Damien Galeone

I’m standing at the tram stop and the weather, in mid-May, is cool and breezy, as though I am in a fabric softener commercial. For a man who sweats like Hunter S. Thompson drank, this is a gift from the gods of overheated English teachers.

My smile and comfort are in direct incongruity to the shivering misery all around me. The Czechs are clad in jackets, coats and scarves. I fit in like my grandmother at a Black Eyed Peas concert.

As the tram approaches, I know that my breezy fabric softener commercial is about to end and I am about to reverse roles with the Czechs. We all step onto a tram full of thick and soupy air, the general atmosphere close to that of a Hopi sweat lodge. Every window on the tram is closed tight.

The Czechs let out a sigh of relief and I slip into a misery-induced meditation as I try to defy both Newton’s laws of gravity and Galeone’s rule of stuffy locales. As the first bead of sweat carves a path down my scalp and plops onto my shirt collar, I concede the battle and admit defeat.

My misery grows as the tram becomes more crowded and we hit traffic. In a moment of aggravated desperation, I decide to do the unthinkable. And in what will be by far the most unpopular action I undertake all day, I reach for the window.

Windows and the Czech Republic have a caustic relationship. No Czech ever willingly opens one. To open a window on a tram, on a train, in a classroom, your office or in a pub is to incur the wrath of everyone sharing one of those spaces with you. People will sometimes just close the window, starting a showdown that doesn’t end until there are anti-national epithets sworn across the room. Others will ask you to close the window, making, with residual incredulity, the complaint that every window-opening fascist hears in his dreams: “It’s cold on my neck.”

Fear of the window is simply a matter of history. Prague has had two official defenestrations in its history. That is, on two totally separate occasions, in 1419 and 1618, the Czechs showed their dissatisfaction with public officials by throwing them out of a window. The first one in 1419 was led by Jan Žižka, killed seven city council members and escalated the Hussite wars from negotiations to physical combat. King Václav IV was reportedly so upset by the event that he died two days later from shock.

Vilem Slavata of Chlum, the defenestrated in 1618, did not die as he landed on a heap of horse manure. It also precipitated the Thirty Years’ War. These are the only two official defenstrations, but there have been several more cases throughout Czech history.

How can you argue with a national phobia surrounding manure, death, war and windows?

Despite the history, I open the window, reveling in the cool air that spills in as the glare of 85 eyes (eye patch) on 43 recently-made enemies shoot upon me. Everyone loses their comfortable positions and secure scarves to protect their necks from the 79 ° (26.1° ) air. A woman next to me mentions that I should close the window, “It’s cold on my neck,” she explains.

“I’m sorry,” I respond, “but it’s really hot in here.”

She frowns and clearly puts a curse on my home. As we chug down the river on this beautiful morning, I keep an eye peeled to the angry horde gathering around me, and scan the road outside for heaps of manure.