Damien Galeone

About this much…

Yesterday, I read an article on Expats.cz titled 17 Expat Behaviors that Czechs Find Rude. In the interests of becoming a better expat in my adoptive country, I eagerly read on.

Plus, it was after lunch time and I wanted to look busy.

Many of the list items struck me for one reason or another. Whether a point was hilariously relatable, reminded me of something funny, or indicated that the writer interviewed Czech people who have never met an expat or another Czech person in public.

In any event, here are some reactions to that article.

Respect the Menu!

Keeping to the traditional menu is something I agree with. Americans, at least, are notorious for altering menu items – substituting, ordering without an ingredient, etc – in order to get exactly what they want – a great American pastime. If you have ordered a meal behind an American in Prague, you know what I mean.

I once watched an American order Svíčková with no sauce and the resulting conversation with the dumbfounded waiter. This was mainly because the entire draw of eating Svíčková is for the sauce. It’s sort of like ordering a cheeseburger with no meat or cheese.

As a person who waited tables and tended bar in the U.S for many moons, I can agree that this expat trait is damn annoying. Stick to the damn menu.

We are Gastronomical Heathens

Another bit of gastronomical aggravation for the Czechs is when expats touch their dumplings. While I have never done it, I have seen the look of horror on the waiter’s face when a visiting American friend picked up a dumpling and dipped it into his guláš.

Priceless.

I thought I was going to have to administer CPR.

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I’m in a snit. That’s right. After 40 one is allowed to be in a snit and even call it a snit without fear of embarrassment for using words that a 73-year-old schoolmarm might use.

It’s frickin’ hot.

It’s frickin’ humid.

I have just negotiated the 4-stage hill of death that I live atop.

For all intents and purposes, I am liquid. My shirt squishes with each step, my back is attached to my backpack like a bloodied Bandaid. My vision is blurry and burning with salty sweat. This doesn’t matter, since my glasses wouldn’t be useful without windshield wipers.

Moreover, I have read today that this would be James Sirius Potter’s first day at Hogwarts. I know. I know. But here’s the thing, this means that the fictional Harry Potter is (almost) at the age I am and therefore dealing with the same issues. If Harry Potter is suffering the same pestering annoyances of middle age, how can the world be a good place to live? Also, it’s 11,000 degrees in Prague and there is no air conditioning anywhere west of Dresden.

Snit.

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By the time we get out of the airlines office, we’ve decided that it’s going to be a drinking day. We walk down the hectic Gondar streets. Men sell wooden replica cigarettes, so other men can ease their nicotine fits during Ramadan fasting. Tuktuks fly down the road, every driver instinctively calls to us.

Gondar’s center is filled with a variety of shops with no discernible theme. One has a shelf of plumbing supplies and another shelf of fabrics. There are no shops which sell food and an oddly large ratio of barber shops. There is an internet café with no computers, a looming post office. The people crowd along the sidewalks and rush towards nothing in particular.

We find a café on the corner of the main intersection: The Hotel Ethiopia. The high ceilings and mirrored walls evoke a nostalgia for mid-60s Cuba Mark instantly terms the place Greeneland because it embodies the cafés and dens present in Graham Greene novels.

We sit in the corner on padded chairs and a gap-toothed ebony goddess approaches with a wide smile conveying absolute terror. We order two beers and two Araki and she runs away in a fit of the giggles. Her boss comes over and speaks to us in English, we repeat the order and a moment later are drinking at faranji prices.

Mark raises his glass. “To?”

“To not getting on that fucking bus.”

We drink.

It’s already been a long day and it’s only noon.

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My summer mornings are perfect. I get up, work out, slam coffee, and then write for a few hours. It’s how I can rationalize devoting the rest of my day to baseball, reading, and hanging out with my weird family.

Sometimes I find time to take part in America’s favorite pastime, which is watching people be assholes on the internet.

Today on Facebook there’s a video of a drunk guy making a snide remark to an old woman on the subway. There’s another of a man jumping on a six-year-old boy in order to snag a foul ball from him at a baseball game. I have watched it three or four times and thought: prick.

The comments adjoining the video are filled with such fury that one would think it’s a video of Donald Trump kicking the crap out of Pope Francis.

This afternoon, I run errands. I get in the truck and enjoy the novelty of driving, which is a great deal of fun if you don’t have to do it two hours every day. I crank up the oldies station on the radio and swing the pick-up down windy Pennsylvania roads.

A block my from my parents’ house, a tree service truck blocks traffic by backing out of a driveway in front of the light. I am trapped waiting through two green lights.

In my acute aggravation I let loose on a braided hairnet of vitriol that would make Louis CK blush. I theorize on the tree service worker’s miniature man bits, suggest they have inappropriate relationships with their mothers, and hypothesize that they engage in a self-coitus only possible for French circus folk.

Before you furrow your brow, three points.

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We are lost and trying to get away from a leper. This is one of those problems I never had until I arrived in Ethiopia. This is our second one today. Leper, that is. The first one had no nose. There was nothing between his mouth and eyes but a red, raw gap split by thin lines of cartilage. It made us wince. When he reached out his hand for money, we moved quickly away. Though neither of us said it, I know we both irrationally felt that by handing him money we would somehow contract leprosy by association.

We couldn’t even feel bad at that moment, as I’ve found that any sympathy I have for a leper in my direct vicinity is strictly in hindsight.

Our second leper of the day is clearly following us. He’s shuffling along (this one has no fingers or toes) and casing us while keeping a constant distance of about twelve or thirteen feet. He’s keeping his cool. Occasionally, we watch him to let him know we’re on to him, but he doesn’t get rattled. He rather nonchalantly dips into a hut or scans the items on a blanket full of dirty wares. I guess once you have leprosy any potential social embarrassment or awkwardness is really small potatoes.

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My family and I are heading down to the Jersey Shore (beach) tomorrow. Which means that my dad has been obsessively planning all aspects of the trip.

There are full-on, war-room discussions concerning leaving times, the best route to take, and what we are planning on bringing. The seriousness of the discussions suggest a dedication to planning unheard of in the civilian vacationing world.

The discussions are often about time, since my family is time obsessed. Discussions involve meeting times, dinner times, and how much time will be spent in the ocean. There are an awful lot of conversations about leaving and arrival time.

This is when traffic and unplanned stops (but always planned unplanned stops) rear their heads. There are many considerations to keep in mind, to be fair. There might be a major backup on Route 1, there might be a line at the kennel. What if the bank we have to stop at gets held up? That could put us back an hour or two. The danger is that after a while of ruminating these potential delays, my dad starts exerting his propensity for eking back a departure time. So, what was once a 10 am departure time becomes 9:45, and then 9:30. Hell, we might as well leave at 6 am. Get there before the traffic even starts!

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Debre Damo from ten miles away

There are only four of us in this minibus. There is our driver, a baby-faced kid who oozed himself in the front seat seconds before we disembarked (and whose name or purpose we have yet to explore or learn), Mark, and myself. In direct rebellion to our last minibus trip, Mark and I are stretched out in the back, taking up as much space as is possible without taking part in a game of African Twister.

The four of us are heading through the desert towards our destination: Debre Damo.

Debre Damo is a 6th century monastery in Northern Ethiopia. It is known for having the oldest church building in Ethiopia still in its original style, for its manuscripts, known for its herds of pilgrim visits, and it’s known for its inaccessibility.

It’s inaccessible in a number of ways. In the first place, it is in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere. At one point during the trip, we have turned off of the main road and directly into the bible. We head far into mountains and valleys that are inhabited by a few tribespeople wondering when they can move to a place that has Netflix.

And Debre Damo resides on top of a mountain; a very steep, trapezoidal, flat-topped mountain. And it is accessible only by climbing a rope up a 50-foot sheer cliff.

Inaccessible.

After driving up dirt switchbacks, the driver pulls over in an area of desolate road overlooking a valley and a few distant mountains. He points, “There is Debre Damo.”

Mark and I make a sound that one makes while watching a professional athlete violently attain a compound fracture.

This trip has thus far been adventurous and intense, but it has been chock full of things way more fun to talk about in the future or in the past. Once it comes to actually having to go through with it is when I am overwhelmed by all the worrisome possibilities.

The only things standing between me and Debre Damo are a dangerous drive through a rocky desert, a 400 meter steep hike at 2,200 meters altitude, and the 50-foot sheer cliff that I have to climb. All of this in order to get a picture of the church and look into its well of holy water.

The kid turns to me and says, “You know that you must climb a rope to get into Debre Damo, yes?”

“Yes,” I say. “I know.” I am trying to concentrate on climbing in my head.

“I know you will do it.” He points at me and nods his head.

“Thank you.” I smile, having received my one and only Ethiopian pep talk.

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It a Sunday afternoon and I am walking through my uncle’s house listening to the many conversations being had by my family.

Yesterday, we met at a nice Italian restaurant for my grandmother’s 92nd birthday party. Since many of them – myself included – come from out-of-town, we are trying to get in another day of family fun insanity by having a barbecue.

There is nothing better than having a weekend filled with family fun. It usually results in a whole new set of issues to deal with, dregs up a repressed memory or two, and leads to a gain of ten pounds.

Further, when it’s over I drink enough alcohol to actually understand Keith Richards.

At today’s party we are a bit louder than we were at yesterday’s, a little more rambunctious. This is because while yesterday’s party took place at a nice restaurant, today’s takes place at my uncle’s house.

So? You are probably asking.

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