My First Impressions of a Scottish Life

Moving to Scotland for two semesters sounded like a dream for me, since I have already lived in the UK before I thought moving northwards this time could only mean a better experience. Although arriving to Edinburgh felt like coming home, I can state surely having been there for three months already that this city has a lot of surprises.

Walking down the streets of the Scottish capital is always a guaranteed adventure. Certainly a physical one, since there is hardly one flat street so you always find yourself going down or uphill, or forced to take dozens of stairs appearing from nowhere. The city is build upon several layers and has a lot of secret passages that makes a map completely useless here, but this is what adds to its specific spookiness and creates a bewitching atmosphere. It is a place where the historical past and mystery are integrated into everyday life, therefore it is absolutely natural to meet a person in a black scary cloak in the afternoons, a tour guide for the ghost tours, as well as see a group of men walking in kilts. To be even more clichéd they usually happen to be bagpipe players and make most of the people hate this Scottish squeaking instrument after hearing it every single day. It is an amazingly diverse city having an old and new part with different architecture as well as people, moreover there isnature only a few steps away –Arthur’s Seat. While for some it is only an obstacle on their running day and for others it seems like an impossible challenge to climb it definitely offers a mesmerizing view. Not to mention all the parks and green parts of the city as well as an occasional trip to the seaside, being careful enough not be blown away by the strong wind.

However, going outside in Edinburgh requires a certain amount of preparation, since one has to be flexible to all the four seasons in one day. Everyone knows that the weather up north is predictably unpredictable throughout the whole year, but I have never expected to be soaked every day and to regard the sun as just as an old friend who you once knew but now who appears only occasionally. The weather is a very influential aspect of a Scottish life and especially for those who are not used to it; it makes me angry and even depressed on a daily basis but quite the opposite when there is some sunshine; but most importantly it just amazes me. The weather is the principal division between the people of Edinburgh; the tourists are cold and complaining all the time, whereas the locals are just indifferent to it. The contrast can be spotted at first glance and particularly in the winter time. Everyone who wears warm clothes, boots, a coat and definitely carries an umbrella is not from here, while those who wear t-shirts, sandals and use hoodie as a protection against the rain will definitely have a Scottish accent.

Before studying here I could not wait to hear this impressive accent all around me, however, after a few rather embarrassing encounters I have come to the realization that there are three stages of the Scottish accent: the first which sounds different than the standard but is enjoyable, the second when only few words can be recognized, and finally the third stage which can make the nonnatives’ lives miserable and does not even sound English anymore. To add to the confusion, during one day all the differentEnglish accents can be heard, since surprisingly most of the students in Edinburgh are actually from England and there are a lot of Americans, Canadians as well as Australians, not to mention the swarm of international students. Most of the foreigners just end up being confused how to address people or how to speak in general, since the Scottish accent is quite hard to comprehend and is regarded as rather amusing by all the others. However, it is definitely worth a try because the locals will appreciate it with a warm smile which always helps on a freezing day.

All in all it is a magical city, very Scottish and yet international which could even resemble a fantasy world with all its dark graveyards and tourist attractions. If you are adaptable to any kind of weather and to any kind of prices without getting a stomach ache when seeingtriple the usual, than there is no reason at all why Edinburgh should not be enjoyed to its very last drop – just like a dram of good old Scottish whisky.

Lucy Szemet

A Transbalkanian Journey

July 31, 18:43

I am not quite sure what the time is and I don’t really have the strength or will to take my cell out of my pocket to check. I don’t really know where I am either, yet it certainly feels like an odd place to be, so different than what I am used to, new to my eyes, to all my senses. That is funny, since I am on my way home and the closer I get to it the more out of place I feel.

We are in the middle of Hungary, heading to Serbia and then all the way down to the sunny land of Macedonia. The gas station by itself is quite fine, all the luxuries of a gas station included - by that I mean it has a working toilet with soap and toilet paper. We didn’t have many of those ten years ago. I finish smoking my cigarette, still my frozen fingers hold on to the filter. My fingers seem to be more in shock than me – I’m too tired and sleep-deprived to be in shock. But images stick to my red eyes and sounds enter my clogged ears just to end up as impressions strong enough to write about, like premonitions hinting to what awaits me in the few days to come. They peculiarly make me feel like Bram Stocker’s Jonathan Harker, a most unfortunate traveler going from the civilized London to the depths of the Carpathian mountains, right into Transylvania’s heart and into Count Dracula’s hungry mouth...

July 31, 19:50

I do, however, intend to be smarter and less ignorant than Mr. Harker, listening carefully to the signs my fate whispers to me on my journey. There is no way I intend to be eaten. And in no way I am comparing my home country to the tale's Transylvania and my house to Dracula’s castle. Yet I am at a stage in my life, when four years of living in the Western world are enough to make my journey to the East a cultural (besides the thermal) shock.

It all began in my lovely Prague, when I took the nice subway, relaxing music playing in my earphones all the way, pulled my slightly overweight fancy suitcase and reached the bus that was to take me home. I was then forced to leave this world of mine and focus on reality: the loud bus drivers piling up suitcases, constantly shouting at each other, noisy people speaking the language that was my mother tongue but I failed to recognize for a few minutes, the four other relatives of every travelling person that kept on talking to the relative that leaves, listing all the people they need to send their greetings to. Then there were the ones that sent out packages to their relatives, packages that made me wonder if they aren’t sending them cars packed up in IKEA bags. My suitcase was in the bus so I waited in line to pay for my ticket – two people were before me, yet another guy budged in, saying he only wants to ask something real fast, yet ends up letting five other people in the line meanwhile. I get frustrated and I haven’t even left, is what I think. What the hell’s next?

July 31, 21:20

I now know the answer to that one. Whoever wants to know the sound of a transbalkanian journey should google “turbofolk”. It’s as bad as it sounds. I could survive traditional folk music but not this s*it. It all sounds the same: it's a weird mixture of folk and pop music, the lyrics are plain horrible and I cannot possibly understand how a person can listen to that thing for HOURS without becoming deaf and stupid. It soon becomes a background noise, for co-travellers start conversing and getting to know each other, you know, so that they have a more pleasant journey. It tires me to talk to someone for 18 hours straight – I have tried it and hated it, the girl wouldn’t let me sleep and felt the utmost necessity to let me to know every detail of the places she goes to in my hometown and all the famous jet-setters she hangs out with in Skopje. It is important to be somebody in the capital and you have to hang out with the crème to be that someone. It's more important than doing something universally prosperous, like making the world a better place or even finding a job. Thus I don’t talk, and sometimes I wish I couldn’t hear as well. Old people just keep complaining about their visit – it was too rainy, too many eccentrics, oh my GOD they have gays and so on. They are stuck to the little box they come from and they don’t want to appreciate what they see outside, just because it is different. I hate close-minded and limited people. And I seem to come from the nation of the limited. Great. The best ones, however, are not the visiting tourists but the ones living abroad long-term, like me, the ones who visit the little box of sunshine instead. They just won’t let go of it – everything is better at home, food sucks, Czechs are too cold, too many gays, they only hang out with Macedonians…Why, oh why do they live there if they hate it? Why are they ungrateful for the opportunities, unable to create a new life for themselves? I realize I judge too hard, but these ten people in the bus just remind me of the rest of my nation, unable to fight, grow strong and prosper – not because they are incapable of doing so, but because they are afraid.

August 1, 01:12

I try to get used to the fact that I will be amidst such people during my stay at home. And while my internal fight continues (and ends as night falls and the cold comes) so does the landscape change, together with the surrounding people and languages. The gypsy woman washing her hair in the lavatory, the bus driver handing his passport with a fifty euro bill in it to the border police, the garbage this guy just threw out of the bus window, the seatbelts getting completely ignored by the drivers… Images stick to me even when I am not aware of it. They create the image of home, how home feels and looks like after four years of being away and how it will only get worse with the many more years to come.

August 1, 07:33

As morning draws closer and the air gets warmer a new smell comes with it – the smell of a hot, dry summer in the land of the sneaky sun, that gets not only on your skin, but under it as well, warms up all the coldness and strictness you have gathered while being away from it. I look at the faces around me, the ones that looked so ugly in the Hungarian and Serbian nights, and when I look at them closer, I realize we all look the same right now. We all smile with our brown and hazel eyes, smile to the morning sun that glistens on the bus windows.

August 2, 21:45

I sit in darkness right now and have no idea what the time is – I am so engrossed in writing down my transbalkanian journey that I can’t bring my eyes to look down at the clock on my computer screen. I think I am sitting at my balcony, yet I am not sure – I might as well be in heaven now. Heaven must be just as warm and and as fragrant as this air around me. I just finished eating the best watermelon in my life. Ok, well I know I said the one yesterday was the best, but I think I lied. It literally cracked when I slid the knife into it, and it was the perfect blend of pink and red, juicy and crunchy. The plate is empty but the ashtray is full. I didn’t smoke four years ago, it slightly unnerves me I have to carry the ashtray around with me now. This is home. A slightly different home, I am aware of that. Different is not bad, unless you take into account Dracula. Then different is always a bad idea. Yet the only Draculas around me are my three fluffy cats, the three sisters. And a few of those bites I think I can handle.

Anastasia Siljanoska

The Musicalities of July and August

I was hoping to write quite an ordinary article about the Colours of Ostrava festival, using phrases like 'colorful, but stitched together from fine materials' confidently, making you aware of the many wonderful acts performing there or navigating you through the city, elaborately describing every band's style, all serious stuff like that.

But since it was a festival about music, it is the songs that can navigate you through my experience; which, on top of that, is all too intimate to be read as more than a diary entry, really. Sure, I will give you written hints – but mere names would be all mute. So, without further warning, here's the first bit.

Matt Berninger goes into the crowd during “Mr. November.”

If I'd say I was going there to see The National, it would be partly true. Lots of bigger or smaller (namely Chet Faker or Ólafur Arnalds) acts I like were going to be there, but The National? A treat! Of course, you can feel the atmosphere only partly from shitty videos like this. But, for sure, the lead singer taking a little walk is a sensation (even if he does it regularly). Mr. Berninger coolly strolling on the stage, drinking his wine, dived into the people with the strangest kind of self-confidence.

Sir Robert Plant & Sensational Spaceshifters!

Old, but still roarin'. Mr. Plant's got it all – the voice, the ideas. The performance was not his only, as the band stole a large portion of the spotlight. The guitar in the classic Led Zeppelin song “Going to California” was so crafty I could not believe my ears (Jimmy Page wearing a mask?). Gradual tasting of new sounds from an upcoming album was keeping on toes even the most devoted Led Zep fans, who waited to sweat their four-symbols-T-shirts to “Babe I'm Gonna Leave You.”

Well, those were the big names! Of the acts completely unknown to me beforehand – here are some that really got my full attention. They were all excellent performers.

Seasick Steve, whose pal playing drums looks even older than he does, but the energy! Makes his own guitars out of beer cans, vacuum cleaners (and at one point the drummer became 'broommer,' producing the rhythm in a rather unusual (sweepy) way (sounded awesome, though; gotta tell mum):

Denver Broncos UK, “the band with the native American girl in it”; their sound was so full of quietness that they stood out in the ocean of noise:

Graveyard Train, with their chains 'n' voices:

Musicalities of August

OK, here we go. (“Can he get even more personal? What is this – a space for showin' off?!”) I know this is supposed to be more or less coherent – but not only Ostrava stays tuned during the summer.

Prague's MeetFactory brought the legendary, un-thought, un-hoped-of experience.

Neutral Milk Hotel were in town. If you don't know them – give it a try. That should be enough, I'll leave it as it is.

And just this Saturday, Jakub and Hanka, two classmates of mine (or maybe even your mates as well) performed in Napa Bar. Naming the event “The Last Last Sprinkles gig” was not that a bright idea as a) we want more and b) none of the explanations of “Why Last Sprinkles exactly?” were all too satisfying. The all-acoustic show was great and the duo even sang “Bloodbuzz Ohio” by The National (see the coherence?). But one singer-songwriter should be especially mentioned, as the event was somewhat a reaction to his performance:

Charlie Rayne and “Laura's Song” from the EP Thirty Sunsets.

Jakub performed Charlie's “Blue Eyes” and a few of his own stuff as well – while Hanka accompanied him with her voice and played the piano. In a couple of songs they were even joined by their friend playing cello.

And that's practically all you could have been missing and I've been hearing! At least I tried to transmit some of the vibes here and there – if you'd like, you can follow Charlie's facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/CharlieRayneMusic) as he will be touring in two months and Prague is surely going to be a stop. But even until then I'm sure there will be some live performance I'll be surprised and amazed by.

Luke Red

Le Mystère de La Rochelle

Some cities have such a strong effect on their visitors that after spending one day there you can describe the atmosphere with words, pictures, smell, sound or by feelings. Recently I had a great chance to spend a week in La Rochelle, a small French city on the Atlantic coast, but rather than coming home full of excitement and sensation the only word which still comes to my mind is confusion. I have failed to grasp its “typicality” simply because it is a city of mixed impressions. It is a magical place where you can feel like you are in Italy, England and naturally France at the same time.

Walking along the sea and discovering the heart of the city, “Le Vieux-Port” (Old Harbour), was what first established my Italian feeling of the place. The line of restaurants suffusing the port with the smell of seafood; the cafés and bars with chairs outside facing the passers-by and the storm of souvenir shops would have easily transferred me to the “birthplace of pasta” had it not been for the lack of crazy motorcycle drivers. Interestingly, it was a challenge to find a windowless wall in La Rochelle, similarly like in Italy; moreover, the white pallets and the glazing sun shining through it almost made you greet people with “Buongiorno!” Not to mention the old market, one of the main touristic attractions of the city, with all the temperament, joy and tasting; except this time the shouting was in French and instead of tomatoes there was cheese everywhere.

To continue in the light of established stereotypes, I am sure most of us connect the expression “feeling under the weather” with England, where this phrase is to be taken literally. La Rochelle certainly adopted England’s tricky ways of making people’s day miserable by proving that sunshine, storm, heavy rain do not rule each other out. Just because you wake up blinded by sunshine does not mean that at the moment you step out you do not find yourself in a horror movie setting with a storm and will be soaked in rain in a second. And if you think this would be enough punishment for one day, you get the wind. In conclusion, the weather here is a campaign for women not to wear make-up - it is simply pointless. All you need is an umbrella, lots of tissues and rather trousers than a dress, which can easily end up in your face while you are passing the street. But besides the general sea town resemblances with England, La Rochelle also includes an ancient and a modern part of the city, where the modern area mostly sums up the university. Therefore as well as in British student cities you get a swarm of young people, be careful in La Rochelle not to stand in their way when you see them running in the morning trying to catch their bus.

Most importantly, there is the unquestionable “Frenchness” saturating every corner of this town. First of all there are the evil fancy chocolate stores besides the numerous cosmetics or natural products shops, which make you stop even if you know you cannot afford it (but who can?). Then, stepping into even the smallest grocery store you discover the separate cheese regal that shouts: “You are in France!” right into your face. You find yourself in “the land of small talk” where a regular “Bonjour!” is not enough and you have to make a pointless ten minutes long conversation about anything. These conversations of course need to be accompanied by wine, so the city cannot function without a famous wine bar where you can drink heaven in a glass. Moreover, this small city has a museum of perfume flacons, which is almost as cliché as in fact finding randomly “le carrousel” in the middle of a square. Where else could you have it than in France?

Image credits: Lucia Szemetová

I am simply fascinated that even after walking the streets daily and accomplishing so much sightseeing I cannot formulate a coherent opinion about this city with clichés and yet different faces. If I had to give three advices for future visitors it would be: go to Cave de la Guignette (the wine bar), do not visit La Tour de la Chaîne without company (unless you do not mind being completely alone in a dark medieval tower) and be prepared for any kind of weather. However, whether to recommend visiting La Rochelle or not remains a mystery to me as well as its ambience, you simply have to try it for yourself!

-          Lucia Szemetová

A Short Note on the Ukrainian Situation

The western world, into which we proudly count ourselves, got already used to armed conflicts in Africa, the Middle East or Asia. These problems are quite far from us and we began to see them as a normal part of everyday world news, but when demonstrations, people in streets and dead among both police officers and the dissenters move just a thousand kilometers from our borders, we start to pay attention.

I went to Ukraine last summer, in August 2013, with a group of friends. Understandably, it was not the top tourist destination – we had to make a lot of preparations, to read quite a lot about the country and still we were not sure what could wait for us there. Of course, we knew about the political situation in Ukraine and the events that happened there in past few years, but we were much more afraid of being robbed, threatened or at the worst kidnapped. Frankly, we did not have to. How surprised we would be if we went six months later!

The Ukrainian-Russian problems are most visible in Crimea, the autonomous region on the peninsula of the same name, which is inhabited mostly by Russian speaking citizens. Above: statue in Stevastopol. Image credit: Jan Jakšič 

Ukraine is a very poor country, but not everywhere. I can perfectly remember what feelings I had about Kiev. It is a completely modern and rich city and it can be seen especially in the heart of the city – along Khreshchatyk Street which leads to the main square in Kiev, Maidan Nezalezhnosti. On the square we could buy cheap beer in small takeaways, people were crowding in front of the McDonald’s situated in its upper part and greedy Ukrainian students were dressed in heavy cartoon-figures costumes and demanded money from foreign passers-by. Now they are the people dying there.

The things happening in Ukraine in these days are sad evidence that one can never be sure of what they can face in any part of the world. Even the least important event can trigger a series of other events that can change many lives and the situation in the whole world, but it does not have to be very far from us, and we do not have to watch it only on TV.

-          Jan Jakšič

Reminiscing over Paradise

Confused and vulnerable, I walked out of the gates of the minimalist San Jose airport into a shouting crowd of people, each of whom was trying to locate someone. I got picked up by a toothless shabby man who understood my ‘EF’ cries (the name of the language company; Education First). Juan Carlos was the driver, a chubby lad in his late 30s who radiated joy. A guy in his mid-twenties, Luis, whom Juan Carlos knew also joined in for the 3 and a half hour drive to Tamarindo. With all the jungle and dirt roads around, the first ride felt like a video game. They chatted all the way, not decreasing in vehemence. I tried really hard to understand but the two ticos had their own game which my then A2 level couldn’t touch. Luis at least talked some English. He promised that I was going to have the time of my life. I don’t think a truer promise has been made to me.

The host family was wonderful. Costa Ricans live far more communally than we Czechs can ever imagine. In the morning, my host madre Carmen, the sweetest lady you’ll ever meet, gesticulated towards the neighbouring house, “mi hermano primero,” then towards the second, “mi hermano segundo,” and so on. I found out that our little luxurious shed of a simple yet comfortable house was surrounded by her close family, members of which hung out at Carmen’s most of the time just chatting and chilling unless there was a soccer match on; they’d turn shouting and wild. As for the communal living, the city looked ‘normal’ of course but in the country where my lodging was, Costa Ricans were a different species than what I’d previously known about humanity; prejudiced knowledge represented for example by my mother’s favourite saying that the best place relatives are to be found is in a photo album.

The school comprised of a flat house with a huge conference room and two five-floor villas with accommodation for the ones more inclined to party than to absorb the daily life of the locals. Classrooms were spread about the buildings around a pool and a comfortable patio with table tennis. “Monos!” someone shouted. Most of the people just lazily went on their business. “Monos?” I enquired of my newly made German friend. “Monkeys, Míra,” she explained, “somebody spotted monkeys, let’s check it out.” And there they were, in the trees adjacent to the school, some of which hovered over the patio. The first thing that struck me about the monkeys was the extreme humanity of their face. But everybody knows, of course, that we were made on the Sixth Day. They carried their younglings on their backs and stared back at us until they got bored of the prying cameras and swung away into the jungle.

The city of Tamarindo, which housed our school, was a tourist destination riddled with surf shops and expensive restaurants. Surfing was harder than it had seemed. “Paddle, paddle, paddle, paddle!” One had to paddle, swim with your arms away from the shore to where the waves were just about to break. Your arms were sore in a minute. But when you do finally manage to stand up on your board and ride the wave with at least some style you feel like a million bucks. Unless a 16 year old Swiss girl manages to stand up 5 times seizing the wave with flair before you start gaining some balance on the board. It disrupts one’s manhood. The classes were very interactive with lots of talking and lots of girls. Hitting on most of them, shockingly, furnishes a reputation as a perv. The teachers loved their jobs and it was a marvel to perceive their way of talking; Costa Ricans dance with their mouths employing all their facial muscles with joyous grace and when they laugh they laugh with their heart.

A sophisticated European would opine that they are a simple people, yet as Hemingway admitted, the more intelligent one gets the lower amount of happiness follows. Ticos don’t have a standing army and are wise and happy people to such a degree one has to cudgel one’s brains as to what might be the cause. I blame the weather. Under the equatorial sun the nature seemed to go mad. The bugs were enormous. A crab crawled into my outdoor shack of a bathroom and stared at me as I was doing my bodily duty. The one time I got lost in a jungle, half on purpose to experience some adventure, I got attacked by 3 inch ginger ants that bite you as soon as they land on your tender skin. “My ginger brethren, how could ye?!” One tree was armed with thorns as big as a cockroach. Another tree comprised of at least 10 different species of different trees and creeping liane. There was a touching scene as I went jogging one day (the humid climate actually made for a swell run). There was a dry branch on this tree that should have fallen off to the ground to die. But, a saviour liana which grew on that tree and which entwined the branch held it mid-fall as if staging the cliché stock scene from adventurous flicks where one holds the other by a slippery arm about to fall down into the abyss. This was no cheap scene. It was natural, emotional and beautiful.

The first three weeks were rather studious with only two parties a week. People were great. My first impression of most of them as spoiled brats proved wrong, at least with most of them. Also, I felt old. My age of 21 was of the old fart sort compared to the 16-18 norm running through the campus. This however hasn’t hindered me in creating some excellent international friendships, some of which, thanks to the somewhat seedy invention of social networks, I cherish until today. And thanks to those pro-pleasure individuals, the last two weeks of my stay at Costa Rica were bathed in litres of Imperial and Bohemia (two of the best local ‘beers’), spiced with the occasional vodka cocktail made from insanely cheap and DELICIOUS fruit and fumed with bad outdoor skunk (the badness of the sensi was rather surprising considering how close Jamaica was). There was Arizona (US), Anthony (BE), Miles (US-CA), Sophie (CA-FR), Alexandra (US), Alicia (Swiss-British) or Seňorita Naranja (NE), to list the social top drawer. There’s nothing like waking up surprisingly free of a hangover to a blinding sunlight at 10am with a goddamn dime of a Yankee friend gesturing her dewy beer towards a glorious morning toast. And so I chugged. Pura vida!

Image credit: Jaromír Lelek

The last thing I want to brag with is my visit to the Río Celeste and the Monteverde national parks. The first featured an astounding river with shifting colours due to minerals at the end of which there was a spectacular waterfall where we swam. I exerted all my effort to swim right under it but the torrent was too strong. ¡La fuerza de la naturaleza! Also, I saw the biggest spider and butterfly of my life, both larger than the size of a textbook. Monteverde harboured the adrenalin attractions. There was the infamous zip-lining. And then there was the possibility of a bungee jumping. The girl before me got stuck in the ropes and the operators had to climb down to her to untangle her. She lost her shoes and I was losing my patience. And then I was standing at the edge of a cabin which was hung on a ski-resort lift steel rope in between mountain valleys. The drop was 120m. I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this. My plan was to scream some funny high pitched catch phrase to amuse my friends. But as soon as there was no solid ground under my feet, I lost my tongue (also, the nice operators screamed: “¡Nooo! ¡El peligro!”). All I could manage to do was to absorb the free fall; the incredibly increasing speed, the awkward position of my stomach somewhere under my buttocks, sheer life wheezing by and into me.

As the rope pulled I flew back up, and then back down, up and down. In the process I managed to burn my arm against one of the safe ropes. Regardless, it was beyond fun.

Jaromír Lelek

Wroclaw: City of dwarfs and Gothic towers

I am the type who generally plans every trip abroad down to the smallest detail; after putting together a list of things I’d like to see, I make a day-to-day plan that includes a precise account of where to be by when, where to eat, what to expect to see or do. My visit to Wroclaw was different though – I was quite spontaneous, changing a backpack for a shoulder bag, walking sneakers for boots and a Baedeker for a mobile city guide. Maybe that is why I didn’t feel so exhausted at the end of the day – being a tourist is a state of mind, but with a friend who studied in this city for a semester by my side and a rough, not-yet-so-clarified idea on what to see or do, I felt no pressure to race against time as I usually would.

I stayed at my friend’s dorm apartment that was shared with 3 other German Erasmus students. I won’t lie - there was an Erasmus party every night, but most of them were good-bye ones, since many were leaving back home. Slow mornings, late breakfast, pizza dinners and between these, internet surfing - consider that a normal daily routine. My friend and I repeatedly broke it though, taking a tour of the city first in the early afternoon and then at night with a stop at the dorm during the day. I personally preferred the city at night, when the Gothic churches were lighted dramatically, the University of Wroclaw’s reflection floated on the Odra River and half-drunk university student crowds danced and laughed in the streets.

During the day, the city put on a different face. The Rynek (main market square) is the colourful sibling of Prague’s City Square through which the scent of flowers from a nearby flower market flows; the “bistros” fills with people of all ages eating pirogi; people rush into one of the many shopping malls; many run to get on the tram after mounting up 3 high steps (honestly, these are very senior and short people unfriendly trams!); meeting dorm mates on the way to the UNESCO heritage congress centre. However, be careful; with the Sun up, 12°C temperatures roam the city yet they fall below 0°C after sunset. It is a quick process, so it is better to have layers to put on so you don’t return back home sick (true story).

And what were the main surprises of the visit? Things like being able to pay for your public transport ticket only by credit card (a one-way ticket costs 11Kč, by the way), being taken to a Polish restaurant in the city centre where lunch costing 17zł (110Kč) is considered “expensive” and lastly being asked almost constantly by the locals if I need help. Another surprise was walking through the city and bumping into small dwarf statues like the one pictured. Back in the Communist era, the locals placed these statues around the city as an innocent anti-regime protest. The excitement caused by the figures continues to this day, for not only can you run around the city in search of them, but also chances are, the dwarf you saw this morning in front of the indoor Targowa market will be gone and you have to look around for it again in case you forgot your camera (again, true story). 

But perhaps the event I will remember the most is being waken up at 3am due to the smoke alarm and finding myself and other 150 people standing in the lobby of the dorm building to find that somebody probably just forgot to put out their joint or cigarette. Fearing losing everything you left in your room to a fire and then mumbling curses to yourself while climbing 8 floors of stairs after being dismissed with the words “false alarm” is something that one can just laugh at when remembering back. Still, it ain’t   something you want to experience again – but Wroclaw? That certainly is.

-          Anna Hupcejová

Erasmus experience

Spain is an amazing country. Even though this is not my first visit to Spain (nor the second one), I still feel fascinated by the parched rocky landscape lashed by wind.  I found myself living in a country where seniors walk in parks listening to the radio playing in their pocket and where people eat bread (or rather, as they call it: “baguette”) with every meal (even if the meal contains pasta, rice, or potatoes). Though living in the second coldest city in Spain (by the way, I´m wondering which one is the first) is sometimes harsh, but I am very happy that I can be here.

My Erasmus experience started many months before by filling in the application form. During the entire administrative process I was really looking forward to spending half a year living and studying in a foreign country. However, when the date of departure was just several days away, I started to experience fear too. What will it be like? Who will my flatmates be? What will the courses be like? And many other questions preoccupied my mind. However, when the plane landed in Spain I started to enjoy my stay.

I realized (despite my expectations) that many of the stereotypes and myths about the Spanish people are true. Before going to Spain you should learn at least three basic Spanish words: “mañana” (tomorrow), “fiesta” (party), and “siesta”. The one that says that the Spanish do everything “mañana” (tomorrow) means that when you apply, for example, for a library card in the municipal library and they tell you that you can collect it “mañana”, you should understand that the card will not be there sooner than in a few weeks. Otherwise you will keep going to the library every day and asking for the card and they will keep telling you that it will be there tomorrow.

Another very popular – even among people who don’t speak Spanish – word is “fiesta”. The stereotype that many Spanish think that life is an endless fiesta is also true. Moreover, during the most productive hours (generally 2pm – 5pm) in Prague you can buy anything, go to bank, post office,... but here it is “siesta” (understand that almost everything is closed). To my Spanish friends it seems totally natural – they say that the people working in the shops, banks, offices also want to have their lunch. To me however, it seems that 3 hours for a lunch is a pretty long time.

Spain is also a country where almost nobody speaks English well enough to be able to communicate in it – I don´t mind that; I am here to improve my Spanish, but when ordering anything with an English name in restaurants (e.g. muffin, chicken wrap) one has to resist the tendency to pronounce the name “correctly” (in English). If you want to be understood and get what you ordered you have to pronounce it in the Spanish way, which often makes English words sound so strange that no British or American person (with no previous knowledge of Spanish) would ever understand them.

As far as the language is concerned, for me studying in Spain does not mean only a simple fact that the lectures and seminars are in Spanish, but also a change of working languages. Translating from Spanish to English and vice versa helps me to find new connections between the two languages and to perceive better the similarities as well as the differences.

Erasmus is really an international experience. There are many foreigners at the university (the majority of them are French, Italians, or Belgians) and I find myself practising even languages that I don´t speak. Now, after more than two months that I have spent here, I would recommend Erasmus (or any other possibility to study for some time abroad) to anyone. I think it can enrich you and you can benefit from the experience a lot!

- Veronika Sochorová

How I Lost My Heart to the City of Music and Seagulls – And Why You Should Too

There are certain places that people either love or hate and Brighton is certainly one of them. The genius loci is unique, unlike any other city I’ve ever stayed in. I spent three weeks in “London-by-the-sea” — as Brighton is often nicknamed — in spring 2012 and after just a few days I fell in love with the city.

At first glance Brighton seems like any other mid-sized city in South East England, but unlike many of them it’s not a place for tourists. It’s not a city where you can go and do your daily dose of sightseeing. Sure, there is the flamboyant building of The Royal Pavillion, Brighton Pier with amusement arcades and roller coasters that everyone loves, and those cute little vintage shops with excessive prices in The Lanes, but the true appeal of the city lies in simple everyday things. Like the amount of great coffee shops I’ve discovered just by wandering through The Lanes (The Marwood Coffee Shop on Ship Street being my absolute favourite) or Brighton Great Escape, a music festival I saw by complete coincidence – and it was an awesome experience. Both famous artists and newbies get to play in the 3 days of the festival and during this time the whole city seems to live in the parks and clubs. The same goes for the Brighton Art Festival. In Brighton lots of great graffiti and street art pieces can be actually seen all year long, including the famous Banksy on the side of Prince Albert Pub on Trafalgar Street.

If you’re a tattoo enthusiast, Brighton is also a brilliant place to get a new one; people don’t hesitate to travel from all over England to visit its tattoo shops. However, the best part of staying in Brighton is the general attitude – when the weather is nice (at least in the British sense of the word) Brightonians tend to spend a lot of time on the beach or in parks having picnics, playing musical instruments or just meeting with friends. Just be careful when eating your lunch outside, the Brightonian Seagull seems to be a completely unique and deadly species (yes, I learned this the hard way).

Brighton is also known as being very friendly and open – it’s probably not a coincidence that it’s one of the places with a high number of (not only) Czech expats in England. After three weeks there I didn’t even want to go home as I got used to distinctive character of Brighton and since then every time I visit London I always make time for at least a one day trip to Brighton as it takes only about one hour by train and that’s totally worth it. And if you still need an extra reason to go, Nick Cave lives there.

- Johana Lajdová

Dear Sheffield, you’re awesome. Dear Prague, I miss you with all my heart

I miss Prague. I miss the city. I miss the night rides in trams, where you're trying not to fall asleep or someone would immediately steal your iPhone. I miss that you can smoke everywhere and get a beer for 30 crowns/1 pound. I miss the omnipresent homeless people asking me for change while waiting for the metro. I miss the confusing bureaucracy of Charles University. I miss spending half the day waiting at the student’s department to get a small piece of paper in 5 seconds. I miss SIS, the most annoying thing in the world. But I love it here.

Sheffield Hallam University, where I'm trying to somehow get my masters in Cultural Policy and Management, is the 3rd biggest university in the UK. After (not particularly successfully) studying English and American Studies for a year, I thought no essay assignment could surprise me. I was wrong. English Skills in Cultural Communication (oh dear, how I loved the course) was nothing compared to this. The basic idea is; no tests, no learning by heart, you're academically mature enough to find out the useful information yourself and we challenge you to deal with them properly. Luckily for us, our university library is a high-tech sanctuary open 24/7 (compared to the Jan Palach Library quite impressive). The first month here I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Czech universities can only dream about the facilities we have here. Not only the library is awesome, we also have a lovely gym, employment or accommodation centre and tons of other (for an Eastern-European student with rose-tinted glasses on) fascinating things. I am rather not talking about the students residences which look like the most luxurious apartments in Prague. I am definitely not going to talk about the local student information system, which compared to SIS is a sci-fi miracle. A miracle. On the other hand the food in canteens tastes basically the same, which is a shame.

People keep asking me about culture shock. Guys, this is not Japan! The only unusual things are; driving on the wrong side of the road and using wrong type of plugs, also the obvious habit of drinking only black tea with milk. Most of us have been to England, so I don't even need to mention these (rather stereotypical) things. What strikes me more is English political correctness which does however disappear with a few pints of ale/stout/lager (do not call it beer, please) and the "health and safety" obsession, which sometimes grows really bizarre.

Overall I love England, and I love my university. You need to pay a tuition fee here, but it reflects on the fact how well the system works (although it is not flawless of course). I don't want to give out wisdom here, but Czech teachers could learn from the British ones in terms of attitude towards their work and the students. British cuisine could, however, learn from the Czechs by avoiding Yorkshire pudding in any form.

- Eliška Černá 

La Vie en Rose

Do you know that feeling when you belong somewhere, where finally everything makes sense? Let’s start with a generalisation: Every single one of us dreams about a place where all our worries disappear and we feel simply happy. Like many artists, writers, musicians I found this “satisfaction” in Paris. So rather than giving a touristic description about this spectacular city, I have decided to talk about my impressions and experiences. Warning! My view is, nonetheless, as idealised as the main character’s perception in Midnight in Paris by Woody Allen, but equally understandable and loveable...

I have heard so many clichés about Paris, but I have never cared for them. I wanted to learn French intensely and experience the culture, and of course I chose to do that in the capital. Coming here alone for two weeks, however, was not at all easy at the beginning; I struggled with the language, I got lost all the time, I was tired and lonely. But then it hit me, the “it” being the magic! I was forced to use the language and it helped me to overcome my fear of talking with a hideous accent; even when I got lost I discovered a beautiful church or a hidden garden, and the loneliness soon disappeared too. Tiredness, though, stayed as my companion through the whole trip, sleeping was just something I had to sacrifice in order to get the most of my time being there. But to elaborate more on the loneliness, I am guessing that is no news for anyone that Paris is the most pinky-cheesy romantic city in the world you can possible imagine. Even sitting down on a regular bench encourages you to write sonnets. Since I have got back many people actually asked me if I have fallen in love, because I seem different. And in fact I did, I fell in love with Paris itself. Yes, no doubt this sounds as cheesy as a proposal on the Eiffel Tower (which I have seen), but it sums up my point. Surprisingly this is a place where it is allowed to be extremely sentimental and desperately romantic at the same time.

So rather than to sketch the magnificence of La Sainte-Chapelle, Le Louvre or the scary height of La Tour Eiffel, and besides expounding on the taste of les macarons, I feel compelled to talk about my impressions, because Paris is not about knowing it, but about feeling it. When you see it in the movies, on pictures you certainly think – “Wow this city is beautiful!” – except when you have no taste for architecture or art whatsoever. However, being there, walking along the Seine in the rain, hearing crazy musicians in the metro, smelling freshly made croissants on your way to school, staring for hours at masterpieces by artists such as Monet, Renoir, Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Picasso, that is when you get charmed for sure. The rush of happiness you get when you sit down at the La Fontaine des Medicis in Le Jardin du Luxembourg and nothing in the world can bother or disturb you. When you are walking at Montmartre in the sunshine, charming accordion players follow you and suddenly you find yourself in a happy-summer-art world on the most beautiful hill in Paris.

It is a city with so many different faces; the dangerous part in the very early hours and at night down in the metro, when the ones who follow you are not smiling musicians anymore. The romantic part essentially surrounds you everywhere, people are not afraid to give you a compliment or ask you out just like that on daily bases. Not to forget the artistic face, the room full of Les Nymphéas at the Musée de l'Orangerie, Mona Lisa smiling at you when you almost choke in the crowd of tourists, stepping into Musée d'Orsay’s hall full of marble perfections where I personally forgot that I am afraid of statues or that this place used to be a train station, the sun shining through mosaic windows dressing you up in crazy colours in Notre-Dame while there is classical music playing in the background. Glimpsing a black cat at the garden of Musée de Montmartre, where is actually a room made like the famous Chat Noir. Most importantly, Paris has its own French appearance; café goers sitting on one another, having delicious wine for dinner, overpricing everything terribly, being stylish even at home and the arrogant attitude of talking just in their heavenly sounding language which makes the weaker ones like me occasionally swoon.

It is a metropolis enormous and charming enough to have some allure to anybody. For me, Paris is like a freshly made croissant: the first bite is crunchy, but once you get to taste it properly it is divinely smooth and delicious. After you ate it, being covered in the crumbs, it is impossible to forget you enjoyed it. We all heard about it, it looks elegant, it tastes good, but it is essential to try it yourself. Paris has it all: the taste, the look, the smell, the sound, and finally, the feeling.

-          - Lucia Szemetová