Scribbling #4: Christmas Time

Instead of the traditional Christmas turkey dinner (which was amazingly well prepared this year by our friends the Prices on the 25th), Slovaks have the traditional Christmas carp.  Unfortunately, I'm not too great with fish, especially bottom-feeders which go out of their way to look ugly and be very bony.  So, this year I didn't take the dubious pleasure of having carp at a friend's house - I had the offered chicken instead.  Christmas Day here is also celebrated not on the 25th, but on the 24th, when Baby Jesus Himself gives out the presents.  I'm not sure why the change of date, due to Wikipedia always shutting down on me since people are bored at this time of year and just want to find out about random stuff.

Anyway. :-)

This is how you buy a carp here - while it is still alive.  The seller (usually found outside the large Tesco here in Nitra) nets the ugly thing from one of the fishing tanks. It flaps all over the place while the seller puts it into a bag that isn't filled with water.  The lucky buyer takes the horrible thing home, fills up the bath, and then places said repulsive fish into the bathtub.  This is so that the unsightly fish can 'clean itself out' - whatever that means - and so be a 'cleaner' hideous fish before the buyer has the exquisite pleasure to snuff its life out.  Hopefully the buyer hasn't got too many small children running around, as I'm sure that the repulsive fish will eventually be seen as a family pet and given a name.  Like 'Buttercup' or something.  There'll be tears before bedtime...

The joyously dead fish would then be taken out, gutted, cleaned then cooked and covered with breadcrumbs or somesuch ingredient, served along with cabbage soup.  The latter I will eat with relish, but I will refuse the former.  Sad affair, but there you go.

Mrs C and I have had a great time over the last couple of days with our non-bottom-feeder Christmas, along with friends and no family (except on the phone - it's that way when one of you is a Brit and the significant other is a Canook).  We've loved receiving prezzies and we've really loved giving them out - it's all about the reaction, you know?  Even pumpkin pie was made in the C household - but unfortunately, Yorkshire pudding was not.  Since my birthday is coming up soon, then I can happily wait for that very special occasion. ;-)

Merry Christmas/Vesele Vianoce everyone, and Happy New Year!

Scribbling #3: Dr. House is not available at this time

Mrs. C has been a bit under the weather in recent months, coming down with what seems like chronic fatigue. Although she was getting slightly better over the past month, a rogue pizza brought her down to square one. And then a bad case of congestive flu followed. This, after a bit of cajoling, meant a trip to the doctors - and another new experience for me.

In the UK, we would go to our local General Practitioner (translation for Canadians and other aliens: fammm-i-lyy doc-torr), and he would recommend that we go to a hospital to get ourselves sorted out, if needs be. An appointment would come in through the post six weeks later to go to the hospital, then the doctor there would look at you again, say the exact same things as the GP, then give you another appointment to have more tests carried out etc. in say... a month's time. I'm not having a go at the NHS, since they have saved my life at least twice, but both of those times were an emergency situation. And the second time around I saw seven doctors, all of them getting more and more senior until I saw a guy in a suit. I'm just glad he wasn't wearing a top hat and carrying a tape measure with him. The third time I was there I was given the full force of NHS beauracracy, and I had to throw my proverbial toys out of the metaphorical pram in order to get treatment faster. My dig was this:

‘How come that you're giving me an appointment for an appointment in three weeks time, when my wife-to-be in the Central European country of Slovakia (NB. This was several months ago) can get seen within two weeks AND have surgery?’

This figurative plastic dog hit its mark and I was seen to after the weekend. Treatment went well, nurses and doctors were extremely nice, even the anestilologist had a chat with me before I was put under. Once you get there, the NHS does great work. So I was slightly surprised by Slovakia's 'do-it-all' method.

In two days, we saw the same doctor four times, one doctor for x-rays and another for ears, nose, and lung examination (three for the price of one!). No surgery was needed, antibiotics and a treatment plan was given. And that was it. Right now, Mrs C has the extremely pleasant experience of stuffing a spritzer up her nose and another one for oral use. For the latter, it seems that no-one could be bothered to add 'banana flavour' or something, as it apparently tastes disgusting. At least that's what I've deduced from the exclamations 'bleuuugh!’, ‘arrrgh!’ and my personal favourite, ‘yeuuuch!' that came from Mrs C.

So - Slovak medical health seems to be just fine, with the paperwork cut down and the level of care a good level. It's slightly frustrating being pushed from pillar to post with going from doctor to doctor, but I kind of expected that. And one of the female doctors said that I was good-looking. What's more to add?

Scribbling #2: Customer Disservice

We've just recently bought a 'new-to-us' estate car (translation for Canadians and other aliens: stai-tion waaa-gon) and the first thing that I wanted to do with it was to give it a 'proper' service by having it looked at by the guys at the main VW dealership. We had to get there by 7am, so you can imagine the cat's joy at thinking that he would actually be fed at 6am when we got up and disturbed his slumber. Yeah, right, like I was going to do that and then be disturbed by him head-butting me at 6am for the next two weeks, wanting to be fed.

Anyway...

The service went fine, until we had to pay VW. This in itself was no problem, but we were nearing to the time for a lunch date with a great couple we know in the nearby town of Nove Zamky. I was also interested in trying out and sitting in the big new shiny cars in the dealership that I knew I would never own, because I am not that stupid to buy a brand new car and watch money drop off it like water off a duck's back. That is, until Mrs C called me over to the desk. And gave me that look that most husbands dread, to which our response is to look at the ground and shuffle our feet.

Anyway...

Everything seemed hunky-dory. The Nice Man at the desk told us to wait for a colleague in order to pay and that she'll be there in a couple of minutes. He went off to find said colleague.

We waited. For ten to fifteen minutes. Nice Man came back. He expressed some version of surprise that the colleague had not turned up. We said okay. And we huffed about the time spent waiting. The Nice Man went away again to find the mysterious colleague.

A Nicer Man came who seemed more flustered than the Nice Man that Mysterious Colleague had not turned up yet. In the meantime I was watching the Nice Man wander down to the other side of the dealership to check for Mysterious Colleague to affirm that, yes, no-one existed on the other side of the dealership. It was just us on this side, huffing and puffing. Nicer Man went away with mobile phone in hand. Half an hour had elapsed.

Nice Man came back and with a surge of pro-activeness, decided that he in fact was actually qualified to give us the terminal in order to pay VW for their three and a half hours work. So, we paid Dozy Idiot (nee Nice Man) and were just about to be on our way... when Mysterious Colleague showed up after having her lunch break. We were edging towards the door with our car key in hand at this point, said a quick "Dovidenia" instead of following through to the third stage of huffing and puffing, and the metaphorical Elvis' left the building.

Dozy Idiot still had not finished with us, as he ran out of the building after us and then took half our paperwork away, as most of it was duplicates and stuff they needed for their files. Joy. We were 45 minutes late by this time, for something that should have taken ten. We can't get that time back. This "yeah, whatever" curse seems to be prevalent amongst most main car dealerships here. It's actually the back street ones that joke with you, give you a cup of coffee, do good work on the car, form a relationship and through that, a reputation - but they have no warranty on the parts that they use, unless they put one on themselves, which is rare.

Still, the VW dealership was thorough. And throughout this blog I specifically did not refer to the one  eight minutes outside of Nitra, on the way to Topal'cany. So you can't pin any of this on them, whatsoever.

Scribbling #1: The Hidden Way of Tesco (Slovak Republic)

A vaguely amused audience greeted me on entering Tesco today. Happily, the mirth was not directed at me but at a young woman and older lady combo who were being directed again and again by the security guy through the screamers. Well… you know, those strange things with flashing bulbs by the shop entrance that make a screaming sound not because someone has stolen something but because the cashier didn’t swipe the goods that they’re carrying properly. Anyway, since that type of free entertainment was not particularly rolling-on-floor-laughing-until-I-run-out-of-oxygen-to-breathe (otherwise known throughout the on-line gaming world as ‘ROFLUIROOOTB’), I carried on with my Tesco adventure and didn’t particularly care what happened to the ladies next.

My wanderings to find the necessities of the day are taking less time to carry out. Not because I’m more familiar with the language, only because I know where certain things are in the store. And going by colours for full-, semi- and low-fat. It’s sad to know that, but there you go. But the best thing I found out today was not just the fact that Christmas sales make the better goods cheaper than the Tesco brand – but I found out how to stop the cashier from being so fast with the checking.

Here’s how it usually works for me in Tesco:

1. Having acquired my goods, I queue up to pay, as all good British people do.
2. I gave my Tesco clubcard, as all good and self-aware British people do.
3. I fiddled with the Tesco plastic bags, with the last resort being rubbing my hands together over both sides of said bag in a vain attempt to open it, as all good, self-aware British men do.
4. I gave my money to the cashier after they’ve said the price, as all good British people do.
5. The Keeper of the Till gives me my Clubcard, change and receipt. And doesn’t bother to wait for me to finish bagging and carries on with the next customer.
6. I feel amazingly pressured while I’m trying to open a stupid plastic bag. The customer after me pays and then leaves while I’m still mucking about.
7. Afterwards, I go home, feeling slightly depressed about the whole Slovak Tesco experience and wishing once more that we were talented enough to train the cat to go instead of us.

This time around, I got to step four and my brain retaliated. It had sub-consciously found the Way of the Slovak Tesco for the British Man. Before then, it was on a metaphorical cigarette break. Anyway:

4. I gave more money and change than was needed. This gave me more time in bagging, because the cashier doesn’t then check it once, s/he checks it twice, then gives me some of the change back in return, with a slight condescending smile.
5. The Keeper of the Till gives me my Clubcard, change and receipt. I have finished bagging.
6. I go home, feeling rather happy about the whole experience. Not only that but the Keeper is also happy, as s/he has believed that s/he has actually helped a customer today. Or alternatively s/he is slightly ticked off by the silly foreigner who can’t open a plastic bag to save his life and gives her the wrong change. Whatever, I don’t actually care about the cashier.

This is the Way of the Slovak Tesco.