pick a word - explain without using the word

(taboo)

(facing down)

pick 3 - choose which ones the odd one out- other people guess - Say good guess but not my answer

(facing up)

pick 3 - create a sentence that makes sense - others have to agree that it makes sense

separate vocab into groups and choose a rule - other groups have to figure out your rule

After one brave gulp, he tried to combine customs. He hid painted eggs around the orchard, then attempted Irish step dancing while reciting a Czech Easter carol he barely pronounced correctly. Unfortunately, the slivovice hit at that exact moment.

In a tragic, tipsy miscalculation, he smacked Klára’s father with the pomlázka instead.

Silence.

Then everyone burst out laughing—especially Klára, who declared, “Great! Now Dad will be healthy all year too!”

We didn’t come to Siberia chasing stereotypes. We came because Declan got a forestry contract no one else wanted, and the rest of us followed—mechanic, teacher, electrician, one failed musician. “Two years,” we said. That was five winters ago.

The locals thought we wouldn’t last a week. Too soft. Too loud. Too Irish.

Turns out, cold is democratic. It humbles everyone equally.

Each night after work, we light a fire by the river and pour a single shot—vodka, not whiskey. That’s the real rebellion. The bears keep their distance now. We keep ours. There’s an understanding.

We talk about mortgages back home, about mothers who still send care packages, about whether we’ll leave when the contract ends.

Maybe we will. Maybe we won’t.

But somewhere between the snowstorms and the silence, we stopped being visitors.

Now we’re just the Irish lads who live at minus thirty—and quite like it.

Declan didn’t need much convincing. He’d seen Clara’s photo. He’d memorised how to say Dobrý den. Timber could wait. Destiny could not.

By Easter Monday morning, they stood in a Moravian village, willow switches in hand, trying to look traditional and not like confused lumberjacks. Clara smiled sweetly from her doorway.

Her father did not.

“Irish?” he barked. “You beat girls with sticks and then drink?”

“It’s symbolic,” Declan began bravely.

“Symbolic?” The father rolled up his sleeves.

The lads stepped forward. Chairs scraped. Someone gripped a pomlázka like a weapon. For one terrifying second, an international incident seemed inevitable.

Then Auntie Marie arrived with a tray of slivovice.

One shot. Two. Five.

Accents softened. Stories grew louder. The father discovered he liked Irish stubbornness. Declan discovered he liked slivovice.

By afternoon they were arm in arm, arguing about wedding music.

The bunny, watching from the garden, nodded approvingly.

"You’re scaring the birds," she snapped.

"And you’re standing on my favorite reading spot," he replied, his shy nature momentarily eclipsed by frustration.

However, their bickering ceased when Raquel unearthed a stone relief within the ruins—a carving of a bear-man and a hawk-bearer side-by-side. As they worked to decode the ancient runes, the mystery deepened, revealing a lineage of protectors they both belonged to. The star athlete and the outgoing scientist realized their meeting wasn't a clumsy accident, but a historical resonance.

By the time the moon rose over the field, their animosity had thawed into a quiet, mutual respect. They didn't have all the answers, but standing amidst the whispers of the past, they chose to accept the unknown together.