A proper Czech woman

Every time I meet Czechs who live abroad, our conversation always turns to home after more than one beer.

“The country is beautiful, like a garden, but the people, not so much…” says Miriam, a geneticist who lives in Florida. She jerks the Bolognese dog gently on its lead.

“Exactly! Nowhere else will you come across such negative energy and especially... the constant complaining,” her husband Tomáš agrees. “Already when you ask, ‘How are you?’ you know you have made a mistake.”

I nod, while my beer casts a golden light with the promise of a fairy-tale evening on the ocean shore. “You know, it’s all because of the Bolshevik mentality. In our country, practically everybody has somewhere to live, something to eat and has money for beer, but they always complain because...”

“Because no one understands that a better TV or car will not make them happy!” Tomáš interrupts me.

“Because only those who are not envious are happy,” Miriam agrees.

“Because during the forty years, the Bolshevists educated the people out of living their own lives,” I try to finish my thoughts. “They taught us to derive the measure of our own satisfaction with life, only by comparing it with others.”

Our conversation is suddenly drowned out by the engine of a Ferrari passing us on the Miami promenade. In the light of sunset, it looks luxurious and almost painfully unobtainable. I do not know why, but this Ferrari makes my mood a little worse.

“What good is it just to complain and to envy and hate?” Miriam returns to the topic.

“No good,” I answer. “But those Bolshevists who govern our state find a bad mood convenient.” “Do you think the generational shift will improve things?” Tomáš poses the question and, by the tone of his voice, it is clear what answer he expects.

“Honestly... no,” sighs Miriam. “Firstly... the direction of development has really moved slightly askew. Secondly...” she contemplates for a while, “I’m afraid that this nation has complaining and dissatisfaction written in its epigenetic memory.”

When she sees the expression on my face, she starts to explain: “It is a kind of barely interpretable transmission of information on the molecular level. Like, for example, mice from laboratory test tubes that have never seen their parents, but still carry their parents’ fear. Or a puppy from a puppy mill that whines even at the moment when it is given a bone, because memories of its ancestors are always written somewhere within.”

Maybe it just seems like that to me, but she again, and roughly this time, jerks the Bolognese dog.

“They are moaning gits!” I hear myself saying and raise my glass to toast all the grumps worldwide.

“I would buy them some soundproof boxes,” says Miriam and I am not sure if she means Czechs or dogs.

“I would put superglue in their beers, so they could not complain anymore!” adds Tomáš.

I shake my head in disagreement: “Everything is useless, nothing can be done about it. When two or three Czechs meet up, they will always complain, even if...”

Suddenly I realize that I am complaining. I am complaining that Czechs always complain about everything.