Jakub had suggested we stop in Ceske Budejovice on our way to Cesky Krumlov, so we searched couchsurfing for hosts and managed to find Zuzana, an outdoorsy woman who lived with her husband and two sons near the city center of CB.
A FAMILY! Hallelujah. I love families. Staying with Jakub, Fabio and Petr was marvelous, but I miss dinners at reasonable hours and bedtimes that follow suit. Family usually means no partying. And no partying usually means Aimee can escape to bed when her body asks her nicely -- like when the "check oil" light comes on in a car. Not by the time her body freaks out -- like that one time my alternator went out in Grand Junction and the power steering died and all the lights started flashing and the speedometer started swinging from side to side and the gas stopped working and I thought that aliens had taken over my car.
That is me after midnight.
My power steering dies and aliens take over.
Zuzana met us at a cafe near the main square of Ceske Budejovice at around five, and we chatted with her and her son Jakub about couchsurfing, Colorado and sports.
I love that I have Boy. Whenever a conversation turns to sports, I can trust that he'll take over. He'll entertain and I can just zone out a little bit and not have to pretend that a) I actually know what's going on when this dreadful topic arises , or b) feel embarrassed for knowing nothing about sports. Except that Boy's favorite team is Liverpool and that Gareth Bale plays for Wales and has a super awesome man bun.
Zuzana led us through the city and to her home on the 3rd floor of a cute little apartment building across the Vltava River. This river runs 430 kilometers, is the longest river in the Czech Republic and was the inspiration for Smetana to write his twelve minute piece appropriately called, "Vtlava."
"He wrote it with the river in mind," Zuzana told us. "The song starts off fast and not so loud... then it becomes slow, the music crescendos as the river gets larger, then -- well, you should listen to it. Listen to it and imagine the river."
Boy and Jakub talked hockey and football while I lost myself to the music and Zuzana prepared a family dinner.
Gosh... I needed this kind of quiet. This kind of peaceful familial feeling.
Surfing with a family means early to bed, early to rise, as most families have kids who attend school and parents who work. So Boy and I said goodbye to our new friends and told them they ought to come visit us, wherever we end up.
Jakub... is only seventeen. I wonder how Couchsurfing is shaping his perception of people and the world. He's learning that you can invite total strangers into your home from anywhere and everywhere, and not only is it safe, but you can learn a lot and have a really pleasant time.
I think this world needs more mothers like Zuzana.
Boy and I drank our morning coffee in a small square next to one of Ceske Budejovice's morning fruit and veg markets, then went to have lunch with another couchsurfing host.
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| This is how Boy looks when he knows coffee is coming |
We arrived in Cesky Krumlov around three o'clock in the afternoon. As this small village has approximately two active couchsurfing hosts who accept more than one guest, I hadn't even bothered sending out requests. Not only was I exhausted from all the rejections, I was feeling a little worn out of always being in another person's space.
Nearly everyone we've stayed with has been just extraordinary. From easy-going Jack whom I tormented with Veggie Tales YouTube videos, to Petr, who was probably the most helpful couchsurfing host of all time. But I need a break from following the schedules of others. Of having to deal with one set of keys divided amongst three groups of people, of feeling like I have to engage when all I need is introvert time. To write, to paint, to listen to podcasts as I figure out how to knit beer mittens.
Paying forty dollars for our two nights in Cesky Krumlov is less than ideal, but it's what I need for my emotional health. These are the costs one incurs when traveling the world as a introvert.
We stuffed our backpacks into the hostel's lockers, then pranced out into the picturesque village, feeling like proper low-budget travelers.
"We're staying in a hostel," I mused. "Feels so strange. We haven't had to pay for accommodation since Iceland. In three whole months of traveling, we've maybe paid for one week of housing. And most of that week was because of freaking Reykjavik. Isn't that nuts?"
Boy and Girl wandered Cesky Krumlov in a state of bliss, keys to our hostel jangling in our pockets, aware that we could return at any time we pleased and be required to interact with no one. Not even our four Australian roommates who'd just finished the Run of the Bulls in Pamplona.
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| Boy eats the last Turtleneck stuffed with ice cream. |
Boy wanted to buy wine (Boy always wants to buy wine), so we popped into yet another wine shop to have a gander at the varieties and at the prices.
I don't know how many more wine shops I have left in me. Back in Grand Junction, we'd go to a wine shop once, maybe twice a week. It was fun to see how excited Boy got while looking at different labels and it was amusing to see how he'd get me to view the budget in such a way that purchasing a moderately expensive bottle really made sense. But now, we go into three, maybe four wine shops on the daily. And I'm bored. I'm so, so bored. I don't care what region in France the wine is from. I'm not interested in the appellation or the vintage. I just want to get something that's not too tanniny to drink with my cheese.
I can't believe I'm bored. I never get bored. Like, ever. Probably because I rarely do anything I don't actually want to do.
I don't think I want to go into three, maybe four wine shops a day.
But just as I was reaching the end of my, um, vine (see what I did there?), Tibor introduced himself. And happily gave us free tastes of his wine, showed us his many spice mixtures, let us try all his jams and jellies, and let us know from the beginning that, "You really don't have to buy anything. I'm just showing you for fun. I have nothing else to do."
In the end, we tried to purchase a half bottle of Hungarian red wine for sixty Czech crowns. Tibor shook his head at the size of the bottle and said, "It's too small. What will you do with that? Here, let's do some business," he took my hundred crown bill and handed me a bottle worth nearly two hundred. "Maybe I lose a little," he shrugged his shoulders.
"Are you kidding me?" Boy's face lit up.
"You just made our night, Tibor. Wow. Thanks so much," I said, entirely taken aback by the kindness of the owner of the random Hungarian wine shop into which we'd somehow stumbled.
We drank Tibor's wine in the main square, listening to street performers and watching the village transform itself as into a kind of dazzling jewel that the blanket of darkness revealed.
We woke in time for a sunrise. As we always seem to do.
Wherever I go, I'm sure I'll step into every wine shop I see. I'll actually care about regions and appellation and producers and shit. Because they'll make me think of the Boy who isn't here.
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