Remember that promised journal of the enthralling car ride through the Czech Republic?   Well, this little brain tumor of mine is being naughty and over-seeded my journal timing and thus we find us 4 months late.  I also realized that had the original story been fully told, as I planned, there was a possibility that you may still not be comfortable sleeping at night.  So, I will spare that version with a more efficient and relaxed index version of events.

• Number of International Drivers Licensed Canadian’s required to drive in Czech Republic: 1
• Number of International Drivers Licensed available in our vehicle: 0
• Amount of fine or jail time if caught: unknown
• Number of motor vehicle signage we observed: 20+
• Number of motor vehicle signage we understood: 2
• Number of times passed by police vehicle: 20+
• Number of heart palpitations while driving by passing police vehicle: 20+
• Number of times we were pulled over by police vehicle: 3
• Number of times closed to crapped pants: 3
• Amount of Czech policeman that interrogated us in Czech: 6
• Number of Czech words we understood during interrogation: 1
• Number of Czech policeman that gave up in frustration and sent us on our way: 6
• The chance I would still have a wife the next time I only half-ass read about rules of the road in a foreign country: 0

Aside from the foreboding cloud of possible prison internment, it was a very quiet, relaxed and wonderful experience especially once we were out of the big city Prague.  However, let me caveat that previous sentence by noting that without our European GPS quiet, relaxed or wonderful may have shifted slightly towards a little less serene.  But, thankfully, the GPS took us everywhere we wanted to go including every WW2 related beacon the Czech Republic could pull out.  I was fine with that! Apparently there was some issue I had forgotten about the car or some such thing– water under the bridge really, eh?

I will certainly post a round of pictures but some of the highlights for us:  Cozy aged hamlets along scenic twisted roads; a night in a an ancient, old castle; Cesky Krumlov, still as beautiful and magical as I remembered; a hike, enchanted in the dark pine forest outskirts of town that quickly turned to panic when my GPS ceased to work; drinking a little too much Mead;  the quickened pace to avoid vampires on the quiet, dark, old town as we walk to our pension; having balked at the richest Russian couple in Karlovy Vary at an Italian restaurant we probably shouldn’t have been in anyway.

Next, Germany and learning about myself.

It was all my fault.

Three weeks earlier Deb and I had sat down and discussed this folly of a road trip to the Czech Republic that we had concocted.  At that stage Deb advised that a flight to Lisbon or Barcelona or Switzerland might be a sound, relaxing alternative to this potentially high stress journey.  I had already been grinding my teeth at night about it, but I had accidentally paid 100 euro up-front for one of our hotel rooms.  So, instead of agreeing with Deb’s sensible flight idea, I threw down four irresistible reasons why we should take our road trip:  Czech’s famous amber jewellery,  Czech’s famous antiques,  Czech’s famous WW2 history, and Czech’s famous hot chocolate. With amber sparkles blinding Deb’s good sense we soon found ourselves only two days from departure.

Now, I had done some preliminary research on the rules of the road in the Czech Republic.  I had heard of the zero tolerance drinking and driving.  I knew about the stamp required to drive on the highways and the large fines you would enjoy without it.  What I had missed, however, was the fact that those of us with citizenship in North America also required an International Drivers License.  Worse, I couldn’t find any mention of the penalty. Jail time? Fines? Expulsion from the Czech Republic? Lashings?  This little miss I found out 12 hours before we were to embark.

After four hours of discussion, debates, heated debates, blame, panic, frustration, anger, and a nap we convinced ourselves it was do or die.  We soon found ourselves on the autobahn, jaws clenched, backs tensed, heading to the Czech border.

We were advised to get our highway stamp from any gas station around 50 km’s from the border.  I wasn’t at all concerned: I knew there would be plenty of options to choose from.  Also, the GPS and I were on good terms since we had left Berlin flawlessly. It had helped me through some difficult detours outside of Dresden and I felt confident we would be advised when the border was getting near.   At what appeared to be about 50 km from the border we decided to turn into the next gas station.  At what appeared to be 40 km from the border we spied a toilet stop with a dubious looking wooden shack, which we decided to ignore.  At what appeared to be 30 km from the border we sailed into the Czech Republic. As I was roaring accusations of betrayal at my GPS we zoomed past a Czech police car on the other side of the highway.  I told Deb I loved her and would write everyday from my dark, Czech prison cell.  To my surprise, Deb did not promise she would wait,  nor did she burst in to tears.  Instead she suggested that we might want to take the turn off up ahead and get a stamp from one of the towns indicated on the road sign.  That worked. I concede that her advice was better than mine, but not nearly as romantic.

Well that was bracing!  Next is Prague, police and more panic!

I know waiting to read about the outcome of our mobile phone troubles has been hard for you all but it was not my intent to delay for cruelty or suspense: it was only a lack of internet.  Let’s unwind those anxious hands, take some deep breathes, and discover what became of Deborah’s mobile plan.

We left off with both Deb and I despondent– all hope on the mobile phone front seeming lost.  No carriers had a sim card for a pay-as-you go plan that fit Deb’s iPhone 4. If we dared to get a contract plan which had the right sim card, it required you be engaged for a 24 month period.   My thoughts of setting her up on some kind of internet laptop online phone concoction were dashed when the only internet I could find had a 3 gig per month maximum.  I cursed silently but with great gusto.

As I was cursing, I had a moment of clarity:  I recalled mention of a surgical method, which entailed cutting a standard sim card to fit into an iPhone 4 micro slot.  It sounded unlikely,  but we already had a 9 euro sim card that didn’t fit and I always liked breaking stuff.  We had nothing to lose.  So I cracked my knuckles, pulled out my Swiss army knife, gave Deb a grim nod, and using our old Bell sim card as a template, I started cutting.  With sweat trickling down my neck,  I made 4 quick incisions. Deb winced but stayed silent.  They were rough cuts, but close.  I made the final cut: a very difficult diagonal one.  It was perfect. “Beautiful,” I heard Deb gasp.  It was done but now was the test, would this even fit in the slot and if it did, had I cut any important electronic nodes?

Man, I wish I could have had the Rocky Theme playing for this because– against all odds– it fit in the slot and worked brilliantly. Now Deb has her very own German mobile phone number.

Now, if you haven’t already fallen off your seat from this little thrill ride, just wait till you hear about our road trip through the Czech Republic.  You will need to Czech your pants when your done (OK, Deb tried to make me remove that last line, but it’s MY FRICKIN’ JOURNAL).

The world should be proud of me, I’m posting a journal at 10:45 pm while sitting on a love seat made for a 4 year old  (don’t ask) after eating a huge scaloppini of veal plate closely followed by a classic magnum.  First of all, this needs to be some kind of world record, that magnum is huge and I can still taste butter after brushing my teeth and scrubbing my face.  Second of all, that magnum sugar rush just ran out and this seat is creaking strangely so no news except that I’m going to bed.

We assumed the problem would be getting a German bank account.  But that was fried eggs easy.  Who knew the eggs benedict hard part of this was equipping Deb with a phone number.  We had planned two full days to sort out the bank and if we still had time left we could pick up a phone plan.  On Monday at 9:00am we hit the bank stacked with DAAD documents, identities, excuses, real facts, fake facts and fake smiles.  At Monday, 9:15am we were done.  Well, that wasn’t so bad darling, I said (ok, it was just a high-five, but Deb felt we should sound more posh because we are in Berlin).  With our road trip to Czech Republic still two days away and 90% of our tasks finished, we decided to spend a relaxed morning at the zoo.   As noon time rolled in, we got a little peckish and slapped that with a curry wurst and fries. Splendid.  A little sleepy from a dose of jet lag and curry wurst we headed back to our hotel for a refreshing nap. Fabulous!  At 2pm, we decided to finish the remainder of our tasks: one German mobile phone plan for one iPhone 4.  Awesome?  Well, no, not awesome unless you included the buttery sweet eclair I ate.

We tramped up and down the Kudamn for the remainder of the day and experienced only rejection and confusion.  Day two at 9am we were back out following our footsteps with a little more knowledge thanks to google and a little more pressure thanks to our imminent road trip.  By 3pm, all we had completed was purchasing a 9 euro sim card that didn’t fit our iphone.  We decided to cut our Czech trip by 3 days in a complex decision that I won’t go into much detail about, suffice it to say troubles with the mobile phone started a chain reaction of panic regarding our internet, my job, our long term apartment and quality of said apartments’ neighborhood.  Now Deb will say it was I who panicked, but I stick to “we” because it’s my frickin’ journal.

Now forget about all that and salivate on these from Berlin’s Ka Da We store!

Scheisse indeed,  it’s 9:30 pm here and I’m now minus one sleep from all these flights and time zone changes  My lovely wife who is currently beside me enjoying some European winks and (don’t tell her I told you) snoring.  I, however, am bitterly waiting till 10:30 pm to sync up my cocktail of medication.  On the cheerful side of things, Deb’s (don’t tell her I told you) snore sounds like a cartoon laser beam.  Which is awesome. Also, I had half of a delicious lemon tart for dinner and the other half is lounging on my bedside table telling me it loves me and that the only way to stay awake till 10:30 is to eat it.

Thanks Lemon Tart, you are the best.

So my wife suggested that I should not discriminate against all those who do not speak English and then had the gall to suggest that it could have been MY fault that I failed French.  Ridiculous! She continued on to remind me that I would be loitering for 10 months in a country where English is not the primary language and that I should learn something about this “German dialect”.  Ridiculous! But I smiled patiently and patted her on the back and sent her off to bed.

After all that discussion and a good stiff 12 hour sleep I realized that I, much like the great explorer Dr. Livingston, should try and explore new cultures and languages as bizarre and unnatural as they may be.

Now, here I am one sleep away from my first of many sleeps in Germany with a 1 word German vocabulary.  Scheisse.