If you’re reading this now: I’ll be in Paris.
My entire closet is on the floor. Three sundresses are packed into my suitcase, and everything else is scattered on my floor in chaotic piles. I’m debating whether to pack nail polish or a pair of uncomfortable heels that feel like torture devices but are still really cute.
I’m facing a major crisis: my suitcase isn’t big enough I have deemed too many items essential.
My favorite pair of jeans from Abercrombie (which I have to custom order extra tall because I’m 5’10” and have the longest legs ever) are coming with me. My curl cream, for the humid days when the heat resurrects my curly hair, is currently in the maybe pile. My pair of Brooks running shoes? Sadly, there’s not enough room, and they’re falling apart anyway.
Packing for a two-month study abroad in the fashion capital of the world is overwhelming.
I’m sitting on my bed, engrossed in this mess, working on a deadline for The Post. Every five minutes, my mom pops into my bedroom to hug me. She knows she’ll miss me, and I’ll miss her too. I’ll still FaceTime her while brushing my teeth and text her dumb selfies in front of famous landmarks.
This whole scene feels familiar. Exactly two years ago, I was doing the same thing – stressing over a suitcase – only that time I went to Prague to study abroad for the summer.
Today, I’ve been thinking a lot about Prague. Mainly what I packed, what I forgot to pack and what I really shouldn’t forget this time.
Back then, I was a ball of anxiety. I was moving to a country I had never visited before. I didn’t speak Czech, I didn’t know anyone going and I didn’t know my way around the city. I met my roommates in our apartment while unpacking and hoped for the best.
I metaphorically plugged my nose and cannonballed into the unknown. Turns out, it was one of the best decisions I ever made. I lived with four other girls (it worked out, despite minor arguments over hair being clogged in the shower). A week after moving in, I became a pro at navigating the metro and could confidently order food in Czech. I ended up having a great time.
Honestly, if I could figure out Prague, I can figure out Paris. I’ve studied French since middle school, so at least I’ll be able to order a croissant and ask where the bathroom is.
My summer in Prague was bizarre, and one of the strangest yet coolest experiences of my life. It was a fever dream with goulash and great public transportation. My favorite memories live in my camera roll and my travel diary – and now in this dramatic tale for The Post.
An omen?
I’m a firm believer in signs from the universe. Weird things happen to me all the time, like a suspicious amount. I’m convinced all these little occurrences are signposts guiding me in the right direction.
When my political science professor mentioned that he ran a Slavic studies scholarship, I was interested. Half because I am always interested in scholarships as a college student, and half because I am interested in Slavic studies. I spent the semester working with him on a project researching Polish voting trends.
It seemed obvious that he recommended me for this scholarship. I wrote an essay (a very pretty one, might I add, because I am a journalism student) and got the scholarship.
Here’s the catch: the scholarship had to be used toward Slavic studies. Seems easy enough, right? Not so much. Oakland didn’t offer any classes that fit the requirements, so I started looking for a study abroad program.
There was only one study abroad program available, so I signed up for it. I wish I could tell some romantic story about always dreaming about going to Prague, but I can’t. The war in Ukraine had shut down every other Slavic country’s program. I quite literally only had one option.
But honestly, having only one option was kind of nice. I couldn’t stress over which country to pick, and there was no fear of choosing the wrong option. So off I went to Prague.
My daily life
I settled into a routine. Life in Prague was cool, like you stepped into a postcard with friendly locals and cheap, hearty food.
Each morning, I would eat breakfast and then take the metro to Vyšehrad. From the metro stop, it was about a 20-minute walk to class.
This wasn’t your average commute to class. My walk to class was literally a famous tourist destination. Tourists from all over the world would come to admire Vyšehrad, gawking with their cameras while I would walk past them half-asleep with granola in my teeth.
The famous path wound along ancient stone walls with a beautiful overlook of the city. The walking path is lined with stone gates, cobblestone streets and quiet gardens. According to legend, Vyšehrad was the hill where Prague was founded, so I was studying at the most ancient part of the city.
I spent my morning in a Czech film class. A little section of my brain knows way too much about “Daisies,” “The Fireman’s Ball,” and media under communism. I’m hoping one day Jeopardy gives me a Czech cinema category.
Our professor, an older woman with a thick Czech accent, had lived through those times. Between movie clips, she’d share her stories. I sat wide-eyed listening to her firsthand accounts of history I had only read about in textbooks. One second, we’d be discussing mise-en-scène, and the next second, she’d tell us about how her apartment got raided.
After film class, I had an hour-long lunch break. My friends and I would sprawl out on the grass. We would eat sandwiches, laugh about the night before, sunbathe like cats and plan out the rest of our day.
After lunch, I went to a Czech language class. The first ten minutes of class were always spent grading homework. Then, our professor would clap her hands together, stand up, smile and say, “Výborný!” (meaning excellent). That was our cue – we all grabbed our things and followed her. It was cafe time.
My teacher had many talents: patience with struggling students and an impressive ability to charm the owners of cafes in the area. She’d lead us to some tucked-away spot where the owner would greet her with a hug and show us to a big table already set aside.
She had a deal: she’d bring business from her students, and in exchange, the staff would be patient with her students while we practiced ordering. Waiters would gently correct our pronunciation and verb conjugation. Every afternoon, we would have coffee, and our teacher would help us decode the menu.
One of my friends, a sorority girl from the south, was especially good at distracting our professor. She would ask her about her life in Prague, and next thing you know, we’re sipping cappuccinos while getting marriage advice from our professor who’s in the middle of a divorce.
The rest of the afternoon was spent catching up on homework (sometimes) or exploring (always). Every night at sunset, my roommates and I would end the night with a sweet treat. We’d catch the metro to Charles Bridge, grab trdelník or gelato and gossip along the cobblestones. The castle would glow in the distance, and street musicians were the soundtrack to our night.
Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?
Kraków
As one does while studying abroad, I also had many weekend trips. I’d shove a change of clothes into a backpack and bolt for the train station.
One weekend, my friend and I set off for Kraków, Poland for 36 hours. I was only there for two full days, booked a room in a hostel for one night and got approximately four hours of sleep the whole weekend. I’m also proud to announce that with my budgeting skills and ability to cheap things out, the entire experience cost me around $80.
In addition to being a crazy weekend trip, it was also a homecoming of some sorts. All eight of my great-grandparents were born in Poland, some from Kraków. I’m so Polish that my last name means Polish giant, which adds up considering my height.
My first time in Poland felt like a big family reunion, except with no family asking why I was still single. I turned a corner and did a double-take because someone looked exactly like my grandmother. Everyone had my nose: long, slender and with a bump in the middle.
I did all the Kraków essentials: walked the main square, explored Wawel Castle and ate more Polish food in 36 hours than I had my entire life. I ate my favorite comfort food, consumed at least 100 pierogi and had a great time.
My French is better than my Czech, and my Czech is better than my German, and my German is better than my Polish. Basically, all I could say were greetings, food and the birthday song “Sto lat.” I’m sure my ancestors were rolling in their graves, screaming at me.
We had a school event on Sunday afternoon, so we booked a night train for Saturday night around midnight. Naturally, this meant we went out dancing before catching the train.
It’s 11:45, we’re at the train station in sweaty clothes and a full backpack, and I realize something is wrong.
“Oh my god, we are so screwed,” my friend said.
Our ticket isn’t for Saturday night, it’s for Sunday night. All the hostels were full for the weekend, the train station was full of sketchy characters and we had nowhere to sleep.
I calmly walked over to the ticket desk, and in broken Polish I asked to get on the night train for that night that leaves in approximately 10 minutes.
“Sorry, we are all booked,” the lady said, quite meanly with a scowl.
We sat there, backpacks between our legs, and thought about what to do.
“Mallory, you’re cute and know more Polish than I. Go try again,” my friend said.
I was officially elected leader of this ticket disaster. I summoned fake tears, channeled my inner actress and tried again.
“Okay, but only bad seats left,” the lady said.
“We will take it!” I replied.
What did she mean by “bad seats” on a Polish night train? At the last car of the train, they have something called temporary seats. If you’re only on for an hour, there is no need to sleep on a bed. Instead, it’s an upright chair, the lights stay on all night and people come and go the entire night.
So, we slept there. I held my backpack on top of my legs and put a hoodie over my eyes. It was the worst sleep of my entire life. My neck still hurts to this day.
At 4:00 AM, and an old Polish man tapped me on the shoulder. I rubbed my eyes open. Our train was stopped. We were in a field in the middle of nowhere. He looked at me with a confused face and asked me where we were. I shrugged, and whispered “I don’t know” in Polish.
At 6:00 AM, and the same man tapped me on the shoulder again. We were in the same field. Our train was lost in rural Poland. I looked at him, and he looked at me. We exchanged a confused glance, and then we both started laughing at the absurdity of it –our train was lost, it was the middle of the night and we had no idea what was going on.
At noon, we made it into Prague. We were supposed to arrive at 7:00 AM. Our train was lost for five hours. To this day, I still don’t even know what happened, nor do I really care.
Now, I dramatically retell the story while laughing. If I can survive a train ticket booked on the wrong day, a lost train in rural Poland, confusing Czech verb conjugation and everything else, I feel like I can do Paris.
Wish me luck.
