Week Nineteen

Our second buffet breakfast, upstairs in the kitchen today, confirms that we made the right accommodation choice - enough surreptitiously leaves the table to comfortably feed us for the rest of the day. Also, despite Blanka's repeated requests, Oskar is again the recipient of Milena's generosity (or susceptability): limping around the table from seat to seat, he has a well-praticed lean and hungry look.

Today is sunny and bright again, and both the hostel and the town are much quieter today - Cesky Krumlov is something of a weekend destination: by car it's only an hour and a half from industrial Linz in Austria, and it's also a favourite of trippers out from Prague. We visit the large and helpful Infocentrum first (actually second, after buying cigarettes) and pick up some Info (seems fair) about places in the area. The "area", by the way, is South Bohemia. We've come here for a few days quiet pottering after the concentrated touring of Prague and resulting strain on our relationship. It seems there's a whole bunch of pretty and historic little towns within striking distance, as well as the obvious target of Ceske Budejovice (CHESky booduhyohVEETsuh, or Budweis in German) where the beer comes from. Disappointingly Tabor, the fortress town built by the Hussites as a bastion against Catholic Ceske Budejovice, turns out to be much closer to Prague - we should have done it en route here. Ah well. We pick up a couple of leaflets and maps and then wander back up past St. Vitus church in the direction of the bus station. We have learned from the Infocentrum that Czech railways raised all their prices by up to 75% a few weeks ago (which explains why our tickets here were so expensive) - bus prices, which were comparable, are now much cheaper.

This time we cross the bridge out of the Inner Town and come out at the theatre - bizarrely it also houses a law practice and seems to rent out rooms(?). Just beyond it (the roads are tarmacced here, and the buildings are much newer) is a larger supermarket - we nip in, buy some stuff, and note that they have Viennettas in the freezer compartment . . . maybe later. Walking south along the main north-south road, we come to the bus station and check prices and times to Ceske Budejovice. Not only are they cheaper than the train but they are more frequent and quicker! Unfortunately, as in Prague, the locals seem to travel about at really antisocial hours - despite there being 8 buses between 06.00 and 08.00, there's only one bus between 08.50 and 11.25!

The afore-mentioned main road is built on the steep ridge around this part of the Vltava, looking down across Cesky Krumlov - we find a narrow and treacherously icy path down to the water and cross by a rickety bridge, coming out at the back of the brewery. Just about every town in Bohemia seems to have its own local brewery, and Cesky Krumlov has Eggenberg (named after the family which briefly - 100 years - owned the castle, between the more significant Rozmberks and Schwarzenbergs). We tried Eggenberg yesterday and, unfortunately, it was rubbish. Purely on that basis we avoid visiting the brewery and walk around it instead, past a little old tower which is now a pension (like almost every other building in Cesky Krumlov), back onto the quaint shopping street of Latran. The Travellers' Hostel's laundry is currently out of order, but there's a little self-service laundrette here attached to one of the pensions. Based on their information we rush back, collect our dirty clothes and return, only to discover that they've lied to us - they won't let us start after 15.30 since they reckon a complete wash-and-dry will take two hours (?). Pah.

We wander slowly back, looking in Cesky Krumlov's expensive shops (for a new heating element, among other things, and a new pair of trousers for me). We stroll into the Inner Town over our favourite bridge - a wide, planked, flat bridge just below the castle and along from white (and closed) St. Josta church on the Vltava. Some of the best views and atmosphere in Cesky Krumlov are from this bridge. Also, it has a statue of St. John of Nepomuk halfway across - in the Czech Rep he's like a patron saint of bridges, having been dropped off one.

Back at the hostel, we also note that my Reeboks are finally disintegrating: tomorrow we'll have to buy a new pair of trainers as well. Going into Ceske Budejovice seems like a smart move - it has about 100,000 people so the prices (and selection) should be better than in little touristy 15,000 Cesky Krumlov.
At Domino's we resort to Budvar instead of Eggenberg (Milla drinks more than I do, protesting all the way through that Romanian beers are immeasurably better), and then to the hostel do something to eat. We chat (euphemism for argue) late into the night.

Another sunny day - it's as if spring has come early. After a quick breakfast, I head out with the laundry - with any luck we can get it finished and get out again in time for the 11.25 bus to Ceske Budejovice. We have no luck, however - the washing machines are only plumbed with cold water so the wash cycle takes an hour instead of thirty minutes, and the dryers are pathetic: I give up after forty minutes "drying", and take damp clothes back to the hostel. Milla is less than impressed with some of the results - she has a natural prediliction towards spending hours, sometimes days, washing by hand. After draping the damp clothes over all the available surfaces we set out (having missed the bus to Ceske Budejovice) to buy a pair of trainers locally. I end up with a £10 pair which are light brown with white bits, rather than my habitual all-black: never mind - I can chuck them out and buy another pair later.

By this time it's after midday - it's bright and dry, if a little cold, so we set off into Cesky Krumlov again. It's not a big town, and we've seen most of it by now, so we target a tiny white abbey (Krizova Hora) perched on a little hill overlooking the town. We go up past the theatre ("divadlo") again, and fork right along narrow Rooseveltova, a little street of hotels, bars and cafés which overlook the Vltava below. following the map, we climb up through residential areas towards the little abbey, getting better and better views of Cesky Krumlov below (and the surrounding concrete blocks). After a half-hour climb up the thickly-iced path, we arrive at the cold and windy summit of the hill - there are a couple of squint benches optimistically perched up here, looking towards the town. The abbey is closed (or at least locked), but through the windows we can see that it's a little circular cloister with a chapel in the centre.

After walking around the abbey and freezing our butts off admiring the view and listening to the silence, we set off down the other side (past the TV mast at the back). In contrast to the steep path up, there's moe of a road on the other side - it's mostly thick ice, though, where the sun doesn't reach, and a trickier walk. Also, after the first 50 metres it becomes obvious that it's a much longer walk as well - the road curves back on itself around the far side of the valley, to make it less steep. Thankfully, at the first bend, it's possible to clamber pretty much directly to the bottom down a near-vertical slope. Milla has her doubts, considering the ice and snow, but it's quite straightforward once we're on it: additionally, there are two narrow strips of compact and almost clear ice running from near the top down to the bottom, so I figue local kids must use the hill for a (near perfect) sledging and sliding track.
It occurs to me, since the tracks look pretty smooth, that this would be a much quicker (and more fun) way down to the bottom - despite Milla's exasperated protestations, I edge my way sideways towards the nearer slipway. When I put one foot on the ice, I almost lose my balance (it's really smooth and slippery), which should have been a warning signal - but as that first foot accelerates away from me, I plant (throw) my bum on the ice and away I go. After about a second, I realise I'm travelling way too fast and try to slow myself with my feet: this has no effect on my rapidly increasing speed, but instead serves merely to spin my body round towards my centre of gravity so that I'm now travelling headfirst down a near-vertical slope (minor bumps are tossing me into the air), with no means of either steering or of slowing my descent (plummet). Great. After another three of four seconds of half-terror and half-exhiliration, I figure I must be halfway down the hill and I manage to lift my head enough to see where I'm going (I'm on my back). I have just enough time to register the image of a low concrete wall (topped by a high green fence and fencepost) rushing towards me, just enough time to be surprised (the fence was virtually at the bottom of the hill, and well of my anticipated trajectory), and then there's a couple of seconds of blackness during which i feel as if I'm inside a tumble dryer, and then silence.

I open my eyes and look around, trying to get my bearings - actually, Milla tells me I was completely immobile for a few seconds first: my body was obviously tossed into the air when I hit the concrete walls, since it's punched its way clean through the metal fence and I'm lying on my back on the other side. [Squeamish or sensitive readers might now want to skip towards the end of today's entry]. My whole body - every muscle - feels bruised and battered, but my left arm feels particularly sore: I look over at it and discover it's not where my mind tells me it is. There's an experiential thing, where your brain uses the tension in each muscle to work out where exactly everything is (it's how you can close your eyes and still, eg., touch the end of your nose): my mind tells me that my arm is across my body - actually, it's lying in the snow beside me. I flex my fingers and, despite the unnatural angle, my fingers move - okay, so the arm's still attached (ie. it's not just my Berghaus jacket holding my arm on): I remember thinking "At least it's my left arm - if necessary, I can live without a left arm". By this time, I'm calling out to Milla, who's a little black speck up at the top of the hill, and I'm also realising that my right knee is hurting more than the rest as well. I gather my left arm across my body and sit up - I'm in clean white snow, so there's no trace of blood anywhere: I feel this is a good sign. A good sign counterbalanced however by what my upper left arm is now doing.
Independently of anything I'm telling it to do, my left arm between the shoulder and the elbow is spasming, but spasming in a really liquid sort of way which no normal arm should be able to do - it's as if my upper arm has been replaced by a plastic bag of water. My first thought is that I must be bleeding profusely and my jacket sleeve has filled up with blood - but there's no sign of blood anywhere, which means that the fluid motion is all happening within my skin. By now my calls to Milla have become shous, and I've probably alerted everyone within a half-mile radius to my plight. Milena miraculously makes her way down the slope without slipping (except at the very end), and I crawl back to the gaping hole in the fence and climb out with her help. As my head touches the wire of the fence, I feel a sudden and intense numb pain - oh God, it seems I've badly hurt my head after all (the one bit I wasn't able to look at). Milla clambers through the hole and collects my daybag while I sit with my back to the concrete (I find my keys lying there in the snow). On the way out, she cries out "Fuck - this fence is electric": hey-ho - that would explain my sudden head-pain. I may not be mortally injured after all.
Milla helps me to my feet - I try to cling to the fence to stop myself slipping again, but whenever I stop holding my left arm it falls to my side painfully - attempts to lift it on its own just result in it twisting unnaturally from side to side. Bollocks. Actually, at the time, it was moe fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. So instead, I hold my arm and Milla holds me and we limp down the remainder of the slope to where the houses start: there's someone moving about outside the nearest house (as well as two kids playing in the street) and we accost the man and communicate our plight to him with difficulty (he has only German and Czech, Milla has no German and my mind's on other things). At first he tries to give us directions to the hospital; and then he disappears inside and tells us to wait. After a couple of minutes there's no sign of him so we pursue him indoors (in later discussions both Milla and I believe it was his field that I ended up in - he may have been looking out the back of his house at the wreckage of his fence). He reappears, sits us in his kitchen and tries to explain that there is no ambulance (I didn't catch the explanation why): he calls a taxi instead - it'll be here in five or ten minutes.

During all this time, the pain is seriously beginning to kick in and, a little worried that I might pass out, I give Milla instructions in which pockets she can find the Czech koruna, my passport and credit cards. After a short eternity the taxi arrives - bizarrely it has a dog inside (as well as the driver, not instead of), which thankfully transfers to the front seat (with Milla's unceremonious assistance). There's a short journey over bumps (I yelp louder with each bump and each corner), and finally we're at Accident & Emergency in Cesky Krumlov hospital. Milla takes my watch as one of the doctors takes my details (it's about 16.00 by now - my incident was at about 15.20) - I've already told Milla where my travel/health insurance documents are stored but it turns out I don't need them, on account of being British.
They sit me in a wheelchair, and a nurse gives me a big injection of something - by this time I'm pretty much continually yelping and I've turned completely white (including my lips and eyes), which is something my mother does too. Oh, and my teeth are chattering and I'm shivering uncontrollably. They carefully peel off my jacket and sweatshirt, until my arm becomes visible, to the following reactions:
The Nurse: something in Czech, which ends with something like "Iesus Christi',
Milla: "Jesus Christ",
The Doctor: something in Czech followed by "You have a fracture",
Me: "I know".
For those of you who remember Henrik Larsson's broken leg, that was what it looked like. My lower arm was loose, so the elvow was invisible: but I had a new elbow half-way along my uppr arm. It was pretty horrible.

They (two doctors and an orderly) manipulated my arm into the right shape (ie. arm-shaped), strapped it into an angled support (during which procedure I apparently bit Milla) and then wheeled me through to the X-Ray room where I got a barrage of X-Rays (Roentgens here, as in Germany) and then sat and waited. I got Milla to take a photo while we waited, regretting that I didn't have any of the accident or my now elbow. As we sat, it occurred to me that I was in hospital and would therefore need to roll a 7 or 11 to get out: it also occurred to me that I was doped out of my eyeballs and wasn't thinking straight. It finally occurred to me that I was doped out of my eyeballs, and my arm still hurt. I also recall feeling distinctly queasy at about this point.

Now, after this point, my memory is pretty hazy - I remember the doctor talking Milla through the X-Rays: my knee wasn't broken, my left shoulder was dislocated and I had a multiple fracture in my humerus but I wouldn't need an operation (there's a great X-Ray showing a whole chunk of my humerus totally out of alignment with the top and bottom bits). I would need to stay in hospital or some time, though. They put plaster on and elaborate, immobilising strapping, and took more details and then wheeled me up into a ward and manipulated me into a bed. The orderly had a fantastic technique for assisting me to sit up and lie down with no pain - Milena later told me he smelled bad, but I still think he did a great job.
Milena stayed until 23.00 apparently, sorting my stuff and arranging my little bedside cabinet but, frankly, my memory's pretty iffy. I do remember dreaming that night, but only of the recurrent and static image of the concrete and fence just before I hit it.

Wednesday starts early - at 06.00, in fact. There's a timetable, or regime, here: up at 06.00 for temperatures and tests; at 06.30 the doctors start coming round; after you've been processed you can have breakfast (two rolls and hot chocolate); lunch is about 11.30; dinner is about 04.30; and lights out is about 22.00. The whole timing is about 2 hours ahead of anything approaching civilised: fucking Czechs. All this is yet to come for me, though.
The doctor visits (actually a group - some students, by the look of them), and inspects and asks a few questions, and then moves on. After the disappointment of breakfast, my spirits are raised when I discover how to get out of the hospital for a cigarette - down two floors (by elevator - stairs are way beyond both my current pain factor and my knackered knee) and out the front door. Thankfully the unseasonal sun is continuing to shine, otherwise (in my hospital pyjamas) I'd probably end up with pneumonia as well. Mid-morning (Czech time - that's about 09.30), my Milla arrives - she has brought my toiletries, some clean clothes, doughnuts, cheese and salami rolls, and Blanka. We have a four-way conversation with one of the doctors - they will keep me in for a few days (Friday is mentioned), then put a full cast on, get me back a week later for "control" X-Rays and, after six weeks, the cast can come off. Six weeks? Oh well - the Travellers' Hostel in Cesky Krumlov gives every seventh day free . . . We go outside (very slowly) for cigarettes (Oskar has come too and is waiting, tied to a bench), after which Blanka leaves and Milla keeps me company through the morning: she wasn't able to sleep last night.
The rest of that day I'm pretty immobile and incapable, but Milena is a powerhouse of activity. She buys provisions, including cigarettes, gets the outstanding films developed, and sends an email to my parents to let them know the worst (including the only pun I've managed to come up with so far - that I have no sense of humerus). She even comes back in the evening and we go through the photos, and she meets my new friend - a young, cropped-hair orderly who speaks some German. I gave him a cigarette, and he gave me a big red pill "for the 'ow'": he also keeps my mug filled with the sweet tea on which the hospital (at least the patients) seem to survive.
Milena leaves well after dark again.

I had the same single-image dream last night - no emotional feedback (like fear), but just that damned fence/wall.
We only get one doctor this morning - I tell him that I've noticed that my right forearm is pretty painful as well: he feels the bone (ouch!) and assures me that it's not broken. He also notes my fingers, which are continuing to swell dramatically - my knuckles are now little indents - and gets the plaster broken a bit at my hand, so it doesn't bite into the flesh so much.
Milena doesn't come round until later today (I spent my time trying to write, sleeping, and playing with blocks - the men have overflowed into a room normally used for children, so we have crayons and buildings blocks), and she's been busy. Shes brought a pair of plastic flip-flops for using the hospital and hostel, and she's had copies made of some photos, and bought an envelope to post them home. She's also brought me more rolls, and a couple of apples - a little ungratefully, I ask if she can bring me bananas next time. She also tells me I've become something of a tourist attraction at the hostel - fellow travellers have been going out to see where it happened. One girl even took a photo of a man repairing the fence.
During her visit, Milena manages to fall out with one of my fellow patients (there are five of us in the room - two have already changed since I was admitted): he seems to resent the fact that she a.) ignores official visiting hours and b.) stays for hours and c.) brings me lots of goodies. This is a hospital, he informs her, not a hotel. Ah well - fuck him. He's just lucky she didn't sleep over as she intended (there's an empty cot in one corner).
She leaves late, which hopefully irritates him even more.

I dreamed of the fence again last night - hopefully this will stop soon.
This is Friday - the day originally mentioned that I might get out: the doctor decides not, though. They have to wait for the swelling to at least stop getting worse, and ideally to go down, before they put the full cast on. My regular pills, from this point, now include a couple of little orange ones (presumably for the swelling) as well as the big red ones. Milena comes round early, bouncy and happy in the expectation that I might be getting out - discussion with the doctor reveals that Monday is now the target day. She has brought me bananas, after the apples of yesterday: also my collection of rolls gets larger.

We sit in the little dining room and talk - thankfully the view from the hospital (at the back of the bus station) is pretty good, across scenic Cesky Krumlov. The warm spell is continuing, and most of the snow has gone now. Milena has meanwhile been improving her Czech - it's a funny language, essentially Slavic but with a lot of German intonation: kind of like the Czech people. They have a lot of single-letter words: not like "I", which is quite reasonable, but like "k" and "v" and "z" which (in my book) are unpronouncable as words. One Czech girl we talk to recalls her surprise at first seeing 3-letter prepositions when learning English. Also, many words just don't have enough vowels: "kde" and "kdy" (what and when) for example. It's like a language designed by someone who has an incomplete Scrabble set. Words they gave us include "ahoy" (for hi) and "grog" (hot, watered-down rum); in English, these are both nautical terms, which is particularly odd considering the Czech Rep doesn't even have a coastline, never mind a navy. Words seem to decline as well - Blanka's dog, Oskar, becomes "Oskar-e" when being addressed (ie. vocative); her Irish boyfriend Paul, similarly, becomes "Paul-e".

Other news from outside includes a forthcoming meeting in Cesky Krumlov between Vaclav Havel and some other president/premier: Milla's not sure who or when, but I prime her to try and get a photo.
The days passes pretty slowly: a television arrives in the room, together with another new occupant (we picked up a child yesterday, who spends most of his time moaning). The television instantly goes on and stays on all day, which is particularly irritating: Latin-American soaps (dubbed, like everything in the Czech Rep); endless studio discussions programmes; and Perry Mason (dubbed). The programming seems to have been designed specifically for use as a soporific in hospitals.
In the evening, after two more ghastly meals (hospital food seems to be universal), Milla helps me to shower. It's difficult and pretty painful, particularly since I'm tired out before we even start. I'm nasty to Milla (as well as getting her wet), and ask her not to make such long visits: she leaves about 22.30, by which time the ward is already in darkness (!) - possibly solely for the benefit of the one child.

At last, a new dream: this one included Milla dancing with a tiger and me getting a massage by man-sized rats (Peter Ustinov was playing the role of the rat High Priest). This is reassuring in some ways, and obviously less reassuring in others. The nurses come in at 06.00 (I'm sure they already think of me as The Scottish Patient) to run the various tests, but then they switch the lights off again. Hallelujah! It seems that the doctors don't do the rounds at weekends, so we are to get a long lie-in until breakfast - oh, merciful bliss. Unfortunately there's a daft old codger in bed 2 and after half an hour, he decides he can't stand the repose any longer: he gets up, switches on the TV and cranks the volume up. Bastard.
We're tuned to some American or Japanese cartoon crap, possibly for the benefit of the child (again). Super.

After ten minutes I can't stand it any more, get up and go into the kitchen/dining room to write - writing, incidentally, is fucking difficult if you a.) don't have another hand to hold the paper/notebook down and b.) can't sit in the same position for more than five minutes before it becomes too painful. The day passses interminably slowly - there is no sign of Milla, probably because I upset her yesterday. I chat to the orderly in bad German (he's been at the hospital for 6 monhs, before that a year in the army: also his mother is currently in a ward here, expecting a child). Early in the afternoon, when everyone else has visitors, I decide to treat myself to a banana - one of the ones I specifically asked Milla to bring me instead of apples - and discover that I can't peel a banana with only one hand. I explore some of the grounds - there's a bar in the hospital (seriously), but it's closed.
Darkness closes in, and there's still no sign of Milena - I'm beginning to think she's abandoned me and gone back to Bucharest. And then, of course, she turns up. She's brought two takeaway pizzas and some beers, on the basis that it's Saturday night. She's also brought lots of cigarettes. What a girl. We eat and drink into the night, and then use the ward payphone to call my parents (my mother manages to phone me back, by substituting the correct Country Code for the one I gave her). Alarmingly, both Milena and my mother agree that I'm the world's worst patient: actually, most of the hospital staff and patients would probably agree - I don't know what's wrong with the other patients here, but they seem content to lie around in bed all day, acting ill or injured. And none of them even makes an effort to look cheerful . . .
I assure my parents that Milla's taking great care of me - I can't remember if I mentioned the beer and pizza. After the call, Milla stays until after midnight (we have careful sex on the stairs - first time in a hospital for both of us), and I fall quickly asleep.

Sunday - the dullest day: not even a dream to amuse me in the morning. And another day of dawn till late Czech television - it's as painful as my arm (though that may only be because I'm on painkillers). Milla comes round and helps me shower, and we drink more coffee/"capuccino" from the hospital's vending machine, and we smoke. And then she leaves, and I sleep.
Yep - not a lot happened today.