Fika: Getting Coffee, or "Getting Coffee"?

A lot of the allure of traveling to the UK was that we would finally be surrounded by English speakers again—we’d understand signage and finally be able to strike up casual conversation with strangers using more than a limited lexicon mostly related to transportation or how much things cost.

Maybe being in Slovakia for seven months has just programmed me to pry into other languages and mine for new vocabulary, but the Swedes we met in York taught me a few words that are not just a different way to say things I already knew, but new terms all together. At least one of them should be straight-up assimilated into all languages, or at least English.

Getting coffee, hanging out, sort-of-kind-of-on-a-date-but-not… I presume ever since the existence of public establishments where pairs of people could meet up and be served a hot drink (because getting hot drink in not the same as getting a pint or some kind of alcohol), the café or coffeehouse venue has been used as a dater-tester scoping ground. Maybe because it cultivates a causal atmosphere and there’s not a lot of pressure—I mean we’re just drinking tea, it’s totally harmless. You can do it any time of day (or even night) and the time commitment is left very open-ended. If you are not feeling the other person you can drain your latte or espresso shot quickly then say how nice it’s all been but you really have to get back to whatever it is you were doing. If however you find yourself on the same wavelength as this prospective, you can sit there and nurse a cup of chai for hours, or get that free refill on your simple cup of drip. You don’t have to stress out about looking smokin’ hot, and if you’re lucky, you will be sitting in giant overstuffed chairs or on sofas.

The trouble with “getting coffee” though is that the safety and neutrality of the above helps amplify the ambiguity of the social interaction—what if one person thinks it is just drinking coffee with someone instead of alone or with a crumpled newspaper, while the other is already anticipating where and when the next date will take place. WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE!?

In Swedish, practically all of the above can be condensed into one [short] word: Fika.

While the term can also be used in a strictly platonic way and happen with pre-established friends or family, fika usually refers to this preliminary step in the dating process. Says Tomas, my Swedish source, “you’re checking it out, but you’re still not sure.” So while you try to get more sure you sip on a hot chocolate, or even a smoothie (I asked if fika was strictly confined to caffeinated beverages, he said it’s not), and there’s probably cookies or something involved too.

On my last day in Edinburgh I sat in a café flipping through a Scottish newspaper and soaking up the atmosphere with the good music, the good coffee, the English…for the last time in a while. Not that I was eavesdropping, but I overheard one of the women who worked there saying, “So he invited me out for coffee—what does that mean? I’m like, seriously, I work in a coffee shop and you want to go out for coffee?” I just had to chuckle. Clearly this guy was trying to initiate something, but like most of us non-Swedish speakers he just didn’t have the right box in his brain or word to concisely express his intentions which are most simply to see about dating her.

He needs fika. He needs a word and concept that will actually support his case, and not just make him look like an unobservant space-cadet. We all need fika. I’m still not exactly sure how the word is used—do you go to fika, have a fika, make fika—just fika? But until I figure out how exactly to use the word I’ll at least know when.


* the photos are of the Swedish (and Japanese guy) we met, some example of potential fika fare but in a friend not dater way, and just some pictures I figured I'd post while I had the space.

York and Edinburgh: spring break extravaganza 2010

I just got back from my first proper spring break in 4 years. My medievalist friend and I spent a week in the UK, more specifically in the medieval (yet also hip and modern) towns of York and Edinburgh. First of all, I never thought the UK was on my radar—too close, too similar or I don’t even know. That presumption has been completely dismantled. Also, about seven months ago, during one of our first real conversations Rachel expressed her affinity for walled cities to me, and her desire to one day venture to York. Funny how things come to fruition.

Over the next week or so look out for recaps, photo clumps (since I can really only do 4 or so at a time and it takes FOREVER to upload I will try to present them to you in some thematic manner) and your standard Whitney ruminations. Enjoy!

More Ples photos

Hey, these are more photos from the most recent dance I attended.

Further note-- in the first set of pictures, from the last post, the pictures of the fire twirlers, the group shot, and the photo of Heidi and Megan were in fact taken by Rachel Liptak, aka Dame Rachel the Stupid Rad.

If I Had it to Do Over...Oh Wait, I Do

The cool thing about teaching high school is that in some respects you get a second shot at doing or improving all the activities you didn’t do the first go around. For example, I somehow recently fell into the role of English public speaking coach (primarily to chaperon a group of students to a competition in Zilina), a faculty/American representative in the debate club, and I have also attended a whole handful of dances most closely related to American proms and homecoming, yet still an entirely different animal.

It is sort of ridiculous that I became the defacto public speaking/debate coach, because all the formal experience I have with the realm is a public speaking class I took in 8th grade (your topic is “pasta.” You have two minutes.”), the obligatory speech class from freshman year a high school, and the values debate class I strategically had to take my freshman year seeing as I’d used Mullen’s debate club—and Saint Mary’s Academy’s lack thereof—as my cornerstone argument for attending the school while my dad and I viciously battled over where I’d go. I vaguely remember how to flow a debate (don’t you just take notes?) and when I set out to make note cards for my debut debate phrases like “Lexus Nexus” bubbled right to the surface of my memory. It sort of felt like picking up an old neglected bicycle; the chain is pretty corroded, but with a little TLC I’ll be back in tip-top shape in no time.

This time around I also think the idea of debating is much cooler than I did when I was a self-conscious confused high schooler. Wow, am I an old woman already? I’m starting to echo Rod Stewart, “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger…”

As far as coaching or teaching public speaking goes, I have absolutely no formal training in that either. Let’s be honest though, I’m pretty comfortable talking in front of groups of people, I’ve even been told I’m kinda good at it once or twice. After perusing some websites in search of legit coaching resources but only finding this woman’s page where she emphasized every other syllable and used the most redundant and over the top hand gestures, I decided that I would just wing it and go with my gut. In preparation for our big meet we met after school a few times, rehearsed our speeches, and I gave tips that originated mostly out of a synthesis between my experiences talking and believe it or not, crew. I told the students to set a timer for their allotted amount of time and while practicing in front of the mirror just start talking. That way they would really know what performing for three, four, or five minutes feels like. We used to do this while practicing visualization—sprawled out on the floor, eyes closed, we’d imagine taking strokes while our coxswain barked us through a theoretical 2K.

When the big day came, we made the there-and-back journey of over 8 hours (with a little engine trouble and a brief period of being lost thrown in for good measure) for 3-5 minutes of speaking and none of the EGT contestants advanced into the final round. Out of 115 participants though, only 12 students proceeded onwards, and they all came from power-house schools in Bratislava where everyone is practically fluent in English. Initially some of my girls (I took six young ladies) were a little deflated, they felt intimidated in front of these hot shots that “spoke like native speakers,” and even threw around some attitude. I think the competition was excellent exposure though, now they’ve seen outside of the cave, they know what could be and what others their own age are already capable of. A few of them were still riding their exhilarated high when we piled back into the school van, already thinking about returning next year and taking NAMES. When I suggest we start up a more regular English olympiada club they all jumped at the idea.

Dancing Queens

As far as the dances go, I somehow never got up the gumption to write about any of the three stuzkovas I attended in November and December. Those events are perhaps best defined as a hybrid between graduation, a bar/bat mitzvah, a debutant ball, and senior prom all rolled into one. In an incredibly stoic presentation the 5th year students are awarded green ribbons which sort of signify their growing up. Believe it or not, these kids mostly manage to keep track of them and affix them to the outside of their jackets or bags for the rest of the year, broadcasting their status as soon-to-be graduates to the rest of the world. I’d loose mine in about ten seconds or leave it on some clothing that went through the wash or something. It’s kind of funny to me because in the classroom some of these students seem like such disinclined zombies, yet they take the whole program and all of the formalities very seriously. For a more comprehensive debrief of stuzkova you’ll just have to wait until next year.

The most recent dance I attended was Ples, which is like prom, except underclassman can also attend. The Slovak version however kicks off at 6:00 p.m. in the town cultural center. Instead of droves of teenagers getting together for a pre-dance dinner a-la-restaurant, the event includes a meaty multiple course meal, because honestly it’s not like there are anywhere near enough restaurants in town to accommodate. Just like Stuzkova there is also a formal greeting toast and some official programming. Some of my students sung a duet together, one 4th year girl’s little brother played a few songs on the saxophone, and one boy performed a few saucy ballroom dance numbers thereby displaying his mad extracurricular skills. The big surprise was the fire twirlers. Yeah, fire twirlers. Bet you didn’t have that at your prom, eh?

After the programming the evening activities alternated between eating and waltzing sessions. That’s another thing—I bet nobody did the foxtrot at your prom—I bet nobody there even knew how. To be fair, most people at Ples weren’t exactly virtuosos of the dance floor, but I was tickled pink to see my students out there giving it a try. And it’s classy, right? Actually, the format of the night is great for would-be wallflowers because it allows you to progressively warm up and ease into the “Disco disco” dancing that doesn’t start until about 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning.

Cleaning away the Crazy

February is nuts for me. From the first of the month to the second week in March no two weeks have congruent schedules, I’m constantly in and out of town—it feels like I’m riding a mammoth wave, trying my best to balance on nothing more substantial than water. Just in general (though especially when I find myself so busy and all over the place) I tend to vacillate between the paradigm of organization and quite the opposite. One day I’ll be on-point: everything in its place—no dishes in the drying rack or stray laundry draping over a chair, my planner full of neatly crossed-out and therefore accomplished tasks—illustrating the whole clean house clean mind kind of thing. But then an extra anthology harmlessly gets left on my kitchen table, random pens or coins start to materialize on my shoe rack, and a blizzard of miscellaneous handouts rapidly begins to accumulate before I even know what’s going on. A film of dust suddenly coats everything, acting like its been there all along but I swear I just swept a few days ago… flurries of dust fuzzies creep along the edges of furniture, strategically planning their takeover of my apartment.

My newly renovated place came with some pretty strict guidelines in terms of how exactly I am allowed to utilize my living space. Along with not being able to keep a bike in it or affix things to the newly white-washed walls, are the explicit boldfaced instructions not to “movie the furniture.” Maybe it’s because even looking at some of the pieces threatens to break them, or because management had their own feng shui plan in mind when they originally set the place up. Whatever the reason, I’ve been a pretty compliant tenant thus far.

Saturday morning however, I woke up badly in need of some grounding and planning on doing a little tidying—maybe wash my floors, organize some of the clutter, etc. Still clad in my pajamas, after my morning cup of joe and a perusal of an old issue of “The Economist,” I decided to tackle the most superficial level of cleaning—sweeping. With the intention of doing an especially thorough job I performed the forbidden task of slightly nudging my couch-like twin bed over about an inch to discover a line of debris that my broom has just missed during previous cleanings. I nudged it again, a little more this time, to find yet more surface area that had been providing asylum to dust and whatever else accumulates under people’s beds. Before I even realized what I was doing I found myself in the midst of a full-scale “movie of the furniture.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in a Pottery Barn catalogue apartment, my place is not tricked out with IKEA accessories. Out of the few articles of furniture I do have pretty much nothing matches, unless you consider blonde plywood a style, or count the three complimentary blue tablecloths CSM provided for artsy draping. I sort of have a running bet with myself over when some of the furniture is just going to break (my favorite chair already did). Therefore rearranging wasn’t the most labor intensive task ever.

The second I started pushing things around the room though I begun to feel better. I discovered and utilized the secret-surprise storage space under my bed, thereby clearing off a small side table which was previously used for nothing more than apparently seeing how high I could stack piles of books, papers, and notebooks. Now I finally have a desk to work at. I used to just use my kitchen table, but like I said before, it quickly became overwhelmed with and confused by conflicting materials—I constantly had to push my computer out of way or risk spilling/dripping food on it, and I often found it hard to focus or do work while sitting there anyways. Is this work time or play time?

My most excellent rearranging didn’t just involve moving furniture—the huge paper purge I performed instantly made me feel lighter. I tend to be a pack-rat; I hate to throw stuff away in the event that I might sort of need it in the future, or I sometimes find myself over sentimentalizing things, like some cards from Christmas presents that said, “Merry Christmas Whitney,” or my nametag from the special Thanksgiving dinner we had. But if I hang on to every little slip of paper that says “Whitney Medved” on it for the next year and half, I’m going to need a suitcase just for those. And do I really need the paper snowflakes we made in class before Christmas break? I decided that I need to adapt a much more hard-line approach: have I used/thought about it in the last 30 days? Is it really important? If not, it’s out of here. While I didn’t have my mom’s token paper shredder, I did find myself ripping slips of paper into tiny shreds, both when it was and was not necessary. We really do become our parents.

After I had rearranged, paper-purged, and swept up all the residual dust, it was time to really make the place sparkle. Even though I don’t do it that frequently, washing my floors might be one of my favorite household chores. It is also the most physically demanding. I’m too cheap to invest in a plastic bucket for the soapy water, so I just stop up the bathroom sink (the square footage of my apartment is so small that the size of the basin really suffices, and I don’t do it that often). I also don’t have a mop, because the crappy one that I inherited in the beginning of the year snapped in half during one particularly vigorous scrubbing. The washcloth I use now actually works much better, especially when I assume the position on my hands and knees. You can really put a lot more leverage into scrubbing floors this way—I’m talking full shoulder extension. Sometimes I even find myself splayed out on my stomach with one arm jammed into a hard-to-reach corner and my opposite leg fully extended, looking for that extra reach. Anyways, once I start on my floors I undergo this complete transformation.

I must be a little OCD, because while I scrub I use the faux wood grain of my linoleum floors and articles of furniture for check-points or boundaries of the area I need to cover in between rag rinses—Ok, I’ll get this corner up through the foot of the bed…this time I’ll go in a straight line from the end of the wardrobe across the room to the edge of the door frame. Picture me crawling around in my miss-matched pajamas with my house flip-flops on, my crazy hair thrown up in a lopsided bun, glasses repeatedly slipping down the bridge of my nose as my face starts to lightly perspire, and my un-supported chest swinging as I rock back and forth furiously scrubbing, all the while alternating direction and length of strokes. I even find myself counting in my head sometimes. Weird….

In the recent article “The joy of dirt,” from “The Economist,” a collection of essays all about crazy ladies and their cleaning obsessions is mentioned. The editor of the collection sums up our hang up with cleanliness saying, “we make sense of our lives, sort out our messes, restore order to psyches, work out our anger and frustration, rediscover the beauty in our lives, and express our love for (and resentment toward) others.” (132) Now, judging but what I told you about my cyclical feeling of suddenly finding myself in the aftermath of an A bomb-like explosion, I think we can hardly say I am “obsessed” with cleaning. But whenever I do go on one of my benders I’m pretty sure the emotional and psychological effects I experience match the above description almost point for point. My schedule might [still] be out of control, but at least I know when I come home at the end of the day my environment, and therefore my life, isn’t.

I still kind of suck at cleaning the bathroom though.

An Ode to Grants

I guess in accordance with the title of this article I should start out with something like, “Oh Grant! Ye enabler, I love thee, how you rock my world!” Seriously though, I love grants. I just got back from my Fulbright mid-year conference, and after spending a weekend talking with people in my similar situation my utter disbelief in what I’ve been able to do this year is renewed. The Slovak commission is a little top-heavy with English teaching assistants this year (there are 8 of us, and only a handful of scholars or lecturers (*insert here, people who are pretty established in their life/ career paths and know more or less what they’re doing). The conference was joined with the Czech Republic though, who have far more of the later breed of grantees, which means I got to pick the brains of older, wiser, more experienced people as well as digest my adventures so far with other youngins’. I’m pretty sure I came away with a least one new mentor.

My fellow ETA’s and I (both Slovak and Czech) spent some time at the conference commiserating about the woes of our teaching assignments—the gross prevalence of plagiarism, the disorganized and often unpredictable nature of the Czech and Slovak educational systems, and the incredible task of trying to get students to speak in English Conversation class. Our complaints by no means pervaded the atmosphere though, because most of us couldn’t wait to talk about what a trip some of our students are, the cool ways we had found to weasel our ways into our respective communities, and how COOL it is that we’ve been given this year for exploration, experience, and development. Whether we were fresh out of undergrad, or had been dabbling with other prospects for a few years post-college (a few of the grantees did some work with Americore) none of us were quite ready to head off to graduate school this past fall but we all wanted to do something sort of kind of related to academics and or professionalism. I’m pretty sure the Fulbright grant has delivered more than some of us were expecting.


This video was supposed to be part of my presentation, because there is no way to sum up or concisely capture everything that I’ve been doing this year. We live in a visually stimulated society right, I’m going to roll with the old cliché “an picture says a thousand words.” I hope it’s not cheating if I include a little video too…

more photos from ski week...

January Update skiing...

It’s been a while since I’ve written, maybe because nothing has really happened—or maybe because everything has happened, and I just don’t know where to begin with the little nuances of my everyday life…

I guess for starters I’ve decided to stay another year. Predicated upon that decision, I decided to buy a pair of skis. I already had all of my gear sans the boards and poles, and after making it out a few times I finally came to the conclusion that: a) repeatedly renting gear plus buying tickets was getting spendy, b) in Slovakia ski resorts are not always equipped with rental facilities, and c) it SUCKS getting new gear every time (pretty frequently crappy gear) and always having to spend the first few runs acclimating. I figure over two years the skis will at least pay for themselves, and I was able to cut a deal with the headmistress so that I can sell them to the school for a reduced price when I leave.

The times that I have managed to make it to the hill so far I’ve mostly gone with Helena, the headmistress, and some configuration of her family. I love it, because in the CO (with the exception of a few friends) I mostly go skiing with my own family and a core group of close family friends. We have the system down—if you’re around for Sunday it is family ski day, your gear better be ready the night before, we’re pulling out at 6:30, and we’ll be on one of the first few chairs probably singing our repertoire of rando songs. We know where/when to meet people, we have a pretty standard territory we like to cover, everyone has pretty comparable (and competent) abilities—there’s no messing around. Even in college, the few times I skied Kirkwood in California I went with one of my roommates and her family who also has a pack of friends they crusade the ski slopes with.

Skiing with Helena’s family sort of reminds me of skiing with my own—Helena, her husband Vlado, and her son Martin are all great skiers. Martin even helped me unlock the issues I was having with my own technique: “you aren’t finishing your turns”. I scrutinized what he said for a moment, and then, Eureka! A light bulb went off and I had flashbacks of ski coaches at dry-erase boards. So that’s what they meant with all those dots and horseshoe squiggles… Vlado even reminds me of Bill Maffeo, the unofficial Alpha male of my home ski squad. Vlado is a man of few words (and not even because of language barrier) and usually means business. I first met him on that bike ride to gulas, where he was also the leader. He doesn’t like to wait around and he hates being late or delayed. Therefore, the first time I went skiing with them I made sure I was posted up a good ten minutes early—between all the grooming from my own family and four years of collegiate crew, the slogan “on-time is late” is pretty much engraved in my brain. Also, making a good first impression with this guy was going to be crucial for the success of my future Slovak skiing career. When the car pulled up Helena stumbled out to help me load my gear, moaning, “Ooooh, Vlado is pushing me this morning, he is saying ‘ve are late, ve should have gone by now! Ahhhh!” Yup, this guy’s for real. So for real in fact, that he and his family and a bunch of friends make an annual ski pilgrimage to the Dolomites in Italy, and I am the most stoked girl because this year I will also be going on that adventure! WOO!!!

The thing about Slovak ski areas though (or at least those that I’ve seen) is that they are nothing like the ones in Colorado. I’ve only been to one that has an actual ski lift (Chopok Jur (South)) which is equivalent to chair one at Loveland in terms of length, but by no means terrain. Most areas are accessible only by pomas, and the “lift lines” or rather poma lines that form in from of them are the biggest cluster*&%$* I have ever seen. There is no trace of order in the mob that starts to form right in front of the automated ticket scanner, no unspoken rules for alternating or letting the person in front of you actually remain in front of you. Instead people press up against each other, making sure to inch their skies forward every possible millimeter even if it means stepping on yours. The snow situation hasn’t been too gorgeous, so mostly we just ski groomers. But hey- beggars can’t be choosers.


Right now EGT is in the midst of ski week—yeah, we get to leave school to go practice our ski skills for an entire week. I would explain more, but I’ve rambled enough. I’ll get back on my horse soon, I promise…