slideshow ended with a barrage of about fifteen photographs. And, as I looked about the room, I saw Lydia, Vlada's wife, crying; I saw Otakar Kleparnik laughing; I saw Honza Stanek leaning on his knees and squinting his eyes; and I saw Honza and Anna Dus smiling. The room was filled that day; over forty people showed up, and they came not to hear about culture, but they also came to say good-bye. Na sheldanou mili pratele. A mozne jeden den uvidime znova.