I wasn’t paying attention to the calendar when I happened in here tonight. I’m at the Budvar Bar (actually the name is U Kmotra, not to be confused with some big tourist trap that is actually called Budvar Bar), the bar closest to home and also a place to get a plateful of cheap, if not inspired, food. The tea costs more here than at Little Café Near Home, but the food swayed me.

Incidentally, word on the street is that the Little Café Near Home is going to get larger. What’s cool is that the plan is to grow vertically downward. Beverages are always tastier when consumed subterranealy. This probably means tripling the size of the Little Café — there would be no point in spending so much on construction just to increase the capacity from twenty (when packed to the gills) to forty. If the Little Café has fifteen tables, rather than the current six, will it still be the Little Café?

Tonight I’m at the Budvar Bar, however, and I”m feeling bloated and slow-witted after a filling meal. It is crowded tonight. I am at the table directly under the television, as there is a game on and I don’t want to take up a seat that someone interested in the game might want. The place began to fill up quickly soon after I arrived, the tables filling first on the sides facing the television. Tonight’s match is Prague Sparta (rhymes with New York Yankees) vs. Kladno (rhyme pending) in a grass-kick-hockey (rhymes with soccer or football, depending where you live) match. This game has had relatively few cases of grown men lying on the grass pretending to be hurt (apparently an integral part of this sport), so it hasn’t been too painful to have it flashing in my peripheral vision, demanding my attention.

Directly behind me is the table where the guys play cards. The man with no nose is among them, and after this much time I must assume that he is not getting a new nose, and that he is content to wear a rectangle of gauze affixed to his face with a big X of tape forever. The guy with no larynx was here earlier, sitting at the table I prefer when things aren’t crowded. Also departed are the men who like to do shots with the matronly waitress, who may or may not be related to the owner.

(One of the Spartans just had made contact with a defender, and had the sense to make a crisp pass upfield before the agony of the violence done to him was too much and he collapsed to the turf in agony.)

All these things are going on around me, and that’s just the normal vibe for this place. No distraction at all. What is distracting me is the tattoo of the leaping tiger that the waitress who recently came on is sporting. Could it be that she’s a fan of the Liberec Bily Tigri, my favorite ice hockey (rhymes with real sport) team? She’s very pretty, so the idea is enticing.

There’s also the matter of where the tattoo is. It is a large piece, right between her shoulder blades and extending down her slender back. At times it is partially concealed by her long, blonde hair. Her nose crinkles when she smiles; I think she is secretly laughing at my resolute determination to look at her eyes rather than her breasts. She has very pretty eyes.