by Marian Keyes
I narrowed my eyes at him. Taking the piss, was he? But what if . . . could there be a chance that maybe . . . he wasn't . . . ? Cautiously I accepted my key, gave him an I'll-be-back-if-I-need-to look and made for our "special room."
And your man wasn't joking. Our room was very special—it was enormous, far bigger than our house in Dublin. It took ten minutes to walk from one end of the sitting room to the other (I'm exaggerating only slightly), it had four bathrooms, a dining table that seated twelve, an office and a massive balcony which overlooked Prague castle. (All the rooms have the same view.) And so what if I occasionally got an electric shock when I touched anything metal, and did it matter that the bathroom doors were constructed in such a way that if you closed the door while still holding the handle (and how else are you to do it?) your fingers become painfully trapped?
It was costing us eighty dollars a night. Forty dollars each. A bargain. My parents and siblings came to ooh and aah and I swaggered about, delighted with the sudden change in my fortunes.
"Now aren't you glad your bag got lost?" Mam asked. "Come on, we 've to go down for our carp. Listen, are they telling the truth about Tom Cruise?"
Hard to know but over the next few days enough staff swore blind that Tom really did stay in that selfsame room and that Nicole really did visit him there, to convince me. As it happened, one of my Christmas presents was a velvet eye mask (to aid restful sleep on bright summer mornings) but it came in very handy as a prop as Himself and myself pretended to be Tom and Nicole in Eyes Wide Shut. Oh, hours of fun.
In the daylight we got a better look at the hotel and it was gas. Finished in 1981, it was the Czech attempt at late-seventies luxe. They were showing off—look at our most excellent, Vestern-style hotel, see how well the Soviet system is vorking for us hard-vorking Czech—and many of the big names stayed there: Brezhnev, Andropov, Ceaucesceau.
No expense was spared in its interior: every single wall and door is clad in walnut and the scale of the place is massive. There 's a swimming pool, tennis courts, a beauty salon and expansive gardens. Even a bowling alley. (Badly crap, mind you.)
The outside is textbook Czech modernist architecture—mucho, mucho concrete, but it is curved and graceful; from the air it would look like a giant S shape.
And it wasn't just the architecture that was central European, and time warped: the room service menu listed ten different breakfasts, as follows. (I love this.) Breakfast #1: "50g of domestic cheese and 50g of cold meat." Breakfast #2: "100g of domestic cheese." Breakfast #3: "100g of cold meats." And so on. Such precision dates from Soviet times when the fear of being swizzed was high. You could bring your own personal weighing scales just to check that the room service boy hadn't helped himself to a 5g corner of your cheese en route from the kitchen. (Of course you pay a premium for having your 100g of cheese delivered to your room—a whopping two euro will be added to your bill.)
However, the charming staff are not Soviet-style and are more than prepared to go "off-menu." I've requested—and been given— a nonmenu yoghurt. And another time, a fruit salad. And another time, a banana.
However, the "orange juice" is authentically terrifying. It 's a long way from an orange that their "orange juice" was reared: syrupthick and Day-Glo, like undiluted MiWadi. And the mini-bar is charmingly bereft of produce—a couple of bottles of local beer and some dodgy-looking, chemical-filled soft drinks is all you'll get.
On account of Ema and Luka, Himself and myself go to Prague a lot and we always stay at the Praha—although sadly we never got the Tom Cruise suite again, but even the ordinary rooms have character and space.
For ages, we seemed to be the only people there. Although there are four floors, we were only ever put on the first, leading us to suspect that the other three floors were covered in dust sheets, like a hotel version of Miss Havisham, waiting for the visitors to return. And then, lo and behold, they did! On a recent visit the Germans had arrived, busloads of them. Filming something. A fashion show, perhaps. Or . . . or . . . maybe a porn film. Lots of busty blond women running around in see-through tops and beardy men in leather trousers filming them.
Then another time we went—how bizarre is this?—the Galway choral society were doing a concert. Luka and Ema were wheeled along to experience the Irish side of their heritage and Luka was evidently very moved because during a sixteen-part harmony of "Danny Boy" he lurged at the front row of warblers with his plastic knight 's sword we 'd bought for him in IKEA (yes, they have IKEA in Prague) and had to be hauled off.
I love the Praha. It 's a kind of memorial to a Soviet past and the staff are welcoming and incredibly obliging and without wishing to slag the Czechs, that 's not always the case. (Sometimes in Prague I'm in terrible danger of becoming the irritating kind of person who says, "Cheer up, love, it might never happen.") It 's also far enough from the town center so if you don't want stag parties gawking their guts up outside your room every night, the Praha's your man.
Okay, it 's not in the middle of town and if you need to be in staggering distance of your hotel, it 's not for you. But if you're not afraid of a tram ride and you'd like to see a little remainder of Prague 's recent past, you might give it a whirl. Honest to God, they're so nice. Tell them I sent you.
A version of this was first published in Abroad, May 2004
Flaming December
All I'm saying is, it made sense at the time. Getting married on the 29th of December mightn't strike everyone as the smartest move, but hear me out. I was living in London but getting married in Ireland; lots of my Irish guests were also living in London but would be in Dublin for Christmas. I'd be saving them an extra trip.
And being Ireland, the chances were that the weather would be as nice in December as it would be in August. Unfortunately, however, that was not to be, and two days before the wedding, the day most of the British guests (including my husband-to-be, i.e., Himself ) were flying in, the weather took a turn for the very ferocious. All flights from the UK were delayed and the first little seedlings of fear sprouted in my stomach: it 's a sign. He won't be coming. I'll be jilted at the altar.
I'd never been one of those women who'd hankered after a white wedding, planning the dress, the bridesmaids, the ring, etc. If ever I thought of a traditional wedding the only image that came to mind was of me and my father in a white Rolls-Royce, circling the block again and again as we waited for a groom who was already halfway to Rio. Every time we neared the church, some usher would yell, "Go round again! Give it one more go!"
Then Himself rang to say his flight had landed in Dublin but he was going to wait at the airport for his best man, Guy, who was due in shortly on another flight. But time passed and he didn't appear and I couldn't ring him because nine years ago only gobshites had a mobile. My hysteria built and gathered momentum, especially as we were having the church rehearsal that evening.
"It 's a sign," I announced. "He's not going to marry me."
"He 's in the country," everyone kept saying loudly at me. "Of course he 's going to marry you."
"Right now," I said, "he 's probably buying a one-way ticket to Rio."
Himself rang again to say Guy's flight had been badly delayed but was expected to land any minute and they'd both see us soon. But they still hadn't arrived by the time we were leaving for the rehearsal.
Then the doorbell rang and I nearly puked with relief—but it wasn't him, it was my friends Laura and Bruce. Who, when they saw the tearful, highly strung state of me, decided to come along to the church with us.
In the car, in a thin hysterical voice, I outlined my position. "It was stupid me thinking I'd ever land a lovely man like Himself. All my relationships are disasters and, with my history, I'm the ideal person to be jilted. I have 'jiltee ' written all over me. Of course, we 'll laugh about it one day, it 'll make a great story: two days before my wedding my fiance ran away to Rio."
"What's this obsession with Rio?" I heard someone mutter.
"I bet right now," I conti
nued, "he 's boarding the flight to Rio."
"There are no direct flights to Rio from Dublin," my dad said, like this was a comfort.
In the church my mother gave me a small yellow and blue capsule— some member of the Valium family—and I "married" Bruce.
Right at the end of the "ceremony" Himself strode into the church like a movie star, his hair all windswept, his coat covered with hail, and took me in his arms.
"You didn't go to Rio," I said, in wonder.
"The flights were full," he said.
However, the great thing about having a meltdown two days before my wedding meant that on the day itself, I was astonishingly calm; I'd got it all out of my system. I went to my local hairdresser's to have my complicated flower-woven updo done. (I know that nowadays makeup artists and manicurists come to the bride 's home to beautify her, but nine years ago it was more of a DIY job.)
My hair took a very long time, longer than I'd expected, and yet I was serenity itself. Even when Mrs. Benson, mother of my friend Suzanne and guest at my wedding, stuck her head under my dryer and said, in confusion, "It is today, isn't it? Because if it is, you're getting married in an hour."
When I emerged from the hairdresser's I was all set to get a taxi but, like a magical coach, my local bus, the 46A, drew up right in front of me. I boarded it, was let off my fare and alighted at my home stop ten minutes later, the congratulations of the other passengers still ringing in my ears.
I got home at one-fifty, I was getting married at two-thirty, I was still calm. My sisters—my two bridesmaids—were hysterical, fighting for mirror space. Quietly, without bothering anyone, I got myself dressed, and did my makeup. I helped my sister with her zip, then, after much thundering up and down the stairs, suddenly everyone was gone from the house and it was quiet and calm and it was just me and Dad and the fancy car was waiting outside and one of us said, "We might as well go, so."
The ceremony and the getting married and all that was lovely. It was only afterwards, when we had to go outside for photos, that the weather, once again, became an issue. It was indescribably cold, so cold that I wondered if it might snow—which would look lovely in the photos—but a friend of my father said, "It 's too cold to snow." Then several other men joined in, looking at the sky and opining, "Ah, too cold to snow, I'd say." Which strikes me as one of the most bizarre statements I've ever heard.
My dress was made of thin satin, and months earlier, when I'd been getting it designed, I had toyed vaguely with getting a white furlike capelet and muff, then decided not to bother, certain that love would keep me warm. But I was wrong. I've never been so cold in my life. In the end I had to beg the photographer to call a halt to the outdoor pictures of me and Himself.
And the group shot on the steps of the church show an incomplete lineup of our guests because the photographer took so long fiddling with light and perspective that several of them went back into the church to warm up and missed it all.
After the wedding, when several of the guests had to return to the UK, the weather—already atrocious—took a turn for the worse. The car ferry was able to leave Dún Laoghaire but unable to dock at Holyhead, and several of our guests, including my parentsin-law, had to spend twenty-four hours trapped on the high seas. Finally they were permitted onto dry land, and my exhausted parents-in-law got into their car and made for home. However, less than a mile from their village, their car skidded on a patch of ice and they ended up in a ditch, lucky to be alive.
June for the next one, definitely.
First published in Brides Magazine, December 2004
Viva La Resolution?
The world is divided into two types of people: those who love New Year's Eve and those who hate it. Those who love it celebrate it by going to parties, wearing glittery deely-boppers, joyously doing the conga, shouting, "TEN, NINE, EIGHT . . ." with gusto, kissing everyone in sight and generally feeling full of hope for the forthcoming year. The other kind—and they can be perfectly sociable for the other 364 nights of the year—find that New Year's Eve plunges them into a black despair. I, to my shame, belong in the latter gang.
I can't really articulate what happens to me, but when everyone else is looking forwards, I look backwards. Old mortifications present themselves for inspection and I feel like a big, fat failure. It 's like the stock taking I do every birthday, only somehow far, far worse. So great is my gloom, I feel that if a tinselly deely-bopper was placed on my head, it would instantly tarnish, and the last thing I want to do, as one year clicks over into a new one, is triumphantly blow a paper bugle, then snog my dentist.
What makes things even harder is the scorn the deely-bopper gang pour on my discomfort and their utter disbelief that I might prefer to stay home and watch the movie Billy Elliot. "But it 's the best night of the whole year! Don't be so mad. Here," they say, handing me a gaudily coloured tube. "Open that when we 're all yelling, 'Happy New Year.' It shoots streamers everywhere."
As time has passed, I have met others of my kind, a small secret band. We all suffer from Extreme New Year's Eve Fear (ENYEF— pronounced "Enough!") and our greatest challenge was the mother of all New Year's Eves: the Millennium. I knew our angst would be magnified two thousand fold and suddenly I had a great idea for how we 'd get through that night. I'd provide a safe house! All clocks would be hidden, so we 'd have no idea when the dreaded midnight was upon us. We 'd have Audrey Hepburn films, duvets, mashed potato, warm baths and every other cocooning device imaginable.
But somehow the deely-bopper gang got wind of the gathering and they were totally unable to understand that this was not a party. Before I knew it, crates of champagne were being ferried in and the house was being draped with shiny red "Happy New Millennium" banners and special one-off deely-boppers—they had "2000" written on them—were being distributed as guests arrived. It was a nightmare!
And if New Year's Eve is upon us, can New Year's Day be far behind?
New Year's Day always feels to me like the day after the world has ended. It has a shocked, stunned air to it; people shakily emerge like they're coming round from a blow to the head. We look at all the crappy presents received and given and remember that shameful business with the trifle on Christmas Day (no one else wanted any, I only meant to take one spoonful, etc., etc.) and think, "What happened?"
After the utter excess of Christmas, the pendulum swings the other way so that the most commonly asked question on New Year's Day (after "Have you any Neurofen?" and, "Er, any idea how I got home last night?") is, of course, "What are your New Year's resolutions?"
Because I have always overdone everything (not my fault, I was born without a "stop" button), I completely understand the urge to purge and refashion myself. Until recently my entire life has been Operation Fresh Start. Most Mondays I'd think: this is the week where I'll grab my life by the throat and bend its will to mine. I will lose that half stone, I will cease my buying frenzy of lovely Jo Malone scented candles, I will learn Serbo-Croat (or something.)
Therefore, I'm the perfect candidate for New Year resolutions. And I've always made tons of them. I've spent much of my life living in some faraway Utopian future, where I am svelte, a restrained shopper and fully conversant in most major European languages. Everything will be lovely when that happens, but until then my life kind of goes on hold.
Every New Year's Day I am full of steely resolve: this is the year when I'll really change. But sooner or later—and it 's usually sooner—I buckle and start eating, shopping and speaking English again. Naturally I end up feeling wretched with guilt and selfhatred.
So this year my New Year's resolution is not to make any New Year's resolutions. Life is tough enough for all of us without overloading ourselves with guilt trying to achieve some perfect (and frankly unattainable) state. The facts are: I will not lose that half a stone (and just between us, it 's more like a stone now)—if it was going to happen it would have happened by now—everyone in Europe speaks English and what 's the harm in having a couple of sce
nted candles about the place?
Forgive me (no really, please do, I'm slightly mortified by this) for an Oprah-esque platitude but life is what happens while we 're waiting for it to be perfect enough to live it.
Happy New Year.
First published in Marie Claire, January 2005
Hurling Insults
"Y iz dirty culchees, yiz muck savages!" The jeers rained down on our heads. Himself and myself were going to Croke Park, to the hurling quarterfinal between Clare and Galway, and our route took us through a part of inner-city Dublin where they have to make their own entertainment. Ten-year-old boys with the wizened faces of old men, smoked and leaned out of the balconies of their flats, partaking of the ancient Jackeen sport of culchee (country people)-mocking.
Seeing as I was born in Limerick, they were within their rights, but Himself was born in England, of English parents, from a long line of English people. People who didn't know better might call him English. However, he 's Irish. He 's a transnational—an Irishman trapped in an Englishman's body—and since he moved here seven years ago, his assimilation process is almost complete. He has learned Irish, he drinks Guinness—and he loves Gaelic sports. His football team is Dublin, but his hurling team is Clare. (Long story, my mother's from there, we spend a lot of time there, a great attachment to the place and the