"Graffiti is beautiful, like a brick in the face of a cop."

So I've been in Brno for a little over a week. I've gathered my bearings, made some connections, and developed a routine while waiting for my visa to go through. I have a main grocery store, too many pharmacies to count, a bodega called a večerka, an ATM that doubles as a payment depot for my new Czech phone number, kebab place, pretty much all I need within walking distance of my place. 

Speaking of my place, I've been trying to think of a whimsical and triumphant name for the apartment. When kitty and I were on the beach, in the overpriced storage locker/prison cell/cardboard box/studio apartment, we referred to it as the Bantam Bungalow. Small, hidden, concrete. I'm sure I'll think of something in the coming days. 

Here's my downstairs and my upstairs:

It's more like a townhouse rather than an apartment. My kitchen, eating area, storage, and nook with a desk are on the ground floor, and my bedroom, bathroom, living room, and deck are upstairs. I'm convinced a man installed my shower because shaving anything at all will be a hassle in a very small slippery space, so it's a good thing no one will see my legs for the next six months. I have a good amount of sunlight, and due to the shade of wood and cantaloupe colored walls, it appears brighter than it looks.

I did my first load of laundry and didn't fuck it up! There are infinite dials and knobs and numbers accompanied by different beeps on a very small machine meant for very small clothes. American dryers are larger and I can usually fit three weeks worth of laundry in a load of cold water because separating colors is for nerds and people who have their shit together. I picked the lowest temperature, which was 20 degrees Celsius (still not super sure what that equates to) and selected a clock graphic that looked like it was in a hurry. I don't have a dryer so when my clothes became stationary and unscathed, I hung them up on a heated drying rack in my bathroom. I think it's specifically meant for towels but I'm going to choose to ignore that because I enjoy dry clothes.

So roughly ten days have passed since I boarded a plane and won the air travel lottery by having no one sitting next to me on two different flights, and I've gathered a few observations about the Czech Republic and the people who reside here, whether they are Czechs, Slovakians, expats, students, etc.

1. Women love coloring their hair red. It could be any number of shades; actual red, scarlet, burgundy, copper, maroon all seem to be sought after by the sophisticated Czech woman. I think this popular style is the cosmetological equivalent of the blonde obsession in the United States. I'm not sure why the color is so popular here. All I can think about is how difficult the maintenance is with red hair. I loved having copper hair. Adored it. And what I'm going to write is going to sound super gross, but during the six months I had copper hair, I only took a whole shower three times HEAR ME OUT. Red hair bleeds, it's not friendly with warm water, and the maintenance to keep up the appearance of a natural Merida is not cost effective. Before showering myself, I'd put my head under the faucet with cold water and shampoo with a color depositing shampoo that completely destroyed my scalp. Then I'd pin my hair on the top of my head and only expose my body to warm water to prevent my hair from bleeding. Then afterwards I would take color depositing conditioner, wrap my hair in it and leave it on top of my head for 25 minutes before rinsing it out in the tub with cold water. NOT fucking worth it, so I went blonde, neglected my hair into an ombre, and never looked back.

2. The closer you get to train tracks, the condition of buildings is rough, but the caliber of graffiti is top tier. A lot of major railways throughout the country cut through small farmland, rolling hills, and sparsely populated collections of trees too open to be deemed an actual forest. A lot of the buildings in towns that do nestle up to the Czech railway system are decrepit, empty, hollowed out from decades of political neglect. Loose and porous stones, broken panes of glass, soaked wooden beams, and bent dangling pipes were all popular features of many buildings along the way from Brno to Prague. But the larger surfaces and barriers that remained intact over the course of multiple revolutions was heavily spray painted. Czech graffiti artists have tight can control and bright color palettes against a bleak and derelict canvas. They go big or go home. Most pieces are large in order to be seen but they aren't messy. Artists clearly had the time to linger near the train tracks and do their work without getting caught in the moonlight by the town crier. Being fast but good is something graffiti artists take pride in, and trains and locations near the tracks provide excellent spots for "bombing" and "throwing up" designs since so many pairs of eyes will see them. Everyone will know who you are without really knowing who you are, anonymity and notoriety rolled into one. (Also if you're interested in learning about or seeing more graffiti, watch Style Wars here or the lesser known Piece by Piece based out of San Francisco in the 90s here, both for free).

3. I don't have the right of way as a pedestrian, even in the "zebra stripes." I mean legally I do, but holy shit, drivers here don't give a suicide mission driving fuck about it. Busy intersections here have lights for trams, pedestrians, and cars. People won't stop for you, even if you're standing and waiting. When I'm out walking around now, I need to be more cautious and since I came from the largest US city without a light rail system for a number of years, I need watch my six...and my three and five and eleven. 

4. Czechs mind their own business. When out and about, riding the tram or simply walking, it's rare to make eye contact, and if you do, don't you dare fucking address it. Seattle always had this reputation of a "freeze," which...honestly I never noticed all that much. When meeting the eyes of another person on the street, I'd say maybe 50% of the time I would be met with a chin nod or a small smirk on one side of the mouth. But here, you sit on the tram, you stare at you phone, you mind your own business, and you don't talk. There's an underlying strictness of it that I think comes along with having your country invaded twice and annexed once all in the same century. Czechs are hard, willful. They have dark senses of humor but they won't let you in on it right away. I pretty much speak (poor Czech) when spoken to, and I keep to myself, easy to do if you have headphones. 

5. The Czech Republic isn't another planet. A lot of people I've talked to assume I'm moving to a remote village where women wear handkerchiefs over their hair while washing clothes in a babbling brook and they swirl around a May Pole before springtime (I mean maybe they do, I don't know). I've been to both a Tesco and an Albert, both called "hypermarkets" as they carry more than just groceries, and they have more, if not the same stuff as most US grocery stores. There's no big Sunday shopping trips here for the family of four so people come and buy what they need as they need it every few days, and if you need dinner plates, sweatshirts, or a chainsaw, a hypermarket will have it. But if I need something here, I can go get it. There are multiple internet providers, new cars, IT companies running rampant. It's like Seattle without the crazy ridiculous cost of living, bad traffic, skyrocketing homelessness, and the widespread progressive arrogance. 

This post is shorter than my others, but I just wanted to note some quick observations about my new home. I'm comfortable, happy, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle not including all of the cheese and array of Haribo candy I've been eating. Otherwise, so far so good.

One Week

I didn't realize until last night that my planning has been going really smoothly and I haven't encountered many hiccups along the way: no crashing browsers in the middle of purchasing airline tickets, most emails are replied to within 24 hours, and with enough intensive Googling, I can find the answers to most of my questions. I'm feeling strong and confident. And after beating the shit out of United Healthcare and knowing I'll never have to deal with them ever again, I'm feeling pretty good.

Part of me was wondering if this move, the apex of the biggest decision I ever made, was some sort of travel mania I was experiencing as a result of European separation anxiety, which, let's admit, that's the whitest thing I've probably ever typed. Half of my family has this huge knack for going above and beyond to experience the ultimate wanderlust at whatever cost. I use the word "wanderlust" hesitantly because it's such a Pinterest loving, university experiencing, privileged Instagramming phenomenon.

You know, this kind of bullshit.

I was reassured the sense of mania which arose was more of a longing or yearning for change, a chance to do something for me. Mania would have meant I decided to go to Europe the next day and emptied my bank for a one way ticket and left my apartment and kitty behind. Instead, this exodus for a better life, cost of living, even pseudo-socialism, was planned in a methodical, systematic way to navigate away from the challenges and worries I've successfully avoided. 

Wanderlust isn't documenting it for everyone else except you. The last time I went to Europe, I wanted to be selfish with my experiences and I prevented anyone from accompanying me. I went on my eight-week trek alone and corresponded with those who needed updates regarding my whereabouts. I'd update Facebook when I was leaving one place and arriving in the next, which was effective since most people know if I haven't posted on social media in more than 24 hours, something's amiss and a Liam Neeson type character may need to be contacted. I documented my trip through extensive writing and pictures with the camera I last owned before succumbing to a phone with a camera feature. I knew I'd be back, I just didn't know when. Someone once told me the average American makes it to Europe once every seven years, even though definitions of "average American" are drastically different. All numbers aside, I see it as more of a pilgrimage and less of a visit expedition. 

With kitty on my back, I'll be flying into Frankfurt for a tight little connection before the hour long flight to Prague. After arriving in Prague, I have about a three hour journey by car to Brno. All in all the journey will be roughly 14 hours for me and 18 for kitty. The minimal anxiety I have right now is having to take Patrick out of his carrier twice in order to pass through security check points. I have a little rocket ship backpack he'll be traveling in out and open on my floor so he can approach it instead of me shoving him into an unknown airline approved abyss at the last minute. Last week I managed to take him out for a small walk in it. His unstable weight made me unstable as well and it took him a minute to adjust to not traveling in a crate at my side. I talked with him as he looked out of his capsule at the surrounding condominiums, trees, asphalt, and changing leaves. After we got back indoors and I unzipped him from his container, he didn't bolt away and hide and hiss like cats do. He calmly walked out of it and rubbed against the framing, a good sign.

The reports I've found online have given me conflicting reports. Some sites tell me that once we pass through security at Sea-Tac, he'll be able to stay in there all the way to Bohemia and he'll only have to endure a security screening one time. Other sites tell me that once I arrive at my transfer point in Frankfurt, I'll have to go through passport control and take him out of his carrier again, at which time I'll have an hour and fifteen minutes to complete. It will be tight, but I've also heard of these famous "express lanes" for passengers who have connecting flights under 90 minutes...but we'll see.

A sneak preview of me trying to run through Frankfurt International Airport. 

At the end of September, I moved out of the apartment I've been living in on Beach Drive. Oooooh Beach Drive, how fancy! Yeah, except I was living in a closet with barely any access to natural light and a ton of IKEA furniture, 90% of which I was able to resell during some mostly not sketchy situations via Facebook Marketplace. Most of the messages I received were just numbers a lot lower than what I placed the item at originally. 30. 45. 20. 

No "hi" or "hello, I was inquiring about the like new piece of flatpack furniture you've placed upon the internet for those to peruse during the late night hours before bedtime?" Or whatever. Having worked in furniture and consignment for a bit, I was pretty confident placing prices on items that were hardly showing any signs of wear but definitely weren't new. After selling everything I could, I racked up about $900. I also spoke with my apartment complex and I'll be getting only $100 less from my original deposit because this broad knows how to spackle.

I went to Minnesota for a few days to say some much needed goodbyes and for a few stints of stage time. I headlined the club I started at in 2011, which has now changed hands something like 5-6 times. Upon landing, I immediately went into autopilot for navigating through the city and suburbs but then remembered lingering road construction from the summer was a thing and ended up traveling on streets I never knew existed until this weekend. The rental car company rented me a Chrysler 300 because why the fuck not, and it was a nice lil pick me up after having sold my car the week before. I saw my old roommate's two-year-old who is very adamant with her "yes" and "no" answers even though she doesn't really take "no" for an answer. She showed me Peppa Pig and her dad's guitars and the garden and pond in their backyard. I ate Culver's for breakfast one morning. Between the Vikings not doing that well and the goofy accents, Minnesota hasn't changed that much.

She's right.

Tonight I'm going to my last AA meeting before I leave Seattle. What I'm about to write may receive some pushback, but you know I'm not one to bullshit (at least I hope you know) and I'm going to be honest about how I feel in regards to my sobriety:

I no longer consider myself as someone "in recovery." In my eyes, the term "recovery" implies that I am weak or in constant need of care, attention, or help. Today, in my 32 month journey of "sobriety" (which I don't use interchangeably with "recovery"), I see myself as someone who is sober, someone who abstains from mind altering chemicals. Keep in mind, the definitions of sobriety or recovery are different depending on who you talk to. In the AA realm of sobriety, some people don't even take prescription medication, even if it's under the care of a doctor with specific instructions. Others use a method of "marijuana maintenance," a term I've become less fond of in recent months because although it may be a substitute for alcohol, you're still technically abstinent from alcohol. 

I maybe average one meeting a month now. I haven't had a sponsor in over a year, and I don't work the 12 steps because I don't see the correlation of the claim to sobriety and not drinking. If alcoholism is a gene, or a chemical mutation or however you want to vaguely put it, then shouldn't it require a scientific solution? The Big Book (or Grandpa Big Book, as some people put it because grandfathers sometimes say things they don't mean or shouldn't or use antiquated terms for phenomena which have grown throughout the decades and manifested into something new or helpful) mentions that because alcoholism is a scientific disease, it needs a scientific solution. Yet, only the first step mentions alcohol. 

When I began to do my fourth step about two years ago, the step where you need to write down all of your resentments, your entire sexual history, your fears, and everything you've done wrong in hopes that some of these things could be cleansed by turning your will over to something not all of us believe in, I was instructed to go to five meetings a week. Some of these meetings had 12 people, others had more than 100. In each circumstance, the same story arose within different stories of sobriety. "I've gone through treatment 10 or 12 times and let me tell you, this program works." Clearly it doesn't. It isn't a one size fits all program, however the treatment network in America treats it as such. Occasionally I still meet someone who is surprised I haven't relapsed. 

You have 32 months? Well what did you have before that? 

In my experience, there's a general sense of shame that comes along with Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Unless I'm going to do the steps with a sponsor and go to meetings, I'll surely relapse. And if I do, it's because I didn't do just that. 

But I haven't relapsed. I feel stronger than ever after I made the biggest decision I've ever made next to getting sober in the first place. I've encountered people who have said, "Oh, well you don't have a sponsor? Good luck out there!" in a tone matched by Bill and Bob in the Big Book. It's incredibly condescending towards atheists and women, and since the last serious revision of this book was done sometime during the Cold War, it doesn't make sense to me that there needs to be this ultimate solution to alcoholism. If I don't drink, I can't get drunk, and I know that if I relapse or "go back out" as it's put in program terminology, I'll die. I know that. But isn't that enough? Why do I need to be guilt tripped into doing something I don't believe in? Something that will shame me and separate me from others when the whole point is to unite us under one common addiction? The only reason I still attend sporadic meetings is because they're the only place I can meet others like me, others who had their lives destroyed by their chemical dependency. These people all happen to be in the same place as the system sets it up that way, but in turn, only 4-6% are successful. This attitude of "ride or quite possibly die" in Alcoholics Anonymous has even been incorporated in meme culture. Here's a few I found in a quick Google Image search: 

Obviously these memes touch on a few different issues, but nowhere in my Google search did I ever see Leonardo DiCaprio or Keanu Reeves saying something like "Hey, whatever keeps you sober!" If anything, this attitude has isolated me from the program. I don't believe in god, whether it's your god, her god, whoever, and because of that, I can't force meaning onto something I don't believe in. Friends stopped calling me. I stopped getting invited to places. People who were really avid comedy fans stopped attending my shows, and I'd hate to think it was because I've found medical methods that work for me aside from Alcoholics Anonymous: seeing a therapist/psychiatrist, taking medication, visiting r/stopdrinking, reminding myself every day that I have a drinking problem and if I go back to my old ways, all of the progress I've made for myself will be erased. 

All that being said, I've located an Alano club in Brno so if I feel that I need to attend a meeting, I can. There's English speaking meetings twice a day, one at noon and one at 7pm at a place not too far from my apartment. We all have the same goal, so why does it matter so much how we get there? 

I leave one week from today. One week from right now, I'll be on a plane somewhere over Canada thinking about all of the regrets I have in regards to my journey. I have two boxes to ship, three open mics, and one more show to do. One more trip to Olympia, one trip to Everett, and a trip to the mall to walk Patrick around in his backpack so he gets used to busy, florescent environments. 

It's actually here. I'm a week away.