Learning Czech is not a steady climb upward; it’s more like a rollercoaster
Following on from my previous blog about the perils of arriving in a new country armed only with enthusiasm and the linguistic ability of a confused toddler, you might assume things improve once you reach a “basic” level of Czech.
You would be wrong. Spectacularly wrong.
In fact, there comes a dangerous phase I like to call “Confidently Incorrect Czech”—where you know just enough to get yourself into deeply unnecessary trouble.
Let me illustrate.
The Fish Restaurant (Featuring: Not Fish)
Shortly after arriving, I had built up what I considered a respectable Czech vocabulary. Admittedly, I was treating grammar—particularly cases—as more of a long-term aspiration than an immediate concern.
Before visiting a restaurant known for its trout, I did some revision. Dictionary in hand, I was ready to impress.The moment came. I ordered confidently. The waitress looked confused.
I repeated it, even more confidently (as if volume would fix it). Then I pointed at a picture of a fish and did an enthusiastic swimming gesture. She responded by flapping her arms like a bird.
At this point, we were locked in what can only be described as an international mime-based Mexican standoff.
Thankfully, a kind English-speaking bystander intervened. I explained my situation. He laughed. The waitress laughed.
I had proudly ordered “pštros” (ostrich) instead of “pstruh” (trout).
In my defence, they’re only completely different animals.
The Pizza Restaurant (Or: The Importance of Tiny Squiggles)
Feeling emboldened by my expanding Czech (mistake number one), I decided to buy takeaway beer—a petka, a 2-litre bottle filled fresh at the pub. A brilliant system, by the way.
This time, I even deployed grammar. The accusative case made an appearance. Things were getting serious.
“Prosím, dejte mi pětku,” I said, with the quiet confidence of a man who has no idea what’s about to happen.
The bartender told me I’d need to wait 15 minutes.Fair enough, I thought. Fresh barrel, perhaps.Fifteen minutes later… out came a pizza.Pizza number five.
Turns out, I hadn’t asked for a petku (beer bottle). I’d asked for pětku (number five). All because of a tiny diacritic—the infamous Czech háček, a detail small in size but devastating in consequence.
I went home with beer and a pizza, and a wife who was understandably confused by my “efficient” shopping.
A Matter of Garlic (Or: How to Offend Staff Without Trying)
At another restaurant, I spotted garlic on the menu. Garlic and I are not on speaking terms, so I attempted to communicate this clearly. “I don’t like garlic and I want food without garlic,” I declared, in what I believed was excellent Czech.
The waitress burst out laughing. Then she told her colleague. He also burst out laughing. This is never a good sign.
What I had actually said was:’I don’t like the waiter and I want food without the waiter.”A subtle but important difference.
The issue? I used “číšník” (waiter) instead of “česnek” (garlic).
Given the size of the waiter, I had had a lucky escape!
Final Thoughts from the Linguistic Front Line
There have been many more mishaps, though some are best left undocumented for legal—or marital—reasons.
But the lesson is clear: learning Czech is not a steady climb upward. It’s more like a rollercoaster where, at any moment, you might accidentally order exotic wildlife, receive unsolicited pizza, or insult someone’s profession.
Still, I continue to fight the good fight—armed with determination, a dictionary, and a healthy tolerance for public embarrassment.
Na zdraví
Expats Have a Variety of Needs
Living in another country is great most of the time. For those times when it gets complicated, seek a professional, especially in financial, retirement, and investing situations.
