Fish Out of Water: An Englishman In Europe

Fish Out of Water: An Englishman In Europe

By Steven Dumaresq

Czechin’ it Out It’s official. On Friday 31st January 2020, after three-and-a-half years of negotiating, dithering, and backbench bickering – not to mention a nation fractured by lines of class and culture – the Brexit conundrum was finally concluded and the United Kingdom withdrew from the European Union. In the long term, whatever the socioeconomic ramifications of this motion mean for the future of our country and its citizens, whether positive or negative, remains to be seen. Time will tell. In the short term, however, I’m off to Europe for one final swansong in the EU before we bid farewell to our departing neighbours, before we stand united on the white cliffs of Dover waving Union Jacks whilst declaring au revoir, adios, auf wiedersehen, pet.

The premise was simple: book the cheapest possible flight to the continent and experience European culture as a non-European for the first time, finding out first-hand how our former continental comrades felt about our imminent departure. Were they mourning or celebrating?

Despondent or jubilant? Wearing all black and weeping into hankies or dancing in the streets shouting, “Good riddance you British swine, now stop peeing in our fountains.” To be honest, most of them probably didn’t care one jot and went about their day as normal. Life dribbles on. *************************************************************************** Here’s a useful tip if you didn’t already know. Go onto a flight comparison website (I use Skyscanner.net) and select your departure airport. In this instance I chose Bournemouth, my hometown. Leave the ‘arrival’ box blank and the website will display a list of destinations in an ascending scale of price, starting with the cheapest. My first two options were Dublin and Malta for less than a score, which whilst tempting did not meet the criteria of continentality, so went for the third option, Prague, capital of the Czech Republic. Winner! Slap bang in the centre of the Schengen Area––the heart of Bohemia. Plus, I’d never been to Prague before and heard their beer was well-crafted, inexpensive and plentiful. I booked the flight for February 1st – the first day post-Brexit – the first day of a Brave New World. *************************************************************************** “Ticket?!” barked a cantankerous inspector standing on the platform.

“A ticket for what?” I replied with genuine confusion, “I was just following signs for the toilet.”

The inspector looked me up and stared me down. “You go metro no ticket. 800 Koruna fine!”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” I protested in vain. At that time the exchange rate of 800CZK was just over £30, which might not sound too hefty (I’ve certainly had worse fines), but sure is a slap in the face when stepping into the country, especially as I hadn’t committed any crime, not yet anyway. That’s my beer money you hound! “I didn’t ride the metro. I just came from the airport and walked down those steps to find the toilet, which is right behind you.”

He didn’t look around or amused. “Give me your passport,” he ordered.

Maybe it was the clinical lights or his authoritative tone or me being a non-European stranger in a faraway land, but for whatever reason I panicked and handed over my passport, which he duly placed in his inside pocket. “Good. Now give me 800 Koruna.”

“No, I’m not giving you any money.”

“Look, you don’t give money I phone immigration police. They bring you big trouble.”

“Fine. Go on then. See If I care,” I refused, crossing my arms like a stubborn child.

He reached into his other pocket, pretending to pull out a walkie-talkie, and I instantly folded.

“Alright, alright, God damn it,” I muttered, handing over eight crisp 100 Koruna notes.

In exchange the hustling inspector returned my passport along with a stamped fine slip.

“Now you can ride metro for one hour,” he smirked.

“But I don’t need the metro, I need the loo.”

He put the cash in his pocket and turned to chase down another unsuspecting commuter whilst I skulked off clutching my fine and wondering what exactly the immigration police would have done about me not paying for a metro ride. Deport me back to Ol’ Blighty?

Relieved of both money and bladder, I ascended above ground towards the tram station. The sky was dark and hostile; driving wind pummelled diagonal rain into my face. I huddled under a shelter and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper which had the words ‘Tram 26’ scribbled upon it. Right on cue the 26 pulled up. Finally, a stroke of good fortune; perhaps my luck was about to change. I hopped on the tram and punched my inspector friend’s slip into the machine (you can get universal transport passes in Prague, so at least I didn’t have to pay for the tram).

I glanced back and forth between paper and digital screen, searching for the name ‘Husineka’.

The tram plodded along, people came and went, station names flashed and disappeared, but no Husineka. I stared out the window into that dark night, overlooking the Soviet-style industrial plants and derelict warehouses. “Well this doesn’t look like the postcard,” I said aloud as other people began to distance themselves from me. “Where’s the castles and cathedrals? The palaces and museums? Where’s the glowing taverns overflowing with cold beer, warm food, and live music?” And then we reached the end of the line.

The only passenger left, I exited the tram onto a deserted platform and looked around in dismay.

On one side of the tracks were wet fields with wet cows, and on the other stood an abandoned factory. Then it hit me. Like cars, trams drive on the other side of the road in this strange part of the world. “Damn backwards Europeans!” I shouted to the cows. “Why can’t you drive on the right side of the road. And when I say right, I mean left.”

The rain picked up. I sat in the shelter shivering, wondering why I put myself in these situations.

Why can’t I just be like the others? Those ordinary, sensible people. The ones who seamlessly whip out their smartphones for every quotidian task with no effort or struggle. Because then I would have no stories to tell and be out of a job, I reminded myself.

After forty miserable minutes appeared the tram. It took another forty minutes before I realised that this was in fact the number 20, not the magic 26. Another setback, but not the end of the world. All I had to do was hope this one followed the same line, find the original station, jump off, switch lanes and pray. In this darkness and unchartered territory, easier said than done.

But I managed it, just about. I found the station, changed trams, and there it was on the screen ‘Husineka’. I wanted to burst into a tribal chant of ‘Hu-si-ne-ka, Hu-si-ne-ka’ - but the tram was crowded so I sat down and shut up until I arrived at my destination.

Hotel Viktor was half-hotel/half-museum/half-brewery. I pushed through the grand oak door and was instantly taken aback by the pungent aroma of roasting hops. I checked in, dumped my bag in the room and headed straight to the adjoining brewery.

“What would you like sir?” asked the waitress. I looked along the pumps with pictures of fairytale creatures and names containing lots of k’s and z’s. Clearly overwhelmed by their selection, the waitress offered a prompt. “All of our beers are brewed in-house. We have light, dark, amber, Pilsner, smoked-” “Smoked?”

“Yes, the hops are roasted and then smoked.”

She passed me a taster. The beer was indeed smoky, like drinking the ash of a fine Cuban cigar.

“I’ll take the biggest glass you’ve got.”

“Okay, one litre. I also recommend accompanying it with our smoked meat bar snack.”

I hesitated for a second, having spent the past month abstaining from meat for Veganuary. But this was February, I was in Prague, and have a litre of smoked beer to imbibe. “Yes please.”

I took a seat in the corner and surveyed the interior; a fusion of old alpine tavern and trendy craft brewery. Walls were adorned with wooden barrels and taut sheepskins and tankards hung from the ceiling like trophies - complimented with a rustic metallic sheen - all brass pipes and copper vats. Hipsters would love it. I held up the litre glass and gazed into the golden liquid illuminated by the gilded glow of a hundred vintage lightbulbs. This was it, the moment when the trip really gets kicking and swinging… or maybe in an hour when I’m a litre or two down.

The smoked beer was delicious but also rich, complex and heavy, certainly not a tipple to drink all night on the town. The snacks were like pretzels made from meat, salty and moreish, but a little too grisly for my liking. The smouldering flavours accompanied each other so well it felt as if I had chain-smoked three packs of cigarettes, five pipes, and a box of matches. I finished the litre, then ordered another. The waitress brought it over and I thanked her.

“You’re British?”

I turned around to see a middle-aged man donning a wide smile and a worn-red baseball cap embossed with the words ‘Palm Springs’.

“Indeed,” I replied. “American?”

“Guilty as charged,” he beamed, stretching out a hand, “Name’s Sam.” We exchanged pleasantries and small talk. Sam was an ex-stockbroker from Dallas who had suffered a mid-life crisis and was now in Europe to find himself, or a pretty Czech wife. After explaining to me the advantages of Central European women versus suburban American, I steered the conversation towards more trivial matters and asked his views on Brexit.

“More power to you brother. It’s important to protect your cultural identity, and I love British culture. Bit of an anglophile myself. Brought up on a staple diet of Julie Andrews.”

“But the UK isn’t like that anymore, Sam, we’ve moved on from Mary Poppins. What about the economic implications?”

“Pah! You’ll be alright. You once had an empire that spanned the entire world. If only you didn’t mess around with the Suez Canal. That was your downfall.”

“Exactly. The empire has gone and, to some degree, so have those old British sensibilities, thanks no less to the invasion of your American culture.”

“Sorry about that son but I do think Brexit will be a positive thing for your country. You don’t want all that meddling from those folks in Brussels. You can stand on your own two feet.”

I nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. I explained to Sam that I was neither pro nor anti Brexit. I was living in Cambodia at the time of the referendum so didn’t vote, more out of laziness than apathy, and as a non-voter felt somewhat impartially detached to the proceedings.

The truth is nobody knows what will happen. That uncertainty into the unknown can terrify people, but it can also bring about opportunity. We shall see.

“One thing I will say is that this situation might strengthen UK-USA trade relationships,” added Sam, “President Trump loves a bit of British too. He’s got a lot of investments over there.”

“You mean golf courses?”

The American chuckled and then we ridiculed Trump for a while, staying up until the waitress kicked us out. Sam was also lodging in Hotel Viktor, so we stumbled up the stairs together and headed to our respective rooms. I fumbled with the door-lock for a long time before realising the set of keys in my hand were in fact for my house. Or were they?

“I think we picked up the wrong keys,” came a slurred American voice.

I switched sets of keys with Sam, careful not to give him the ones for my house, and said our goodbyes. Not even tipsy, I fell into the room, onto the bed fully clothed, and passed out.

I woke up with cold sweat seeping through my multiple layers of clothing. I’d had a nightmare where I was being chased around Prague’s public transport system by irate Immigration Police, who eventually caught and deported me back to Britain for not tipping the waitress. It was just a dream, I reassured myself. Let it go. What is done is done. Today is a new day. I pulled back the curtains, blinded by the rays of sunlight. A new day indeed.

I left the hotel with a renewed sense of optimism but limited sense of direction. I was staying on a hill verge, so the idea was to head down towards sea-level, which seemed like perfectly sound logic, despite being about 3000 miles inland. However, that rational thinking couldn’t explain how I ended up on a higher hill face-to-face with an enormous horse. Measuring over nine metres tall, the sculpture of atop Vitkov Hill is the world’s largest equine statue. I felt a deep urge to climb on top of the stallion and gallop into the imaginary unknown, but was being watched by a staunch security guard, so instead I surveyed the land. Old Town beckoned in the distance - about two clicks due south-east. I had no idea if it was two clicks or even south-east, I was a sea-captain, so port to starboard: full steam ahead.