Tag Archives: Prague

A Perfectly Ordinary Evening

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LCNH%20on%20a%20Wednesday%20Night.jpg

Little Café Near Home on a Wednesday night

fuego passed his old phone to me when he got a new one. Let me tell you, this puppy is pretty fancy. The other night I was at Little Café Near Home, trying to sort out all the features. One thing I did was take some pictures and email them to myself. Yep, my phone has wireless Internet. The Opera Mini browser works fairly well rendering Web pages on the little screen, and overall I’m pretty darn happy with it.

The phone has not one, but two cameras. As well as the main camera, which is pretty nice but the controls are a bit cumbersome, there is a secondary, lower-quality camera on the same side as the screen, whose only purpose, as far as I can tell, is self-portraits.

So here is a view of LCNH that I rather like, for reasons I can’t put my finger on. I am sitting at the far end of the place, so you can see that the the place really is quite small.

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Why We Dream

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There are many theories about why people dream and what significance (if any) those dreams have. This morning I had a dream that may shed some insight into the field. (Incidentally, this week’s Piker Press has a story that ponders this question as well.)

This morning I had a dream in which I was in a busy office, waiting my turn to talk to the overworked woman sitting behind a desk. I overheard two Americans in Prague (incidentally, I think they were executives at a company I used to work for, but that’s neither here nor there) having the following conversation:

American in Prague 1: How’s it going?
American in Prague 2: Not bad. Last night I went running. It’s been a long time, but it felt great!

My new favorite theory about dreams is that they are to help you accept all the bizarre things you see in your daily life. Dreams are often really crazy because frequently you have to make sense of the most bizarre events in the waking world. Take the above dream, for instance. It was in no doubt a response to a frightning, downright unsettling thing I saw last night. I saw someone running.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen people run here in the past. Sometimes it can be quite comical — those little old ladies can really move when they need to — but in general if you show you’re making an effort the tram driver will wait for you.

But last night was different. There was no tram nearby, no bus stop. The person was dressed in sweats and was cruising through my neighborhood at a measured pace. I accepted this image as something beyond my comprehension; perhaps somewhere the dream part of my brain was telling the waking part “don’t worry, I’ll come up with something later” so that the waking brain could continue to function. How many times does the dream brain make that promise each day?

So then the dream. The most important part of the explanation: the runner was American. There aren’t many of them in this neighborhood, but it explains the rest. Dream brain came through once again.

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Spoke Too Soon…

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Not long ago I wrote an episode about making progress toward getting a long-term visa here. Apparently I hadn’t made as much progress as I thought. The documents I signed had to be done again; I signed them incorrectly the first time. Just as in the US, most legal signatures are accompanied by a date. What I didn’t catch onto is that here often just the date is not enough, you also have to write in your location when you signed.

Czech prepositions don’t always match up well with their English counterparts; if you take the translations for the prepositions too literally you can mix yourself up. Thus I was not too concerned that I seemed to be signing something “in the 21st of March”. I’m not sure why the notary didn’t intervene, but there’s always that language barrier, and ultimately she’s just a witness.

On this visit, the notary was much more helpful, watching closely to make sure I got the date format right, spelled Praze correctly (that’s the form of Praha you use when you are saying you are in it). So, the second time’s a charm, I hope, and tomorrow I’ll hand the stuff off to Visa Guy. Once his legwork is done, the formal visa application has to be submitted from outside the country, so Soup Boy and I are planning a field trip to Vienna in April. Some parts of this process aren’t so painful.

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Duly Notarized

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Yesterday Soup Boy, Jose, and I all made a field trip to the U.S. Embassy, where in front of an Official Person I promised that I was not a criminal. I’m not sure why making this promise in front of an American is more convincing to the Czechs that it would be if I promised in front of a Czech, but perhaps this way they can’t be accused by the US of knowingly harboring a criminal. Only that doesn’t add up, because technically this document is part of the process to get a business license.

You see, to get a visa you have to come up with some reason why you should have one. “I like it here and want to hang out” is not a sufficient reason*, but if you are doing business in the Czech Republic, that’s pretty compelling. So, to get a visa I first apply for a business license. The catch is that I can’t actually get the business license until I have a visa. This leads to a bureaucratic juggling act where the visa people create a document that says I’ve applied for the visa, which allows the business license people to proceed, and when they’re done the visa people can do their… whatever it is they do… and then in one big flurry of paper I have both permission to stay here and permission to invoice people for my services. I am told that this “visa in progress” document will also smooth out my international travel worries. Probably.

I added my “promise of non-criminalhood” form to my growing portfolio of documentation (it will have to be translated, and the translation certified – or something like that), along with papers that confirm that I live where I do and that the landlord is OK with someone running a business there.

Today I found the notary’s office – exactly where Soup Boy said it was, carefully disguised as a typical residence. Once I knew what to look for, sure enough there was the sign. A few minutes later I was on the streets again, carrying official documents that will allow someone else to do most of the grunt work of applying for a visa. It feels good to be making progress.

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* I think, left to themselves, “I like it here” would probably be a perfectly adequate reason as far as the Czechs were concerned — as long as the individual in question had a nice. plump bank account. Alas, in this case the Czechs must follow Rules imposed by Foreign Powers (the European Union in this case). The fact that the Czech Republic actually placed itself under the jurisdiction of the foreign powers voluntarily this time doesn’t mean they have to like it.

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Wait Five Minutes

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When I sat down to eat lunch, it was snowing hard outside. Big fluffy snowflakes filled the air, swirling in the wind. I was happy to see it; I kind of feel like we got gypped as far as winter is concerned. By the time I was finished with my soup, the sky was blue and empty, the sun shining down with a hard-edged clarity.

That’s been the way of things here lately. Man, I’m glad I’m not trying to shoot a movie outdoors in this weather, like some people I know. Getting consistent light would be nigh-on impossible.

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Livin’ The Dream

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A conversation I had this morning reminded me of this fragment. I’ve tried a couple of times to put the image of the morning changing of the guard into a story, into something that follows “Moonlight Sonata”, but it hasn’t worked yet. This fragment is just another of those abortive attempts, but I like it OK.

“Hey, Doc! Some guy was looking for you.”

“Do I want him to find me?”

Sparky scratched his head. “Not sure. Didn’t look like a bill collector or anything. He was wearing a suit, though.”

I couldn’t think of anything I’d want from a man in a suit, which meant if he never found me that would be all right. I sipped my coffee as Sparky slipped into the seat across from me, starting on his breakfast beer. He made a satisfied smacking sound with his lips.

“He had a black eye,” Sparky said. “You hit anyone lately?”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter, man.” I yawned. The sun would be rising soon. The little café was in transition; the last of the night people were desperately clinging to wakefulness, trying with forced gaiety to hold onto something they had never had. They were giving way to the morning people, coming in for a smoke and a jolt of caffeine before moving on to the grind of the day. At one table a girl was asleep, head on outstretched arm, party dress rumpled, while her friends chatted on and ordered shots of Becherovka. Next to them three men in coveralls were smoking and having a morning beer before going to work, idly trying to flirt with the party girls, but the girls were too far gone to notice.

“Fuck, Doc, what are we doing here?” Sparky asked, looking at the ceiling.

“Livin’ the dream, Sparks, Livin’ the dream.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, but whose dream? I’ve been sitting in this chair or one just like, morning after morning, for years now. It never changes. Even the tourists are the same.”

“Maybe you should take a break.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, for about five years now.”

Five years was a long time to last on the underside of the city. The life there wears you down, making you less and less distinct until you finally just disappear. Everyone is just passing through; friendships are fleeting and conversations often start, ‘Whatever happened to…?’ But before long you don’t remember the names, and the faces blur and fade.

Talking about time meant Sparky had one foot out the door already. Once you accept that there is such a thing as progress you start to notice that you aren’t making any. I was going to miss him. He had seemed more solid than most of the night folk. I had almost come to know him.

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Back at Café Fuzzy

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Fresh-squeezed orange juice, a particularly fine cup of Earl Grey, and my breakfast sandwich (hold the ketchup) is on the way. The sound of falling water all around me from the integrated waterfall-sculptures (complete with large hairy structure). It’s good to be back.

café fuzzy

Café Fuzzy, complete with big hairy sculptures

I stand out a little bit here. This place is bright and modern, people are dressed for business. I’m a wee bit on the scruffy side. I’m American, though, and the folks here are willing to make allowances for that. In fact, I think I can even take a picture without breaking the Mind Your Own Business code. This isn’t the kind of place where patrons still remember having to worry about who might be watching them.

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Soup Boy Ain’t Got No Office Job

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This isn’t new or anything, but I thought I would share it with you guys. Now let’s see if I get this YouTube thing right.


john ain’t got no office job

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A Tough Old Bird

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This morning I heard the rap-tap-tapping, but I did not realize it was at my door. It was a little more tentative than the average door-knock. Then my phone rang. The gang was gathered on my landing, collecting me for our big meeting with the landlord. The purpose of this meeting: getting some paperwork signed that is a step toward solidifying my legal status on the continent.

There is a lot of fear running around the ex-pat community right now, as Europe tightens its immigration rules and steps up enforcement. Neither Soup Boy nor I are particularly worried about that, but we each have our reasons for wanting to be more compliant. I want to cross borders without worry, and he wants to be able to work for bigger clients who are more of a stickler for paperwork. Soup Boy found a guy who helps people in our situation for a very reasonable fee, but he had one sticking point. He needed a business address. Strangely, this was difficult for him to come by, but when he realized that I would soon be in the same boat, we worked out that we could both use my address. The only catch: the building owner has to sign a document. I didn’t anticipate that my landlord, Otakar Ptáček (rhymes with little bird), would have a problem with that.

MaK made the calls and we set up a meeting. It turns out that Otakar has transferred ownership to his daughter, so it is lucky indeed that she is visiting from the Unites States right now. Papers in hand we trooped into the landlord’s home, directly below mine.

Otakar did not get up to greet us. He sat in his favorite chair, a tissue pressed up against his nose. He had a nosebleed. Not just a little thing, but a big ol’ nosebleed that had been going on for two hours. His medication had changed recently, which may or may not have been a contributor. Still, we forged ahead with the meeting, making our way through documents that, while simple, carried just enough ambiguity to cause errors. As with every czech transaction, there must first come a lengthy discussion of the task and it’s reflection on the world as a whole.

Then Otakar started hacking and spitting blood. There was talk of an ambulance and hospital, but Otakar insisted that if he was going to see the doctor he would drive. His coughing subsided and some semblance of normalcy prevailed. We continued to wrestle with the documents.

Finally we were as done as we were going to get (there was a search for an ID number that had Otakar up and moving furniture), and it was time to go. Otakar was back in his chair, looking small, a new tissue over his nose.

I later met with the Visa consultant, and because Soup Boy managed to put together a group, we got a pretty deep discount. Not only that, but much of the haze of confusion about the whole process has been lifted. It almost seems possible, now.

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Why I Like This Place

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After a productive morning, I was forced by thermodynamics to go find some food. I am exothermic. There’s just no getting around the fact. I don’t eat, I stop. I am fortunate that there are millions upon millions of people working to make sure my little furnace is stoked.

When I went in search of people-chow, the sky was a clear, deep blue. The midday sun hung low in the south and the wind was mild. The temperature was just above freezing. I walked down the long stairs through the the little park near home, really enjoying the scenery. Perfect weather for a miniskirt and tall, fur-lined boots. Dang.

A few hours later I was sitting with fuego:the brother at Sax’s, and a tall woman with a short dress and a long jacket came in. “I can’t believe you’re leaving this place,” f:bro said.

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My Walk Home.

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It is late, I am tired; I don’t know how far I’ll get with this tonight. I suspect that this account of my last hour will be somewhat disjointed and lacking the rich atmospheric descriptions which it deserves, but that’s the way it goes, sometimes. And yes, yes, I know I promised to tell you about yesterday, but that will have to wait. Tonight all I have the energy for is a small tale about the end of today.

I don’t get down to The Globe much, maybe once a year. It’s down near the center of town, where beers tend to get pricey, and I find myself venturing into the center less and less. The Globe is also a favorite among Americans, and while I appreciate talking to people now and then, it’s not the sort of vibe I look for on a general basis. Tonight, however, I was at the Globe, and I had a damn good time. There was music, conviviality, and a generally friendly feeling in the air. This story is not about that.

The café was closing, and there were still quite a few people there, some of whom I knew, others I had just met. “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here,” the saying goes, and the group seemed to be trapped by the option. I knew, however, that I was going home. “Where are you going to catch the tram?” Don Diego asked me. “I’m walking,” I replied. “Walking to… the tram?” he asked. “No. Home.” I could have told him exactly how the walk would go. Instead I am telling you.

I said goodbye to the group, and started up the street. There was some agreement that most of the rest of them were going the same direction, so I paused and looked back. There was no action. Don’t say goodbye twice, I decided, and left the group to mill about. I set off. The wind had died down but it was still chilly, but when I got into stride I unbuttoned my coat to let the cold air in. By the time I was passing through the drunken brit section of town, I was moving. The pickpockets and pimps did not even glance my way; I passed through them with point A firmly behind and point B directly ahead, and all their games require slowing the target down.

At the top of Václavské NámÄ›sti I popped into the McDonald’s for my long-overdue supper. I purchased my McRoyal(tm) (rhymes with Quarter Pounder(tm)) from a guy who quite obviously hated his job selling deadly food to drunks, then I was back out on the street, throwing back the 26 glorious grams of shimmering fat which will form a gelatinous layer in my already-abused stomach, somehow making things better. By the time I was past the museum the burger was just a happy memory. It was Friday night, so there was still a fair amount of foot traffic as I passed though Žižkov. I considered some of the all-night places I passed, thinking perhaps that one last beer might compliment the burger nicely, but the temptation was only slight. I was in motion.

Between the long skinny park and Flora I heard a small crash and looked ahead to see a very drunk person struggling to stand back up. I crossed to the other side of the street, reflecting that I was not going to compare well with any Samaritans who might be out and about. Hopefully the door the drunk was trying to open was his own.

Past Flora are the graveyards, predictably dark and quiet, and the skeletal remains of Autobazar Å koda, a car dealership, now defunct. The signs are still out, and streamers rattle metallically in the night wind, but there are no cars anymore, and no guard dog to dutifully bark at me, reminding me once again that I should just keep walking. I miss that dog; we were starting to get along. Past the ghost dealership is the empty lot that only weeks ago hosted a circus; the ruts made by the big trucks as they carried the show away still visible. I am almost home.

I consider once more stopping in somewhere for a final beer. What I really want is to bring something home with me, to keep me company while I write about my walk, but this is Strašnice. I turn left at the final graveyard and find my way home, roughly an hour after I set out. Perhaps there were other hours today that were more significant — hours of accomplishment and interaction, connections made and ideas shared — but looking back, my hour alone on the streets of Prague late at night was my favorite.

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In the zone.

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I woke this morning to differing clocks. It took me a while to notice; the clocks on the computers are how I tell time when I’m at home, while the time on my phone is what I use when going mobile. When time matters at all.

Tonight I’m at the Budvar Bar Near Home, and the television is on. They just showed a feature about the confusion caused by the time change, and part of that was footage of engineers resetting the astronomical clock in the center of town.

This clock is a big tourist draw, a bigger tourist disappointment, and the ancient mechanism should not be subject to modern arbitrary time laws. The clock should be showing solar time, the way it did when it was first built. While every other timepiece in the square is telling you what time we have decided it should be, that one clock should stand defiant, and say what time it really is. I guarantee that will only add to the magic.

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Dia de los Muertos

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I didn’t notice the crowds outside the entrance to Olšanský Hřbitovy, the sprawling, ivy-covered cemetery complex that I pass when walking home. I was feeling lazy about then, and thought I’d take the tram the rest of the way. As I passed the next tram stop I looked back and — what luck! — tram 11 was pulling in just then.

Oddly for a Sunday, it was packed to the gills. I kept walking. It was when I passed the next, smaller but more neatly-kept cemetery, that I noticed the crowds. There were more people than I had ever seen there before, and the road was lined with illegally-parked škodas. The people were in general dressed nicely, but not in a funerary fashion.

I peeked in the gates and one of the central monuments was surrounded by hundreds of candles, while people wandered the pathways bearing pine boughs and wreaths. Even the run-down little graveyard close to my house was jumping. Tram 11, tram of the dead, was filled with folks coming and going from the graveyards and the crematorium.

If this is the day to pay respect to those that have gone before, I’m surprised that here in Strašnice, Haunted City, my neighborhood, there is not a city-wide celebration of this day. There should be a wiener-dog parade and children’s pageants. Some of the supermodel wannabes from the center of town would come out for the look-like-a-skeleton contest. Tourists would mistake it for a Haloween celebration, but the locals would know that this is just Strašnice’s one chance each year to celebrate it’s own unique character.

It’s a silly thought, probably. While other parts of town are doing their best to establish a reputation and a marketable local vibe, sleepy Strašnice has no such ambition. It is here, just getting along, minding its own business, and just being Czech.

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So you’re sitting in a bar…

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Unique and interesting. They’re not a bunch you wouldn’t expect to find hanging out together. Except…

The circus is in town, just up the road. Maybe it’s just me, maybe it’s my romantic idea of the SHOW fed by my friendship with a guy who spent a few years in the biz, but the pull of the four-mast big top of Cirkus Berousek would be a siren song of disaster but for one sobering fact. While I would sell my soul to the circus, in return I have nothing to offer. Well, almost nothing…

CIRCUS HR REPRESENTATIVE: So… (she flips though papers, not finding what she is looking for. She folds her fingers in front of her and regards me. We are not in an office, but a crowded and humid trailer where my request for tea was answered with diluted coffee.) …you want to be in the circus.

JERRY: Yes.

CIRC HR REP: And what can you do?

What can I do? That’s always the catch. To be in the circus you need more than a wandering frame of mind, you need either a physique that says ‘the big top will rise despite the snow’, or you need some sort of reason that strangers might want throw down a buck to keep you alive. The whole “what do you do” question is tough for those of us who don’t do much of anything.

JERRY: Well, I speak with the Voice of Authority.

C. HR. R.: Explain.

JERRY: I can say the most ridiculous nonsense and people will believe me.

C. HR. R.: For example?

JERRY: I can bench-press forty-seven times my own weight.

C. HR. R.: Really?!? That’s amazing! When can you start?

Sadly, that’s the best-case scenario, and it just leads to total humiliation later, when I am killed trying to bench-press a mere four times my weight. The Voice of Authority is like a gun with a backwards barrel.

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Double Whammy

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The bartender asks, “You want another?”

“Nah. I’ve gotta go home.”

He nods knowingly. “You seem sad tonight.”

Shit. Am I that obvious? And where the hell does a pimple-faced beer slinger get off even tiptoeing over the surface of sadness? Where in your world of primal teenage lust have you ever had the chance to understand deep, permanent, sorrow? If the cure to a broken heart is a new thang, what happens when there are no more thangs? Take your whole ‘there’s always tomorrow’ platitude and choke on it.

Still, the little bastard was right. I was sad tonight. Am. Women shined me on not one but twice, chopped-liverificating me to the harshest degree. The second shine was from my favorite bartender in this country. She was intoxicated and in a hurry to get back to the party downstairs, so I will cut myself some slack. Still, there was a big hole where “it’s great to see you again” might have fit.

I probably would have passed that over with a chuckle were I not already feeling raw from a previous shine. I suspect I have only myself to blame in the end, but I wrote in these pages a while back about a woman (name rhymes with feevah!) who out of the blue started talking to me. Perhaps it was my public expression of joy over this event, or perhaps I cashed in on another opportunity to make a complete ass of myself, but she doesn’t talk to me any longer. She doesn’t even look at me. She would be more comfortable if I didn’t exist at all. Which, overall, pretty much sucks.

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