Rachael Weiss

Well, hello there, long time no speak!

I know, entirely my fault. I took a six month break from writing of any kind except my editing work and emails (where some of my best work gets done). So, in the six months since I last wrote to you, I have started a business, acquired a boyfriend and been deported. It’s incredible what can happen, isn’t it? When I was writing every day it seemed like nothing was happening at all, but leave off for six months and write a two line review and you’ve got an entire novel happens to have unfolded in that time. The business picked up after the last time I wrote. I did quite well in April and May, and then everything stopped in June, July and August, along with the rest of Europe. However, it looks as though I may have sold another book proposal. Very early days yet – enthusiastic murmurs but no sign of “Yes, we’ll take it!”, signatures on contracts or advances. When I get the nod you’ll know, the champagne reserves in the world will suffer a significant slump.

I’m currently in Germany, having been deported by the Czechs. You’ll have seen from my last blog that visa issues were threatening to get complicated. They did, horrendously so, until I was finally forced into leaving the Schengen Zone. I had to spend ten bitter days in Sofia, crying in the Czech embassy until they gave me a short term visa. A Czech friend of mine told me I should bribe them, but you know what? I’m Australian. We don’t bribe. We can’t bribe. It’s not in our DNA. So she said, okay, if you can’t bribe, then you should cry. Now that I can do. So I wept, and they took pity on me.

I came back to Prague and left immediately for Germany where the man who can only be described as my boyfriend lives. He’s an American. He’s so American his name is Joe. Can you believe that? Last night I had a searing experience with Joe. He took me out for dinner to a place called Macaroni Grill. It’s an American franchise and it’s run on the US military base here, so it’s owned and staffed by Americans. The food was fabulous—tasty and substantial—but what blew me away was the service. The waitress came up and smiled at us and said, “Hi, I’m Nina, I’ll be your waitress for the evening. If you need anything just let me know.” I nearly fell off my chair. Then she brought us bread which was, if you can believe this, completely fresh and even warm from the oven. Joe asked for vinaigrette and she scoured the restaurant, looking for some. And she kept on coming to the table to check if we needed anything. It was so unlike the surly Czech experience, where waiters snarl at you and the bread is stale and the food is crap cuts of meat and the salads are dull and the same wherever you go. It was so friendly and prompt and fresh and full of good food and decent wine and at a teeny little American price, too, that it was almost a sexual experience for me. Almost, I was swooning.

And it made me realise that I do not think I can survive the Czechs much longer. I think I need to at least go where I can get fresh fruit and veges without having to cross town to the one and only place that sells cauliflower that’s not grey, and that actually knows what fennel is. I may, if things go well with the American, move to America. But if they go belly up, I think it’s England for me. The weather might be crap, but they have good produce and funny television.

Anyway. Hello again! I am back and writing. And just in time to recount to you, in tedious, excruciating detail, the developments in my application for a Czech visa. Stay tuned.

It has been a trying week. I have, as I may have mentioned, started an editing business. So far, I have scored five clients. One went belly up as soon as she took me on, another will have maybe one more job for me this year and that will be it, one gave me a job this week – so that was good – but I’ve heard nothing since, and the one who gave me $8.50 worth of work has failed to come up with any more, and is refusing to pay my bill. Not because of the quality of the work, but because their client hasn’t paid them. I’m writing that $8.50 off. Meanwhile, my accountant assures me that I will need to pay $150 in social insurance every month this year, on top of all my other bills.

This is bad. It’s very bad. In two months I will be actually clean out of money. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite here before. I have kindly parents who will come to the rescue, but really – I’m a grown woman! I don’t want my parents to come to my rescue. I want to have managed my life better. How did I manage to screw this up? No really. How? By tossing in a well paid career as a secretary to move countries and write novels? Who knew that wouldn't work?

And, to really test my new resistance to depression, my visa expires in a month and I have to renew it. I spent four hours lining up at the Foreigner’s Police on Wednesday, and at the end of it was told that order to extend my visa I needed: a passport, two photos, an extract of my company trade licence, an extract from the zivno office, a letter from my landlord allowing me to live in my flat, a copy of an account statement with 120,000 crowns in it (which I don’t have, just by the way), two years of medical insurance (which I can't afford), confirmation from the finance office that I have no debts and confirmation from the social security office that I have paid my insurance. All these things have to come from different offices around Prague, all of which will involve queues of Kafka-esque length, more Czech than I have at my command, snarling officials, and, of course, money. I will have to pay for each and every one of these documents. No-one’s paying me, but everyone around me has their hand out. I left the Foreigner’s Police wondering if it was worth continuing on in this life.

Debra told me that the secret to this is to NEVER try to do two offices in one day, and when you do go, you should take your iPod and a lengthy novel (not one of the Russian ones), drink plenty of water and if all else fails, pretend that it’s happening to someone else. Also, she said to be sure to do something nice for yourself straight afterwards.

And then last night, as I was heading out to the pub, I put my hand in my jacket pocket and felt a thick piece of plastic. I drew it out and saw my passport wallet. Empty of passport. Yes, either I lost my passport, or it was stolen. Of course, I can’t get any of the papers I need without my passport. I called the Foreigner’s Police to see if I’d left it there but everyone was on a holiday, as they tend to be in Prague on a Friday. I called the Embassy. I can get a new passport once I’ve given them photos, an application form, my birth certificate, proof of residence in Prague, a guarantor who must be an Australian citizen not related to me or living with me, and, of course, money. A fee for the application and a fee for losing it in the first place.

I tried to imagine how this could get worse. My teeth could fall out, I suppose. I could become paralysed from the eyeballs down. I could live in Zimbabwe. None of this helped any. I really felt like giving up and going back to Australia. And then, today, a strange thing happened. A potential client had asked me in for a chat. I wasn’t sure if it was a “here’s some work for you” chat, or a “we may have work some time in 2052 when the crisis has blown over” chat. It was all very casual, just a request that I drop in some time, just let him know what time I was coming.

So I drop by today. He was a strange one, alright. We barely talked about the work—I had to bring it up after about an hour when it seemed to me that at some point we should get on to it. He seemed to want to just chat. He runs a business putting together conferences, mainly on water use and the environment and public-private partnerships. He has two fellows from the UK working in the office.

'The Englishman likes Slivovice,' ...pause...'I suppose that's why he's never in the office. I don't really know what he does.'

That seemed odd. 'Doesn't he work for you?'

'Oh, he's not on the payroll.’ He gave me a rather sweet smile. ‘We're more of a family than a business.'

'Um, so what work does he do?'

'I'm not sure. He does his own work. Although we are working on one conference together.' Pause. He looked around. 'Perhaps you would like to come here to work on your novel?'

'Uh, yes, well I probably would get more done on it.'

'You can come around any time. There is always someone here to chat.'

He was one of those people who is so calm, so peaceful, that I came away feeling almost enlightened. Really. I had a strange realisation as I was going home. I've lost my passport, I have almost no money left, I have bills coming out the wazoo, I have clients whose companies are going belly up, it's March and it's still snowing and I'm freezing, and yet, I suddenly felt okay. I realised with complete clarity that I could choose to respond to this with anxiety and upset, or I could be calm and happy. And weirdly, I felt calm and happy. I still feel calm and happy. Maybe I should go and work in that office after all. You know, I think I might.

There are things that I don’t tell you and I’ve been asking myself why not? I’ve started doing this course in Creative Unleashing. Truth – I’ve started this course again. This time with two friends to see if doing it with someone else might prevent me from quitting in the middle. Is it only me who’s good at starts but shocking at middles? Debra says she can do middles, it’s ends that defeat her. She has a million poems three quarters written. I said she should make that a new trend in poetry.

One of the exercises in this course asked you had to write down five lives you’d like to have. I put down Mother – because, as it turns out, to my own astonishment, I would like to be mother. It’s possibly just the teeniest bit late to be producing my own, so I’m thinking of maybe adopting, or fostering, or going to live with my brother and interfering in the upbringing of his kids. I have this quite clear picture of me on a farm, surrounded by plants and animals and a husband who understands the love/discipline nexus and lots of kids. Go figure. For my other lives, I put down Hippy. Again. Very appealing. And Mathematician (Okay, I’m a dork, I know, but I really would like to be a mathematician). And Racing Car Driver. And Assassin. Yes, assassin. I really want to kill people for a living. I’d like to be really good at martial arts and a crack shot. You know, so I’d be an assassin who doesn’t get caught. I think that might go a long way to solving some of my anger issues.

Part of this course says you should be asking the Universe for guidance and allowing yourself to be embraced by the Universe. The book says that if you leap, the Universe will spread a net under you. I can’t help feeling that if I leap the Universe will yank the net away from me at the last moment and say, “Ha Ha” as I fall to my doom through a black hole. But then, perhaps that’s defeatist. Anyway, the book says to ask the Universe, and I’m committed to doing this to the full, so around about the beginning of this year I asked the Universe, “What should I do to find a life partner?”

I swear to god that I heard a voice in my head reply, “Couch surfing”. Couch surfing. Me. Can you imagine? (And do you see why I keep some things from you? Can I be committed for this?)

‘I’m sorry, you what?’ I said back to the Universe.

‘Couch surfing,’ said the Voice.

‘Couch surfing?? Are you sure it’s me you’re talking to?’

‘Yes, yes! I’m talking to you! Couch surfing.’

‘Okay then.’

It seemed very certain of itself so I let a couple of days go by, just to give it a chance to change its mind. But when I asked again a few days later, “Couch surfing” was what I got. O-kay. So I signed on to the local Couch Surfing chapter, taking a look at the available talent as I did and thinking, “The Universe has gone crazy. Look at these people. How old is that guy? Three? And look, this one is into computer games. Well, that’s me, isn’t it? Lordy.”

The people at my local couch surfing chapter sent me a few invitations to events of such hideous unlikelihood that I was only grateful I was busy on those days and thus unable to attend. I can’t even remember, but one was something ghastly involving the words “crazy” and “wild” and “slides of my weekend in Vienna”. Meanwhile, I went to Germany, hoping to avoid the whole couch surfing message altogether by falling in love. Results noted in a previous blog entry.

And then, last week, when I started this course again and once more tuned into the Universe, if you can believe it, the first words I heard were “couch surfing”. And just to underscore the Universe’s message, the Voice was followed that very day by an invitation in my email inbox to a couch surfing get together at O’Malley’s Irish bar to celebrate St Paddy’s Day. I have to admit that email did give me a tremor. Perhaps I was meant to go after all? But the thing was that I was going out every night this week except Tuesday and I was desperately hoping for the night off. No, no, I wouldn’t go. (That’s the other thing that’s killing me about having to look for a life partner – I would SO much rather stay home and read. As soon as I get one, I tell you I am never going out again. Never!).

And then, on Tuesday, one of the women doing this course with me said, ‘Oh by the way, we’re going to O’Malley’s tonight, to a couch surfing gig, if you want to come along.’

I could hardly say no, now, could I? Somehow, the Universe was pressing me to attend this event and pressing me pretty strongly. It was a sign. So, on Tuesday, against every instinct but willing to give myself over to the care of the Universe, I donned the glad rags and went to O’Malley’s Irish bar to celebrate St Paddy’s Day with the couch surfers.

And I met no-one I was even remotely interested in, although in one of those moments that makes me suspect the Universe likes to reserve irony for me, I did become briefly infatuated with a girl I saw across the room. It was smoky, boring, loud and late and the only thing it did for me was to make a difficult week even harder thanks to lack of sleep. Whatever the Universe was up to, I can’t help feeling it is now splitting its sides and rolling in the aisles, wiping tears from its eyes and ringing up the other Universes to say, ‘I gotta good one for you! There’s this girl, ha ha ha, I told her, ha ha ha, I told her to go... wait’ll you hear this! Couch surfing ha ha ha...’. I’ve always found it loves a good joke.

I’ve had two culinary experiences recently. One of the best things about living in a different country and different culture is the excitement of the new food. When I first came here and couldn’t read the menu, I used to just point and see what turned up. Usually it was pork and sauerkraut. Often the pork was stuffed with sausage or ham. Or topped with a peach. Or covered in cornflakes or cheese. Or it was stuffed with sausage and ham and topped with a peach and covered in cornflakes and cheese. I don’t get surprised anymore because I can read the menu and besides, I know the cuisine. Or so I thought. Last Saturday night I was at a restaurant that serves Czech food and they brought a plate of appetizers. It was bread covered in lard and raw onions.

At first I rejected it out of hand, but then I told myself not to be such a big girl’s blouse.

“So it’s lard and raw onions. Eat it, already.”

And I did. And you think you know how this story ends, don’t you, but you would be SO wrong. It was delicious. It was so delicious I ate most of the plate and only stopped because I was the tiniest bit concerned about the heart failure awaiting me if I get hooked on lard. Seriously. Lard. And raw onion. Who knew?

So today, I’m in the corner store looking for butter and I see a small, foil-wrapped packet there in the cheese/butter section. I can’t understand what it is from the Czech but I think, “It’s in the dairy section, it must be some delicious, milk based something-or-other. Trying new food is fun. I shall try this one.” Got home, opened the packet and saw... putty. Put my finger in it and felt... putty. Thought, “Surely they wouldn’t store putty in the dairy section.” Put some in my mouth... pure putty. Spat it out and looked it up in the on-line dictionary. It was brewer’s yeast.

As I think I may have mentioned, I have had my last viable book idea knocked back by the publisher. Sigh. So now I am hanging out my shingle as an editor. Since I figured out that one of the reasons I’m suffering from depression is that I don’t have enough support in my life – i.e. I have no life partner around, putting up shelves and figuring out how the damned ipod is supposed to work – I decided to go into business with my friend Debra, who is a poet and editor. Debra and I have been kicking around names for our new venture. We started off with the very serious Shulkes & Weiss, Manuscript Services (note the ampersand – I thought it made us sound like a venerable old legal firm). Then Debra thought that might be a bit boring and we should have a more imaginative name. She came up with The Book Doctors, which I loved but we don’t only do books, so I said, “How about The Word Doctors?” We both liked that one but we still preferred The Book Doctors for some reason. So this morning it was back to the drawing board. We traversed Document Doctors and Language Consultants and Doctors of the Word. Then Debra came up with Textual Midwives. I saw her and raised her: The Joy of Text, The Tao of Text, Textual Satisfaction. At which point Debra whipped the ace out of her pack: Editting Services.

I am pretty sure we can’t use that one. Humour, I’ve found, has no place in business. But I cried laughing. See why I’m in business with her?

So, speaking of alone-ness, I have a confession. For the last three weeks I’ve been in Germany, road testing a potential new partner. I can safely talk about it here because unlike every single one of my other admirers, this one has not read my books and does not read my blog. Unbelievable! Aside from this distressing lack of interest in my output, he was divine. Perfect. A man who met me on every level. Someone I thought I might have my ideal relationship with – a relationship of two free, equal people, together because they want to be, not because they can’t be alone. A man who’d be comfortable making up the rules as we went along. A man who would know how to fix my damned ipod. I had the most wonderful three weeks, living with someone I liked. He had a house in the country, and in these last weeks I’ve realised how much I love the country. How much I loved looking out at fields while I was writing. I realised that I was dead right to put my all into finding a partner. I am so much happier when I am with someone.

And then, at the end of it, he told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship. So isn’t that just dandy? Oh, I am sooo happy about that. Yessireee. This I needed. I needed to be hair-close to finding a life partner only to lose him. God. Dammit. How much longer is this going to go on? When the FUCK am I going to find a life partner? What the FUCK else do I have to do? I have been back on the dating site, of course, and can I just say that this world appears to be full of men who have reached the nirvana stage of life where they savour every moment, love everything they do, learn and grow every day of their lives. Either that, or this world is full of LIARS. On a final and happier note, though, while I am annoyed with the Universe for putting a divine man in my way who was too close to his divorce to commit again, I am not depressed. Angry, ticked off, drumming my fingers, yes, but not in despair, no. That, my friends, is a major development for me. And one I do not dismiss lightly.