There seems to be something very half-hearted about moving to a new country then returning ‘home’ for Christmas. I am staying in Prague to experience the season as it is celebrated by the Czechs. Both of my children have arrived – Arrian from Holland where he lives with his dad, and Sara from England where she lives with hers. Neither came alone; Sara is with her boyfriend, Mike, and Arrian is here with two American friends, Seth and Brandon. They are staying at a hostel nearby.
My friend Sara P, not to be confused with my daughter Sara, also has two of her children over from the States. Katherine and Nathan are, like Arrian, in their early twenties and it’s clear from day one that we are all going to get along like a big, happy, if somewhat strange, family.
It’s Christmas Eve and we are shuffled out of a restaurant at 5.30pm so the staff can get home to their families. All bars are shut, the streets are empty. Prague city centre is almost silent. At 6pm we are trudging home, cold and sober, while Czechs are in the bosom of their families, unwrapping presents left under the tree by Baby Jesus and eating their traditional Christmas meal of carp, bought live from the many roadside stalls in the preceding weeks and days. I had hoped to try this questionable delicacy, but it isn’t going to happen.Sara P has been planning an American Christmas dinner – turkey and trimmings - at the house of a new friend. He has assured her that having his home filled with her family and friends on Christmas day will be a great pleasure. She has persuaded me – and in turn I have persuaded my children and guests – that this will be fun.
It’s Christmas Day and our group of six arrives at the end of the Metro line at the appointed hour and squeeze, along with much beer and a few bottles of wine, into every available space in our host’s car. It’s the first time I’ve met him and he is much as Sara P described; an older, corpulent Czech man who seems friendly enough. Sara P had told me that she has had to bat off a few amorous advances, but he now clearly understands that they are ‘just friends’.We arrive and remove our shoes as is polite in Czech homes, and identify the designated outdoor smoking area. Two more of our friends, Laurie and Ray - both Americans, are already there. Sara P and her kids have been there since early this morning, so preparations for dinner are well underway.
Each of us finds our own way to be part of the party. I help Sara P who is still busy in the kitchen, and we chat and laugh and put the finishing touches on the meal. I’m surprised by a few comments made to Sara P by our host; we are both self-assured women, unused to the imperious tones of the Alpha male. We make allowances for his age and culture, but we are a little bit uncomfortable.
We set the table, but our host removes his cutlery setting and replaces them with a knife and fork - each wrapped in barbed wire. Not the decorative kind (if there is such a thing) but the real Steve-McQueen-hopelessly-trapped-with-motorcycle-wheel-still-spinning type of barbed wire. As we all take our places for dinner, there is an unmistakable tension in the air.
Nathan, Sara, Brandon and Seth are in the kitchen as there isn’t enough room at the main table to seat us all. The sound of a bottle smashing in the kitchen stops the conversation. It exploded spontaneously – probably a hairline crack succumbing to the change in temperature from the cold outdoors to the warmth inside. Nathan is already on the case, sweeping up glass and mopping up liquid. Our host storms from the dining room, barking orders and, though I can’t be sure, I think I hear the word ‘bitch’ used against my daughter. Things are getting tense.
Sara P and I volunteer to wash dishes, but our host doubts our ability to wash glasses without breaking them and we are accused of varying degrees of incompetence, which we are now struggling to ignore. We head for the couch and to join in the post-dinner conversation. Arrian, who has enjoyed several of the beers we brought, jokingly asks why it is that all Disney films portray foreigners, especially the English, as stupid or evil. The flimsy veneer of our host’s civility finally cracks wide open and he launches a verbal attack on me; I have hardly said a word yet I stand accused of being anti-American, even as I sit here with my seven friends from the U.S. It’s time to leave.
Laurie and Ray make a sharp exit - they brought their own transport. We still face a twenty minute ride to the Metro in our host’s car, too small for a single trip with our party of nine. We whisper our escape plan in terms of the chicken, the fox and the grain dilemma. We agree on the safest combination of car occupants and announce our departure with polite ‘thank yous’. “She doesn’t have to leave” growls Mr Barbed Wire under his breath, lecherous eyes burning into the back of Sara P’s head. We leave.
It’s still early in the evening, and in the safety of the Metro station we heave a collective sigh of relief, laugh and share details of the most memorable moments of the day. My favourite was sometime after dinner, most of us still seated at the table. Katherine, doing her best to lighten up the electric atmosphere, suggested a game her family used to play when she was younger. “We all take turns,” she said “to tell our funniest or strangest Christmas story….”
