Homemaking and the Smell of Curry…Oh! And Those God-forsaken Coin-Operated Shopping Carts
Standing in the town center of Hradec Kralove, Czechia
July 20, 2015 (an excerpt from my journal written during our first month living in Hradec Kralove, Czechia)
This is now our home. Some things have been really difficult—mostly because of the language barrier. I am constantly anxious thinking I’ve done something wrong, like in a pool when the lifeguard blows the whistle and you’re pretty sure they weren’t blowing at you, but you’re still trying to figure out what you did wrong. Constant pins and needles…I miss being comfortable, but nothing great comes out of staying in your comfort zone. I know this yet I crave to be back in mine…
A few years ago, my husband and I left our steady jobs as teachers, our church home that we loved, our families, and the comforts of what we had always known as home. We packed up what we could in 6 suitcases, and moved to Czech Republic.
Our first few weeks were mainly spent in the flat of a friend we had just met. He was a foreigner as well, living in Czech while he studied medicine, and he happened to be going away on summer holiday for a few weeks. We didn’t have a place yet, and he generously offered for us to stay at his. We immediately accepted his hospitality, knowing the alternative was staying in a hostel for the weeks it would take to get a place of our own.
I remember walking into his flat. It was beautiful and had a gorgeous view and an air conditioner which was a rare commodity there. But what I remember most was being greeted with the smell of spices, spices that I had never smelled before—nothing like home, which in that moment only added to my discomfort.
the view from Thomas’s flat
After getting settled in on that first day staying in his flat, we decided to walk to get some groceries. That seemed easier than trying to navigate a restaurant in a mostly unfamiliar city with no idea who would be able to speak English, and our Czech was too poor to even describe it as poor.
As we walked the roughly one kilometer to Tesco (think the Wal-Mart of Europe), people were zooming all around us in cars, in city buses, on bikes, and on foot. Their faces and eyes focused straight ahead towards their destination. They all knew exactly where they were headed and the quickest route to get there.
But we were having to stop every few steps to check the map or figure out traffic patterns and where we could legally and safely cross the street. You do not jaywalk in Czech Republic. The cars barely stop at the pedestrian crossing so crossing the street where the drivers aren't legally required to stop is quite the dare-devilish action. Quite a difference from the little mountain towns that we had both grown up in.
This was also our first time living in a city which brings a whole other level of culture shock. It took us way longer than it should have for a less than one kilometer trek.
Eventually, we reached our destination and headed inside to gather a few necessities. We miraculously found a coin that would fit the grocery cart. If you’ve never experienced these types of carts, go shop at an Aldi and you’ll see what the fuss is about. All the while, we were pointedly trying to ignore the dirty looks from the locals because we were taking too long figuring out what, to them, was simply everyday life. We walked through the automatic door, saw what felt like thousands of people darting in and out of the aisles knowing exactly what they needed and where it was located. The dirty glances continuing, our stress levels rising.
Then the bickering began:
“What did we come here for again?”
“Oh right, milk. What’s the word for milk in Czech?”
“I don’t know, and my phone isn’t working in here.”
“Do we get the box or the bottle? And what in the world is this?”
We quickly discovered that we knew nothing—no cultural rules or norms, no useful words or phrases, nothing, and we had no one—no family to bail us out, no real friends (yet), and no, God did not imbue us with some miraculous, supernatural understanding or send a friendly stranger to help us.
Our journey to Czech Republic, up to this point, seemed paved with gold. Everything had been fairly easy. We had gotten more support than we had ever dreamed from our families, friends, co-workers, and church. We were celebrated as heroes for coming to Central Europe as missionaries, and yet here in this moment—THIS was the moment of truth, and it hit us both…hard…in the stomach.
We had chosen this new life. We had romanticized the adventure of living in Europe, knowing it would be difficult, but not knowing how difficult. There was no going back, not for at least a year. This was our new home, and we couldn’t even navigate the grocery store.
We didn’t buy a single thing. We put back the cart, taking the precious coin, and walked the kilometer of shame back to our borrowed flat, empty-handed.
By the time we got back and walked through the door of our temporary abode, I embraced the smell of those spices. I breathed them in like the vapors of one of those essential oil diffusers and cried.
We were home.
inside look at our borrowed abode, this is me taking a moment to feed my soul with music
In total, we were in Czech Republic for four years, we found friends through work and at the church we worked with while there, and sometimes we’d meet new friends by happenstance. If we heard someone else speaking English, we would sometimes strike up a conversation. It didn’t matter how much we had in common. When traveling or living abroad, you find that if you can speak the same language, you are friends, no questions asked.
There were students from all over the world including our friend, Thomas—the one who lent us his apartment, who had come to our city to study medicine. They had left their homes, too, and they found a sense of home with each other, cultural and religious differences aside. Christian, Muslim, Atheist—it didn’t matter. You were still home. You belonged.
It’s here where I learned that having someone over for food and conversation in a messy house was more important than having a spotless house. It’s where I learned that it was ok to ask for help from a new friend who may have just been a stranger seconds before, and I could also offer help despite not being an expert myself.
And it is where I learned that I could be a safe space for others even in the midst of my own discomfort.
It’s where I learned the meaning of this phrase: “Home is where you make it.” I know some of you are envisioning Joe Dirt, and I am right there with you, but it’s true.
We all need somewhere we can call home whether it’s a person, place, or community, and sometimes you have to create it.
Home is meant to be a safe space, the most welcoming place there is, a place you can kick back, sit on the couch with your coziest, stretchiest cookie pants, where you can scavenge for snacks in the cabinet without asking first and eat said snack even if it’s the last one, a place where you’re loved and accepted for all the bits and pieces, broken or whole, that make up the fabric of who you are.
That’s what it’s meant to feel like. It exists, and it doesn’t have to be a physical place.
Home can be found in the smell of curry in a fellow-foreigner’s apartment, in a bite of banana bread that tastes just like your mom’s, in playing a familiar song on the treasured guitar your grandfather gave you, in a new friend or an old one, in a random snuggle from your own toddler or a smile and shared giggle from one you just met on the bus.
It can be found while grabbing fast food, where you realize the person serving you speaks English, too, albeit with a heavy accent. Still, the gentle gesture of kindness makes an instant sense of home, if you recognize it for what it is.
I may not know you very well, and you may only read this post, and that is ok, but know this:
Whatever brings you here, and whatever you’ve brought with you, welcome, every piece of you. Here’s to finding home wherever we make it.
P.S. I would do just about anything to smell those spices again. Thomas, if you’re reading this, thank you for your hospitality, and we miss you so much. YOU were home for us.
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