This is a nice place. It is the place fuego and MaK will have a party the day after they are married (no pants day). I expect, in deference to the bride, I will wear pants on that occasion, as indeed I am wearing pants right now.
I am in the corner of the large room, on a raised area where bands set up, looking out over the main area. Snow is falling outside, and czech punk rock (complete with accordion) is playing on the sound system. The beer is exceptionally good here. There is a cast-iron stove burning merrily and keeping this place a little warmer than warm enough. As I write this the bartender is adding more fuel. Strictly speaking, I could be quite comfortable without pants right now, except for the looks of shock and revulsion from the other patrons.
The whole pants thing leads me to reflect on how many days in a row I’ve worn long pants and even — gasp! — socks. It’s a different life here, that’s for sure. Takes some getting used to. On the plus side, you haven’t heard me lament forgetting my sunscreen lately. The suntan I got driving across the deserts of the American southwest with the top down is gone now. Now I’m in the climate my complexion evolved to deal with.
A question: Why do white americans, who enjoy tremendous advantages over blacks, work so hard to turn their skin as dark as they can, to the point of giving themselves cancer?
To my left is a reminder of a difference between American bars and Czech ones. In the US, when you see a girl drinking beer in a bar, you can assume with reasonable confidence that she is of a certain age. While that age is appearing younger and younger to me every year, there are two girls who have been here longer than I have, and they are young. I think only one of them is drinking beer, however.
I’m listening to tři sestry cover the old Sex Pistols classic EMI. It rocks, but you can’t really hear the accordion.
The dog at the next table is looking at me funny. Friggin’ poodles. Excuse me while I go pick a fight…