Tag Archives: Prague

She Who Smiles Rarely smiled often

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It started a couple of weeks ago with New York Guy. Man, what an asshole. We rolled our eyes together and I got a smile. When I came in tonight she was behind the bar and she gave a ghost of a smile as we exchanged the briefest of pleasantries before I headed for a table in the back.

It was She Who Smiles Rarely who took my order. “Steak zhuh kurzhitschkafrig,” I said.

“Steak z ku?ecího?”

“Ano, Steak z kurzhetsho”

That went back and forth a couple of times. She knew exactly what I wanted, and she was helping me learn to say it. Steak from chicken thing, A local delicacy. Finally I punted on the pronunciation and just said “Dvah nahtct awesome”. They write down the order by number anyway. With a smile she drilled me on the correct pronunciation of 28. We worked out that I also wanted rice and she was gone.

It was her next visit I really scored. My beer was perilously close to empty and she came by and asked “One more beer?” In English. I mentioned in a previous episode that if they spoke english here I didn’t want to know about it. I waved my hands in the negative while I said, “Je

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Thanks!

Rumble, Rumble

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The “big” supermarket is a long tromp from my house, so I was very happy to discover a place closer to home that could serve all my needs. It’s impossible (for me) to tell just what a store is going to be like when I look at it from the outside. This looked like just another closet-sized convenience store from the outside, but when I walked in I found it was a very large closet.

It’s a real grocery store, with little carts and everything. I grabbed a cart (no deposit required) and pushed it toward the extremely narrow entry gate. Its wheels roared as we trundled across the entryway. I thought of turning back and grabbing another cart, but I pushed on.

Once in, I saw a remarkably spacious store. The reason: it was too narrow for two aisles. Along one side is the meat and cheese counter, where you must ask for what you want. Along the other was staples. That section gave way to another room where there were two aisles. I left my cart and went in there on foot.

The place was filled with sound, but there was little talking. All around me was the rumble of little carts. A man came in and he knew where he was going, pushing his cart ahead of him with a mind-splitting roar. A little old lady was using her cart as a walker while it grumbled along. When people were racing for position in the checkout line it sounded like NASCAR.

There was a freezer section with opaque lids. I have no idea what’s in there. I was hoping someone would lift a lid while I was in position to see, but it never worked out that way. In the back was another room, separated by the beer section, with refrigerated stuff. Finally it was time to take on the meat and cheese counter.

Service there apparently goes by age. As long as there was someone there older than I was, they were served, but even when there were several people obviously younger than I was, I got the attention of the attendant. The extra time was more than welcome, as the options were dizzying. I indicated some sliced sausage and the woman asked “how much?” I’m sure that’s what she asked, but I had no idea what to answer. I don’t know fractions in czech, and honestly I don’t know what a kilogram of sliced sausage looks like. I held up my hands to indicate 1.5 handfuls and accepted what I was given. After a similar ritual with the bacon I was ready to go. I thanked the meat lady for her patience and with her smile I rumbled on, the sound of my wheels lost in the roar of two new arrivals.

It’s my new favorite grocery store.

Thanks!

Never mind.

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So I’m sitting here in the nice little café an easy stagger from where I live. The bartender strikes me as having gypsy blood – raven hair and striking blue eyes. It’s a good look. I could be wrong about the gypsy thing. I don’t even know how to ask. At the table next to mine is a blonde, taller than I am, I suspect, watching me write as she drinks her wine. Even though she can’t see the screen and even if she could she wouldn’t understand the words, I am self-conscious.

I think she knows I am alone, the same way I know she is alone. As long as the laptop is open, that’s all it will ever be.

Closing up the laptop now; maybe there’ll be another episode later. (Yeah. Right.)

Er, even as I typed the above she packed up and left. Timing, man, timing.

Skip forward. I’m still here in this bar, and there’s a german shepherd at my feet. His mistress is yet another beautiful woman, who is smoking right behind me. I have thoroughly won the dog over. I’m good with dogs. They rarely smoke. Owner of big dog attempted to speak with me when I had moved big dog to heights of ecstasy, but I just wimped out and talked to the pup. Lame. She knows now I don’t speak czech worth a crap, but I closed the door on any attempt to communicate. I’m such a dork.

It’s funny. I can ignore almost any human distraction in a bar, but when it’s dogs I’m sucked in. Another dog has arrived and that dog is barking love sonnets to my new best friend. Best friend’s owner has made it clear that she doesn’t want new dog anywhere close. “Let them play,” I thought. It seemed to me the iron-discipline chick was being a hardass, but then it dawned on me. The bitch is in heat. I’m referring to the dog, of course. When I wrote ‘he’ above I was mistaken. Never was too good at that stuff.

So the evening rolled on and I actually did talk to the girl and her friends more, but a lot of the time I was just smiling and nodding. I’ve never seen the little place so busy – it was still jumping at closing time. They have an outlet so I can plug in while I work there, so there’s not much reason for me to leave. All told I was there for almost twelve hours, working for about ten of them.

Thanks!

Spring is coming!

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It wasn’t so long ago I was talking to a Praguista and noting that it was still light at 4:30 – a notable improvement. Spring was right around the corner, we agreed. Dang! Now it’s light until after six p.m. Spring really is coming.

Today the temperature was above freezing for a sustained period. I imagine the snowman on the front of tram seven has finally met its demise. He was riding up there for several days, on the car painted bule to sell Japanese electronics or some shit like that. When I first saw the tram heading my way I thought there was some sort of effigy on the front, but when it got close I saw a meter-tall snowman mushed onto the hooking-up-thing that jutted from the tram car, its little snow arms spread in joy. “I’m the king of the world!!!!” the snowman proclaimed.

Days later I saw the same tram car, and the bowsprit was still there, spindly arms and all. And why not? Nothing had happened in the meantime that would cause snow to melt.

Today, I suspect, the snowman tipped off his precarious balance and was crushed beneath the wheels of the tram.

Spring is coming, and I’m ready for it. As much as I whine about it I really do enjoy the cold, but spring brings more than just warmth. It brings miniskirts. There are a few women who wear them even in the dead of winter, and I love those girls for suffering so my life can be a little better, but even now, as the days get longer, the skirts get smaller.

In San Diego, working a couple hundred meters from the beach, I had ample opportunity to appraise the female form, but for all I like the bikini, I like the miniskirt more. A little more mystery, a lot more swish. There are miniskirts burned into my memory the way no bikini ever could be. Some are recent – watching the girl with bare legs walking down Vinohradska as I huddle in my coat. Some are ancient – watching the walk of a San Diego bartender who shall go unnamed but who is neither Amy nor Rose as she nearly drove me to madness.

Good times. Fond memories. I hope I die before the miniskirt goes out of style.

Thanks!

Shakespeare’s

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I am in a gentle place. There are books all around. At the table next to me earlier was the editorial staff of a new literary magazine working out how to deal with a legal complaint because they have the same initials as another literary magazine here. I should have introduced myself, but they were all so earnest and young and passionate and shit and really I don’t have time for that right now. I’ll drop them an email.

The music here is gentle. There are electric guitars and stuff, but they don’t get too carried away. Right now they are playing a pop song that underneath is Pachelbel’s canon. That’s OK, the P-man laid down a good tune. It is being followed by one of U2’s less aggressive tracks (notably, not With Or Without You, which starts out a lot like Pachelbel’s canon). Mellow white American music. No, U2 is not Irish anymore. Just listen to their music. It’s good, but it ain’t no Bloody Sunday.

The people in this place are, at least on the surface, gentle. They read books, speak softly to one another, and shout into their mobile phones. The crowd is young and more than half are American. Moments ago I broke down and spoke english to the girls at the table next to mine. More on that later, if my battery holds up.

It is a gentle place, and I am editing The Test. By coincidence I am working on the most graphically violent bit of writing I have ever done. It’s a powerful scene, and there’s no getting around it, and to pull my punches would weaken the story, but there’s no denying that it’s ugly. I will be embarrassed when Mom reads it. I’m embarrassed the idea of it came out of my head.

But it did, and there’s no taking it back now. If you want to show the evil of slavery, you have to show what happens to the slaves. While technically slavery is an abomination in the depicted society, the enormous gap between rich and poor has created a de facto slavery that is just as bad. So here I am, contemplating violence and degradation, the crushing of the human spirit, while I sit in a very nice bar drinking very good beer.

OK, the girls at the next table. They are at the table the editorial staff held before, and one of those left a sweater. The presence of the unclaimed wool has chased people from the table even when the rest of the bar was pretty full. A girl came in, and hesitated by the table. I had the laptop closed, conserving electrons while I contemplated the worst things that one human could do to another. I glanced her way and she asked with gestures whether the table was taken. I gestured that it was not. I wondered if she was czech and took me for american or whether she was american and took me for a czech.

The answer came when the waiter approached. She’s American. She’s moving out of town, and she doesn’t know how to say ashtray in czech. I don’t know either, but I don’t smoke. When her friend showed up I broke my vow of Czech to offer sell them the sweater. They didn’t buy it.

There was another girl in here earlier, very pretty, with her German Shepherd and her American Boyfriend (in that order). I don’t know where she was from, because her voice didn’t ring out across the small room. Probably she was czech, then. The dog was a sweetheart. There are no dogs in the scenes of terrible violence I honed to a knife’s edge today. I have that to be thankful for.

Thanks!

Doesn’t ANYone here speak English?

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There are two waitresses at U Sladečku, a.k.a. Crazy Daisy, who I have taken as a personal challenge. Both are brunette, slender, and pretty. If either speaks English I don’t want to know about it. One of them I have dubbed the Anti-Amy. Put Amy and the Anti-Amy side-by-side and they could easily pass as sisters. At least, until they start talking. Or, well, when Amy starts talking. The anti-Amy doesn’t say a whole lot. To anyone.

The czechs, I am often reminded, are a reserved people. That’s OK with me; I’m fairly reserved myself. Amy is not reserved. Not at all.

The Anti-Amy was not working today, but the other she-of-the-hard-won-smile was. Compared to the Anti-Amy she’s a ball of fire, which means on occasion she will toss a litte half-smile my way when I fuck up the czech badly enough but in a sincere way. Also working tonight was a skinny blonde with bad teeth who on rare occasions is almost friendly.

I sat with my back to the wall farthest from the door, next to the piano upon which menus are stacked. I settled in with a beer and a bowl of soup and looked for more parts of The Test that I could delete. (I found a bit I really liked that had been orphaned – it really hurt to delete “The madman Lawrence is back.” “He’s better then?” “I’m not sure. He seems all right, but he has your finger. He says he wants to return it.” You don’t get chances to write stuff like that often.) ANYway, I was unwriting along and a piano player settles in on his little red pillow and starts tickling the ivories. I had been about to leave, but I prolonged my stay.

By this time the place is pretty crowded, and all the open tables have “reserved” tags on them. I feel kind of bad taking up a table at times like that, but I’ve noticed that Crazy Daisy has a pretty plastic definition of “reserved”. At a certain time of night they want to make sure their tables are used efficiently. So it was that there were several tables unoccupied but reserved. It’s all about asking nicely. I sat in my corner, watching the ebb and flow of the bar, listening to the piano, and working on a part of the story that still makes me misty (embarrassing when you’re sitting next to the piano player, facing the whole bar).

“Do you have menus in english?” comes the voice across the room in unmistakable New York. “Do you speak English?” he throws at Smiles-Only-Rarely with hostility and disdain. He turns to the whole bar, his arms spread wide. “Does ANYBODY here speak English?”

Smiles-Only-Rarely turns away from the abuse to fetch the menus from where they sit next to my head. I catch her eye and smile ruefully, shaking my head, skrunching my eyes in a pained expression. Is it? Yes it is! A fleeting smile. She collects two menus and turns back into their sarcastic entitled bitchiness. He’s continuing to be a complete asshat, and suddenly Smiles-Only-Rarely notices, seemingly for the first time, the “reserved” tag on the table. Alas, all the other tables are reserved as well. No room in the inn. His New York victimhood fully confirmed, he escorts his wife out in a self-righteous huff. See ya, pal. Some of us have to live here after you convince everyone that Americans are jerks.

Smiles-Only-Rarely returns with the unneeded menus. She looks at me again. “New York,” I said, shaking my head. “Even Americans hate them.” I don’t know if she understood me, I doubt she did, but I got a real, honest-to-God smile. I love New York.

Thanks!

The Roma Time Warp

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Pizzeria Roma. It’s a nice place. Friendly service, good pizza, not too smoky most days, it’s a place to go and get things done. fuego and I met there Wednesday with a full agenda. Vacuum cleaners to sell, scripts to discuss. Writer stuff. I got there at about four in the afternoon to find fuego marking up some copy for the vacuum catalog.

I settled in across from him and tried to get my brain around another in a series of short stories that begins with Moonlight Sonata. This one, I have a character and I have the theme, but the story was stuck. So while I rambled on in the hope of stumbling across a story fuego was pounding his head against why this particular vacuum cleaner is superior to all others.

Time passed. Since neither of us was enjoying tremendous success, we were starting to interrupt each other, to talk about more interesting things. fuego punted on Zepter and hauled out his laptop, and produced an item that can only have negative long-term consequences—a splitter to allow us to plug in to the already-occupied outlet. There is now no limit to how long we can stay.

And when I say no limit, I mean just that. Roma never closes. So we sat and discussed a short screenplay adaptation of a thing I wrote you have never read, discussed the script competition it is targeted for (which may not even happen this year), and came to an understanding about the feel of the whole piece. We thought about shots but didn’t really get into the dialog so much. This story will be much more adaptable than other things I wrote. So we got some good stuff done on that.

Then, out came Zepter again. There’s a big pile of copy here for just one friggin vacuum cleaner. Naturally, being me, I had many opinions to express and now I’m a co-writer for this crap. We spent some time bashing our heads against that. (Copy writing is hard—not only do you need to be interesting, you have to be informative and not provably false.)

fuego and I wrapped up at last, having advanced the art on many fronts but without a breakthrough. The last phase of the evening was spent marking up paper, so I didn’t have my computer’s clock in front of me. fuego checked his phone, and his eyes bugged out, just a little bit. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked me.

I knew by the way he asked that it was way later than I thought. I thought it was probably about 2 a.m., so I added a couple of hours and guessed “Ummm… four?”

“Almost six-thirty,” he said. “Dang.”

As I walked the two miles home in the dawn’s early light, I reflected that Pizzeria Roma has done something that Einstein and his bunch had given up on. There in an innocuous semi-subterranean all-night restaurant, the laws of the space-time continuum as we know it have been suspended. Perhaps there is a black hole in there, somewhere near the oven, that they installed to hasten pizza service, and its effects are felt throughout the bar. Perhaps the pizza sauce is laced with a subtle psychotic drug that deadens the consumer’s sense of time passing. Whatever it is, I want the rest of my Wednesday back. Not that I was doing anything useful with it—it’s just the principle of the thing.

Thanks!

The bar in the park whose name escapes me at the moment

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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…

Thanks!

The Budvar Bar

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I like this bar. It is a regulars bar. A drinking bar. It isn’t crowded on a Sunday night, but there are a few tables of folk in earnest conversation. To my left sit five older men, sipping their beers and talking in their grumbly voices. To my right four men are playing cards and gambling. Two people came in right after I did, spoke for a moment to the card players, and sat, their beers arriving at their table at the same time they did.

This bar has a non-smoking area, but it’s way in the back and I didn’t notice it until I had already settled in. There’s not too much smoke in here right now anyway.

Most people are drinking the desitku, as am I. I will try the stronger dvanactku next, to compare. What I have is pretty tasty, though. To think they call it Budweiser. The uneasy truce between the American giant and the ancient Czech pivovar will probably be broken now that the Czech Republic is part of the EU. Could be interesting.

It was a pretty good day. fuego came by and we spent the afternoon watching a hockey match between the Czech Republic and Russia. The NHL players are starting to show up now, and we were treated to lots of great passing and one pretty good scrap. Yes, American hockey fans, the labor dispute is just making things better over here. The good guys won, 4-3, but most of the game it wasn’t that close. The Russians scored their third goal with two seconds left. Yesterday’s game between Czech Republic and Finland was also good, with the Czechs scoring the tying goal with a minute left on a goalie-pulled power play, then going on to win in overtime.

One of the card players just can’t get a break. Ty vole! he just exclaimed, thumping the table and putting his head in his hands. I know what that means, but I’m not going to tell you. I think you can guess.

Between hockey periods (which were uninterrupted by commercials) fuego and I cooked breakfast and put together the new pictures and the video for the new egg episode. The last thing we did was put the video to music, and now I have that song stuck in my head. So be warned; it’s catchy.

It was a good day overall; the only thing it lacked was writing, so I better get to that now.

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Time has passed, I’ve splattered my brains against The Test with no Earth-shattering result (lucky for the Earth, I guess), and I am the sole remaining customer here at the bar. The last of the card-players, an older guy, weathered, just left, riding his crutch past my table. He turned to me and smiled. “Na schlad” he said. “Na schladanou” I replied more formally. He smiled and said something else. I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, but he spoke on in a gentle cadence. I recognized one word. spizovatel. Writer. Purely by coincidence I read that word earlier today and had repeated it to myself. He smiled, nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and moved on.

Technically the bar doesn’t close for well over an hour, but now I have to wonder if I’m keeping the bartender here. She’s a nice enough lady, late fifties I’m guessing, outspoken if you know what she’s saying, and I don’t want her thinking “not this guy again” when I come back in. Still, when she asks if I want another I’ll probably say yes. If she wants me to go away she wouldn’t be making it easy for me to stay.

Blah blah blah writer blah blah.

Dang.

Thanks!

A Good Show

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It’s been a couple of days since the show, but I have been thinking about it ever since. We got there a little bit early, but the good tables were taken. No biggie, there were three barstools along the wall next to the dance floor that wee pulled into a circle and so wound up with the best seats in the house.

The setup on stage was promising. On the left, right in front of us, was an upright piano, its face open to expose its insides to a pair of microphones. There was a small drum kit and an array of other Mysterious Devices, and a hollow-body bass guitar. Add microphones and speakers, and you’ve got yourself a concert.

The first act was Filip Topol (pronounced Philip Toepole – see how much simpler czech spelling is?), a piano player and singer. He was a skinny guy, tallish, and he carried with him a folder which he placed on a stool next to his as he sat. He opened the folder to reveal a pile of tattered sheets. He took the top three and placed them on the piano. I saw that around the edges of each sheet were dozens of little stickers. He pulled the mike closer and began to play.

At first he played only with his right hand and I thought to myself, “Holy Crap! He’s the guy I wrote about in Moonlight Sonata!” It’s wasn’t hard to imagine him talking to Cowboy Bob in some dark shadow-place. Eventually the left hand joined in and things really got going.

Filip Topol was just plain good. He had that Czech way of singing, attacking the words even as they ate him alive. I couldn’t understand the words, of course, but I was OK with that; the sound of them was mesmerizing. Usually when I go to a show I drift off in my own bubble, letting the music carry me to some of my most abstract and disconnected places. With both these acts I was rooted right there with the musicians, an active participant in the performance.

I had no idea what to expect from the headliners. We had gone to the club to hear Filip Topol; none of us had even heard of 4 Walls. They played jazz. real jazz, not the watered-down Kenny G. elevator music crap people call jazz these days. I don’t go looking for jazz often, and when I do I rarely find it. This was a 4-piece band: piano, percussion, bass, and vocals. In this case “vocal” is not limited to singing. These guys were all over the map and left me reeling. Everything they did felt slightly dangerous; Rather than marching in step they were held together with bungee cords, flying apart and snapping back, bouncing off each other, but somehow in that chaos they stayed together and the result was music.

Alas, Filip Topol had no CDs for sale. The 4 Walls CD just doesn’t convey the experience of the live performance. So it goes. I had included a cut from the CD in this episode, but end the end I took it out. As much as I enjoyed the performance, I’m not likely to be listening to the recording very often. It all goes to show that sometimes you have to be there with the musicians to really understand. Or at least I do. I’ve gotta get out more.

The trams had stopped by the time we got out of there, which meant a long walk home. That was fine, the night was cold but quiet. I considered popping into an all-night bar, but only for a moment. I like walking in this city.

As a post script, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Picture Boy. There were two guys up front with their digital cameras, and one of them in particular was really annoying. He would climb his fat ass right up on the stage, take for frickin ever to take one damn shot, then get back down the look at the result, then back up he would pop for another attempt. Dork. Still, he’s good for mocking.

Thanks!

Welcome to my abode

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Well, here I am, hanging in my new pad (map) while the TV guy is trying to make the satellite work. Satellite! Ooo! Now I can ignore even more channels. Tonight I will perform some sort of ritual to consecrate this soon-to-be-hallowed ground. There’s only one beer left, though, and it’s a long way to get more. Having the grocery store so far away is enough to drive a man to liquor.

I’m not sure the satellite guy really knows what he’s doing. He’s just fiddling with the buttons and the remote control, when the connector on the cable is broken. He’s just spinning through the channels that get no signal. He’s on 189 now. Every once in a while he finds a channel that works, though.

OK, he’s gone now, but the non-satellite channels still work, and now I’m sitting in the comfy chair, sipping a frosty Budvar, watching professional hockey. Yep, that’s right. Sparta’s up 1-0 in the first period. It took me a while to figure out which team was which; there are so many corporate logos on the uniforms there’s not much room for the team identity. It looks like a contest between Siemens Mobile VW Hi-Tec (all the players are named Ferrari) and TCHAS Buska Vjačka (all the players are names Dalkia). The refs are all named ARC impex, all are members of team Skoda, and they have Aquasoft written across their butts. The ice itself looks like it belongs in NASCAR.

But it’s hockey. Right now they’re skating 4 on 3. It’s been a very physical game.

Castles, churches, and stuff from the charles bridge, prague

OK, now for the promised pics. The first one here I took a couple of nights ago, on the way home from a very smoky restaurant. We walked back over the Charles Bridge. Nice. No cars are allowed on the bridge, but it was still filled with people on a cold, cold night. This one looks a lot better big, so be sure to pop over to the gallery and check it out.

Prague lights on the vlatava

This is from about the same location, looking the other way out over the Vltava to the city on the far side.

Prague from window

At last we reach the new pad. I took this from one of the windows in the bedroom. Unfortunately the window it pretty high up, so I can’t gaze out into the city while I’m lying in bed. I pretty much have to tip-toe to see out.

As far as things around the house go, the appliances are definitely used, but the cabinets and countertop are new. The kitchen faucet is a trip. When you turn it on you can hear water running somewhere. A trickle starts, and eventually there is decent flow. That’s when you turn it off. Water will continue to flow for quite a while as the water that had been filling the pipe drains out. Nutty. Shower works as advertised (note to self: towels).

I figured out how to have the temp go down at night to save on heating bills. This morning I am appreciating how long it takes for the temps to recover. (Note to self: house shoes). It’s going to take extra tea (note to self: kettle) in the morning to get me going. I still plan to let it get pretty chilly in here at night (note to self: extra blankets), at least until guests arrive (note to self: extra extra blankets). The fridge (note to self: food) keeps the beer (note to self: more beer) cold but the freezer (note to self: cleaning supplies) is untested.

Since 05-05-05 is right around the corner, I’ve been assessing how many guests I can host at once. The answer: a lot, as long as they’re short. So please, when you send me your reservations, tell me how tall you are. Remember: in this case, short is good!

Thanks!

Now taking reservations…

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It’s a nice place, the top floor of a house with a garden. Two rooms, a little kitchen, and an honest-to-god shower. A shower! didja hear that? I can bathe standing up again. It’s in a nice neighborhood on a quiet street. I haven’t tested any of the bars in the area yet, so there’s some risk. Still, I’m not too worried. The closest watering hole to the house serves Budweiser, which in this country is a fine, fine brew. Hopefully it’s not too smoky in there. Next to that is a cafe/bar that, while small, has all the chemicals I need to get through the day. Gambrinus is down the hill and across a busy road.

The place is already furnished, which saves me a big hassle, and the furniture doesn’t suck. I won’t have Internet access there right away, which is kind of a drag, so I’ll be mooching that off fuego and MaK for a while longer. The landlord is a little guy, older, who doesn’t speak a word of English but seems very friendly.

While there is plenty of room for guests, there are limits. More than three would really be pushing it, unless they were very close friends. I’ll add times when I expect visitors to the official MR&HBI calendar, so check there and make your reservations! As of this writing, I have a vague idea that the first week of May is booked, but I don’t know the exact dates. Other than that, I’m wide open. See you soon!

Thanks!

Getting a life

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fuego and I went out apartment hunting today, and I got myself a phone. As with any complex operation, it did not go perfectly. I bought the phone at one place, the phone number and airtime at another, and when I put them all together… nada. Phone and service did not get along. MaK made a couple of calls and it was determined that I needed to go back to the phone storre to have the phone unbuggered so it would work with services other than Eurotel. Usually they sell the phones preunbuggered, but they had missed this one. So, a call to the real estate guy (on fuego’s phone) to tell him we will be a little late, and back to the phone hut we go.

Phone sales guy is apologetic and sends us across the street to the service center. fuego and I follow a series of big red arrows and footprints on the floor that are so obvious even an American can figure them out. Down a flight of stairs, around a couple of corners, and I am expecting to find a cramped little desk with a grumpy tech sitting behind it.

Instead I find a place that is much more spacious that the store on the street above. Music is playing, there is a glass case with displays of obsolete mobile phones, and a friendly woman ready to help us. Oh, yeah, there was a bar there too. Gambrinus and Pilsener Urquell are available while you wait for your phone to be serviced. What a country! It turns out that there’s good reason to have a bar there, they were very slow. But hey, they were probably drinking too. They sure seemed cheerful for people at work.

The flat was encouragingly nice. I’ve got a couple more to look at on Monday, but this was encouraging. The giggly property manager will have to be another episode, when we know more about where that goes.

* * *
Some time has passed since I wrote the above; Jardo (pronounced Yardo) and Teresa joined us and hilarity ensued. At one point I got mildly surprised looks from the others when I said tři correctly, a feat I was unable to reproduce. fuego and I were out pretty late, so today has been more or less a writeoff.

Thanks!

Roma. Roma, Roma

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As I sat Marek looked over at me and reached for a beer glass. I shook my head slowly. “Černý čaj.” Black tea. “Ooooh,” he said, nodding knowingly.

Marianna had recommended a nice tea place down on Winceslas square. I started that direction but I decided I wasn’t up for trying a new place today. Today is a day for the quiet and familiar. And tea.

Yesterday was the Day of Pretty Bartenders. DoPB started in the afternoon in a bar with cheap beer and electric darts. I enjoyed a brief moment in the Zone as we played, but that didn’t last. The bartender had Brigitte Bardot’s lips, which is good because the actress hasn’t been using them lately that I’ve seen.

Last night fuego and I decided to go find a bar with the NFL playoffs. It was a bit of a hike, with us stopping at a couple of places on the way to check if those bars could get the games. The first bar we tried had three cute bartenders lined up in a cute little row when we walked in, and some of the cheapest beer I’ve seen in town. Alas, they didn’t have the channel that showed the games. No fear–I will be going back there when I’m able to contemplate beer again. We stopped long enough to have a beer at El Paso, but once we figured out that they didn’t have the right channel either we bid yet another pretty waitress goodbye and moved on.

Finally fuego and I were down at a bar filled to the gills with Americans watching the Big Game. We wedged into a corner and enjoyed the action. When that game was over we decided to stay and catch the next game. When that game was over we walked most of the way home before stopping off at El Paso for a couple of beers. We came up with a really tight opening sequence for a techno-thriller. Sheer brilliance. I hear Will Smith is interested, but I’m not sure he’s right for the role.

Marek wanted to converse when he brought my tea over, but I’m just not up for that right now. “I like your Web site,” he said. “Amy… nice.” (He didn’t use exactly that word. It was more the raised-eyebrows nod.) He’s a photographer. “Is she girlfriend?” I’m not up for complicated answers right now. “No, just a friend.” Marek asked about fuego but soon realized today was not the Day of Sparkling Conversation. I think it may be, however, the Day of Pizza with Ridiculous Amounts of Garlic. It’ll cure what ails you, no doubt about that.

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Thanks!

New Friends (and Their Sweeties)

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I met two of Fuego’s friends today. I liked both of them, but I wanted to steal their girlfriends.

First I met Edmund and his sweetheart. Edmund is American, and a poet, and likes deconstructing shit. His appearance is striking; his shaved head and long, long (no, longer that what you’re thinking) grey beard get him roles in film and television productions. His girlfriend was dazzling and charmingly shy. He was taking her for granted.

Now, I have made a long career of taking people for granted. It’s a lesson I have not learned and probably never will learn, though I’m working on it. All I can say in my defense in the matter is that I can see the error that others make, even if I’m blind to my own callousness. So tonight I watched a beautiful woman swallow her own hopes for the day in deference to her man. She did it gracefully.

Later I met Jardo. We rode way the hell out to his place to hang out. He had a surprise to show Fuego, and what a surprise it was. Jardo had a new, amazingly gorgeous girlfriend. We joined up with her and after a couple of near misses we landed in a bar. “Pepsi Disco” the sign outside said. Fuego quickly made friends with the DJ (there weren’t many others besides us, but pL had the guy’s life story in minutes).

She is crazy for him. Jardo’s girlfriend, I mean. She’s crazy for Jardo. The little things he did for her made her world. Which made it really frustrating for me to watch him not do the little things. All night long she wanted to dance, and finally I agreed to accompany the couple to the floor just to get them going. When the dancing was done they sat together, her hand looped under his upper arm, and she snuggled up against him. She was tired, but the looks she sent him were adoring. Jardo couldn’t see it so well from close up, but he is the luckiest man in the whole friggin’ Universe. The devotion in her eyes said more than words or symbols could ever show.

Jardo didn’t see most of that, I don’t think. I wonder how many things I haven’t seen. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know; if I did it would only lead to deeper regret. I wish Jardo well. By then end of the evening I was adjusting my actions to maximize their togetherness. She was, as far as I got to know her, everything I could ever want in a girlfriend, but just seeing the way she looked at him made me hope that he saw it too, and he would make her happy.

Edmund, though, you better watch out, buddy. I got better glances from your sweetie than you did, and I wouldn’t make her feel like the unwashed heathen. Realistically, it will not be me you lose her to (more’s the pity), but sooner or later she will decide to go with someone who listens to her. Maybe one day I’ll learn that skill myself. But then again, probably not.

Thanks!