Herbal Spa. Mountains. Home.

People always ask me if I come from Prague. (Because it’s the only place in the Czech Republic that they know.) Ah, the disappointment on their faces when I say no. Prague is beautiful, no doubt about that. I love it. I love the medieval buildings, the art nouveau buildings, the cafés, the cobbled streets, the art galleries and the classical music. One day, when I’m in the mood to slow down, it would be wonderful to live in Prague. I’ll get an apartment overlooking the red roofs of Malá Strana (completely unaffordable, of course, but this is a fantasy, so let me finish it), and I’ll get a cat (with wise eyes) to keep me company. I’ll make tea in pretty ceramic mugs, listen to jazz records and fill the place with more and more books which I’ll bring home from an antikvariát. (Antikvariát is the Czech word for second-hand bookshop. I have no idea what a kvariát is, but in my head it stands for “big evil people-exploiting only-for-profit assembly-line bookshop chain where the staff don’t even like books”. My lifestyle would be anti all-that.)

But that’s all just a would-be may-be fantasy. In fact, the place I call home is in the Beskydy mountains, in the eastern part of the country. Here goes my little contribution to the marketing of this region, so that you know there’s more to the Czech Republic than Prague …

Today I discovered a new kind of mountain-style pampering. Herbal spa. The place I went to is called Bylinné Lázničky in a village called Komorní Lhotka. The spa is in a wooden house in a quiet location up in the mountains. We went in the evening with my mum and my sister, and all their windows were steamed up from the baths … it looked exactly like the kind of place where you would come to purify yourself.

Everything inside is decorated in wood, mountain-style. We were first led into a sort of tea room / waiting room where we were sat down to read through the menu of treatments.

First you are led into a small bathroom where you spend 20 minutes in a herbal bath.  There’s a choice of different herbs, conifers, Dead Sea salt or even bog muck. (Yeah, you read correctly: bog muck. I didn’t fancy that, frankly... just couldn’t help imagining how I’d be scraping bog muck out of my poonani the next day. Yuck.) Keeping it safe, I asked for chamomile, because it smells nice and it’s purifying and I thought I could do with some purifying. Especially my brain.

After the bath, they wrap you up into a clean white sheet and a soft warm blanket and you spend another 20 minutes lying down and relaxing. (Or that’s what they tell you to do … relaxing!) I spent 20 minutes thinking about all kinds of ridiculous things, all the random stuff my brain comes up with … and I thought how it would be nice to run a business like this (one day when I decide to escape the city). Herbal spa up in the quiet mountains. Perfect and romantic, no? Soon the cynical side of my brain interfered: running a herbal spa doesn’t involve enjoying herbal treatments; you probably just end up scrubbing a lot of bathrooms every day. It did feel quite nice to be lying down wrapped up in a clean white sheet, though. Purifying!

You can get a herbal tea infusion to sip while you sit in the bath. Mine was lemon balm.

At the end, you get a full body massage. It was a good, gentle massage, but I couldn’t quite relax … the masseur was  a man! Now, this is either your thing or it isn’t. (My mother enjoys it.  She thinks all men are bastards, so seeing a man whose job forces him to pamper women is like the fulfilment of her personal lifelong vendetta.) Personally, I prefer the Ayurveda approach: men massage men, women massage women. It just seems awkward to have my body pampered by a man who is not a romantic interest.  Maybe one day when I’m old and wrinkly and I feel all neglected, I might change my opinion about this.

But it was a nice and relaxing experience nevertheless … I left feeling all herbal and mellow.

My Book of Memories

Some time ago, I wrote about the “Book of Memories” – a little fancy notebook that every Czech child keeps. (You can see mine above.) We ask our friends and family to draw a picture and write a few words into it as a keepsake. I wonder if people in other countries have something like that too? I never heard anyone mention it. Being back home for Christmas, I have the free time to rummage through my childhood bedroom and re-discover these old things.

When you open the book, the first page has my name, address and landline telephone number on it. No emails or mobile phones back then, and the phone number is written without any dialling code. How wonderfully simple life was, when I actually remembered my friends’ phone numbers (all three of them) and when all the phone calls I made were within the town. Now? I could win a pub quiz on international dialling codes: UK 44, Czech Republic 42, Germany 49, India 90, Dubai 97, Italy 39, France 33, Indonesia 62, Colombia 57, Austria 43, Sweden 46 …

After my contact details, there’s an opening warning: “You can draw and you can write, but don’t tear any pages out!” (It rhymes in Czech.) Cheesy rhymes like that feature heavily throughout the rest of the book. As if we were afraid to express ourselves in our ordinary, clumsy prose. Everything needed curls, ribbons and rose petals.

Here is one of my favourite pictures. It’s the simplest one, a pencil drawing of a sail boat drawn by my dad. (I mentioned this in my earlier post.) The inscription next to it reads, “May the boat of your life always have good wind in its sails, and may it always reach its harbour. To little Lucie from daddy.” No rhymes, no colours. Succinct and minimalistic.

On the next page, a colourful and cute picture of a dog from my mum, along with a long poem. I could never read anything my mum wrote when I was a kid—her handwriting was a mystery to me.

… another one of those cheesy rhymes, which probably didn’t mean much to me back then, but it’s strangely meaningful now.

When fate takes us
to all corners of the world
I wonder if you will remember
your school years.

It was written by my primary school friend Šárka. Back when we were nine, we both joined this primary school which specialized in foreign languages. It was the 90s, communism was freshly dead and all pushy parents knew that English was the key to a successful future. We were the lucky ones who made it through the elaborate selection process. There were two types of kids in our class: locals and commuters. The locals had been at the school for two years before the selection process for the foreign-language class took place; they knew the teachers, the layout of this massive school, the rules, and of course they knew each other. They had their own group.

Šárka and I were both commuters, from different neighbourhoods, but still, we would walk to the bus stop together after school, we’d buy bread rolls and sour lollypops for 2 Kč in a convenience store on the way, and occasionally we would go to the swimming pool or the cinema together with the other commuter girls. We used to read the magazine Bravo, especially the “Love, Sex and Intimacy” section, where a balding gynaecologist answered teenager’s questions like: “What is an orgasm?” or “My penis curves to the left. What should I do?” We’d do our best to hide it from our parents who thought the magazine was only about music and movies. The most important issue that preoccupied our minds back then was who’ll get their period first. Sometimes we had stupid little arguments and then we wouldn’t talk to each other, like all kids do.

But then we didn’t go to the same high school and so we lost touch. In the old days, her life would have remained a mystery to me. Thanks to Facebook, I know what she looks like, I know she lives in a little village somewhere in Southern Moravia, I’ve seen her wedding photos and pictures of her baby.  Technology takes all the mystery away.

I like how the pictures give a little glimpse of people’s personalities. The one above is from an old school friend Karolína. She was the smartest girl in our class, much more grown-up and “above it all” than the rest of us. Her parents were intellectuals with doctorates in natural sciences, and, naturally, she got to kiss the prettiest boy in our class. She went to art classes after school, hence the artsy pen drawing.

And here, a drawing from one of my first English teachers. She was young, had curly blond hair and we adored her. Back then, English was everyone’s favourite subject – our textbooks were fun and colourful, we did crossword puzzles, played games, sang songs … everything was less strict and somehow more interesting than in the other subjects.

The last page: “One little golden key locks my book of memories.” Another cheesy rhyme that every nine-year-old Czech girl had in her notebook back then.

Let there be white.

Things I like about winter:

• Sitting inside looking at snow outside.
• Buying Christmas presents for myself. (Not because I’m so selfish but because it’s waaay easier than  buying presents for others. I know exactly what I would like.)
• Daytime boozing becomes socially acceptable. Mulled wine. Punch. And have you heard of medovina? It’s a Czech liquor made of honey, served hot. Popular at Christmas markets. Sweet and warming, 16% strong.
• The thrill of not knowing if I will be able to fly home for Christmas. “Gatwick's runway is currently closed due to heavy snow, with no departing or arriving flights. The runway will remain closed until 15:00 today (Saturday 18 December) at the earliest. We are expecting further significant snowfall for much of the day.” I think that’s a polite no.

Things I don’t like about winter:

• Butter turns hard, so I end up buying margarine instead, which tastes disgusting. But at least it spreads.
• People turn all soppy. Yesterday, I was walking down to Carphone Warehouse to enquire about long-delayed Christmas gifts (due to “adverse weather conditions”)  and this woman walking past me spread her arms out in joy and said, “It’s so magical! Walking in the snow!” She pronounced the word magical like a Disney character on speed. Magical? No, no, no … I was wishing for the cold, wet shit to stop hitting my face.
• Dark mornings. I have this fantasy of one day becoming that person who wakes up early and gets everything done while the world sleeps. Laundry. Dishes. Reading. Shopping. Pedicure. Ironing. Exercise. Cook packed lunch to take with me. Wrap Christmas presents in cutesy-cutesy paper with pretty ribbons and name tags. Instead I end up snoozing the alarm for two hours (sometimes three), eating breakfast for lunch, doing laundry when the only thing left in my underwear drawer are my bikinis, and sending Christmas cards out too late for them to reach anyone before the New Year. I have a few friends who manage this early-morning productivity and I always wonder how they summon all that energy, especially when it’s dark. It just seems so unnatural to get out of bed when it’s dark. I suspect it’s something to do with going to bed early and drinking copious amounts of South American coffee. But how horrible are those first three minutes of the morning when you have to get out of your warm bed, turn the kettle on and stand there freezing while you wait for it to boil.
• Cold feet. Cold back. Hot water bottles just don’t stay hot for long enough. I once told a guy I only liked sleeping with him because he was warm. I meant it as a compliment. He was mildly offended, which is a shame, because we could have shared my bed and heating bills happily ever after.

Eating and writing. Mostly in Fulham.

My blogging has been put on the back burner lately, as I am frantically trying to finish up coursework before the end of term … but also, I have been cheating on my blog a little since I started writing for the food section of our student newspaper. It seems like the dream job I have been waiting for, combining two of the things I love the most: eating and writing. All my course mates are jealous. “Do you really get to eat at restaurants for free?! And you get to bring a friend with you???” Suddenly, everyone wants to be my plus one. Recently, I reviewed the Broadway Bar & Grill in Fulham, which you can read about here. I also reviewed Brasa, a fancy restaurant above the Broadway, and hopefully that article will be coming out soon. And last but not least, I wrote a highly authoritative piece on eating curry. So if you’ve missed me and my ramblings, go get your fix!

Now, just to tease you … a few photos of the wonderful (and free) dishes I’ve been eating during my recent restaurant-critic adventures. Enjoy the food porn.

Veal Chop. @Brasa

Grilled Fennel. @Brasa

Galloway fillet. @Brasa

On the left: a dessert with possibly the longest name ever: Cardamom Poached Pumpkin with Smoked Chestnuts, Chocolate Ice Cream and Candid Clementines.
On the right: Baked Chocolate Tart with Blackberry Sorbet.
This whole dessert combo was better than sex, I swear. Or, let me correct that, better than most sex. Of course, a few glasses of Pinot Grigio were the perfect foreplay for it …
@Brasa

Fish & Chips. Or, to be precise, Real Ale Battered Haddock with Chips and Pea Puree.
@Broadway Bar & Grill

Apple crumble, which actually wasn’t that nice … If the dessert above was better than sex, this felt more like … a duty visit to the in-laws. Not that I have any in-laws, and maybe one day my in-laws will be nice? Basically, it just wasn’t cooked enough and felt quite heavy in my stomach afterwards.
@Broadway Bar & Grill

Linguine with meatballs. Nice, but too big for my tummy!
@Broadway Bar & Grill