Day 18: Immediate and Accidental Success

By some freak accident I accomplished everything I had previously set out for myself to do +1. Saw the changing of the guard at Hdracny-- that were some hullaballoo. Atop Petrin now again, in the rose garden. Pretty but most have drowned to death from the copious rainfall we've had here. Debating on mirror maze or cafe hopping. Leaning toward latter.

------

Ok. Needful update. Rode the 12 tram from the base of Petrin to Little Quarter Centrum, on the way in a narrow pass outside the Wallenstein Palace walls and on the other side a four star hotel. I could perceive a slight bump and a crack. The tram slowed instantly and I looked to the front to see what had happened, immediately adjacent to the tram a Rolls Royce, brand new, with drop-top had been slightly impelled. The driver left the tram momentarily to verify the damage then got back on and drove away.

Day 17: Forgetting, Lost Time, the Threshold, my hair

Oh. What a stretched day already. Forgot pen, had to borrow pencil. The only reason I would have needed a pen would be forgetting my laptop, which I did also. I would have left Umelecka earlier and in a more sensible fashion would I could find my umbrella which is probably at Nonstop Chicken or at A.O. And I'm wearing wool and it's been pouring rain so I had to settle for a raincoat over wool but really it's not that cold outside so it was a drenched, hot, muggy walk down here to Bohemian Bagel where I'm not quite sure I'll be able to accomplish anything. Here's a start and already by some God damn anomaly of science the more I move this pencil the better I feel, like opening a window and you may have been alone in that room but then the wind comes in and at least you have someone to keep you company.

Last night was an utter failure and greatly broke my confidence in Prague's ability to nightlife. Went to Roxy, setup was cool enough, great sound, decent prices but yikes, it was a sausagefest to give Oktoberfest a run for its money and most of the girls cold and distant-- I completely missed some chances I admit by whimping out of talking to them. Kody had more success than I did and he has a girlfriend. Ow. Well, he was dancing with this Slovakian chick who wasn't good looking but really into him and when he went to say goodbye she yanked him in and planted one-- had he not dodged the lips it could have been a make out sesh. I went 0-3. Tried speaking Czech to an uber flirt, nerozumeem. Out. Tried dancing with a girl who was also Slovakian, talked for a bit, then I walked away and struck out. Out. Talked to some Czech girls in the back of the bar, talked about school. They were on their way out, didn't say where. Out. We stopped at AO to visit a British waitress friend of ours, Hannah on her last night in town. But  at that point I was so defeated I said screw it and schlepped it up to Nonstop.

Sometimes I wonder if it is I who is the nonstop chicken. To introduce two Kundera "Words Misunderstood"; Forgetting and all the chances that are played out, that you never took, that nevertheless are played out ad infinitum in another life. Where are all the mes fulfilling their time in Prague now. How great their stories must be. And the flight here, you know how they say you “lose a day” when you fly over time zones, what exactly does that imply. Where does the day go? If I could fly around the Earth fast enough would I not just lose all my days? Of course I wouldn’t but it still leaves that difficult place where there is no answer. Are the hours just spun off the face of the Earth? Are they just waiting for me to take my return flight at a similar speed to relinquish themselves to me like a loan? What if I never took a return flight? “Losing an hour” is kind of how I feel about the whole of my trip so far here in Prague. I haven’t lost nearly all of it. But many, many hours and some days.

It doesn’t make reasonable sense, with all the documentation and fun I’ve had that so much of this has so quickly faded into obscurity. I hereby firmly resolve to work on my otherwise neglected Prague Blog, not a smart project—but now it’s for me. If I can update it using a combination of memory and old journal entries (which are not really journal entries because they are undated and not necessarily about travel) that triangulated with the course schedule find out where I was, where I am. Part two of the resolution is to see absolutely everything in the rest of the Prague. Petrin Hill, the Castle District, spend more time in the Little Quarter, more places like the café I wrote at in the Jewish Quarter, more bars like the hometowny one in 3, of course I will see the now infamous Club Cross and hopefully squeeze in some time for beautiful waitresses at bookstore cafés. Counting today, Sunday, that’s twelve days to do so. That sounds like not a lot, but it is the halfway point for me, just now. For them they’ve already reached the tipping point, what happens now will be considered Kundera’s “sunset of dissolution.”

            Praha means “the threshold,” what poetic justice! I feel I’m fast approaching the intensity, the magnitude that must be exceeded for a certain reaction but I can’t yet say what that reaction is. Someone reminded me today of something I had said earlier on the terrible irony of this city, “In Prague I have all the time in the world to go to class, write, journal, read and see all of Europe.” I wish I had more time but there is no time as it is, there will be no time in August.

            I’ve been debating getting a haircut; I’m having tremendous insecurities over my current shag. I feel like it makes me look young and like a hippy. Neither of which am I. I also have to keep it because of our costumed theme party where I’ll be Gaspard in Chicago circa mid-August and I kind of want to prove to myself now that I could pull a girl without having some kind of requisite hairstyle. Every haircut I’ve ever gotten in Europe has been terrific, each one replacing the last for the title of best.

            We came back from a hookah place tonight when a big group of Hostel tourists got on our tram, most were English but one girl was American, they were somewhat rowdy and drunk and fishing for their tram passes.

            “Stupid Americans,” I said in a low, foreign accent.

            “Sorry,” I explained, “We were making fun of Europeans,” I should have added.

Day 16: Český Krumlov

Who wouldn't have guessed that provincial Czech Republic would be different than Prague. But I tell you, Český Krumlov (Chesky Kroom-lawv) was something all of it's own. About two hours from Prague, we pulled up to this place and about a hundred feet into the air were these aqueduct like arches. They were passable, there were people on them. But they were built into the hillside about three or four tiers of stone arches high which connected two massive stone facades of a castle that peered over the little hamlet. We came under the arches into a horizon of red rooftops, winding streets and towering steeples. There were no roads wide enough for cars in the whole of the town and yet cars came down them anyways. It's terrible but it made me think of what Hogsmeade must be like from the Harry Potter series.

The first thing we did was throw on swimsuits and go rafting down the Vltava. She is neither as wide or as mighty as she is in Praha but there were three rapids and shoots our unskilled team of writer-rowers managed to traverse without incident. The scenery was unpercievable, is that a word? It was so idyllic, so quaint that it didn't seem real, even though we were in the middle of the river on a raft and all around us and undeniably were quiet rows of trees, with the brick houses set back from the road, birds scattering from a blue window in a boarding house or cafe, couples dining along the river and children waiving, "Ahoij!" from the banks. 

This was the real Bohemia, a haven for gypsies, alchemists and other societal outcasts. It's a tourist attraction now, sure. A favorite day-trip away from Prague but it was compelling to be in the real Bohemia. I've seen several kids wearing shirts around Prague and the Republic that say "There's only one Bohemska" and ain't it the truth? More accurately it would read, "There was only one Bohemska" A little snide and contrived for a shirt but I've been toying with buying one just for the hell of it. We ate lunch on a terrace with a view of the village in the valley below and talked about Kafka, it seems to have become a recurring theme of the trip.

By the time we had finished we really didn't have time for anything; we honestly didn't experience much of the town at all-- but by God we got a good look at it. I bought some cheap relics of the Soviet era, celebrating 10 years of occupation in the Czech Republic and Kody and Matt bought Cuban Cigars for our last night in Prague. We ducked into a bakery to sample the local delicatessen faire, I joked with the waitresses in Czech, "Bez práČe nesjou koláČe" and they cracked up. It means "without work, there can be no cake." Irony in a town where it doesn't seem like anyone really knows what work is. If only. 

Day 14: Universiteit van Amsterdam/Writer, Sealed Envelope

I learned today that I was accepted into the University of Amsterdam. I also learned today I was not quite accepted into the University of Amsterdam. So while I was here, juggling classes, Budapest, Field Studies and trying to ascertain a recommendation from Davidov my mother emails me to tell me I've been accepted and a decision must be made within two weeks. I still haven't sent in a visa application or the letter of recommendation, which they say they'll need before I enroll. I am as confused as you. But not nearly as confused as sunken in-- another step closer to my own self-conception, at least what I can manage at this point. Europe just felt a little more like home. Now home may be where I am for a month. A month before I take a plane to the city where your dizzy on the Amstel Dam. At least hopefully, remember that this whole delicate glass onion of a process relies on an expedient processing time of my application which is not ready. 

But how long I've waited! All the friends that have asked me, "So did you hear back from Amsterdam?" And now, the resounding answer. Frankly, I've come to realize more and more that this is above all something I could do. Never mind the logistics--they will always fall into place so long as there is the drive. I hate myself for saying that, and perhaps I am a little ungrateful in the matter here, too. I have a very large supporting cast and crew as much as I would hate to admit it. Prague has done the trick. The city with her breath has revived me as a writer and now I stand poised and fearless ready to continue the foray into the dark, contracting tunnel-- a place that distraction (albeit, wonderful distraction) in Chicago had precluded. Yesterday I had my first full-fledged conversation in Czech with a waitress. It doesn't take much and as proud of myself as I may be (proudest of all) it is as if my body is begging to use some function which has long since been neglected; an appendix of sorts, suddenly joyed at being able to flex-- granted, very sore from abandon but nevertheless anxious to become an integral part of the body; between the prospects of both Russian and Dutch, this organ may well be competing in the triathlon.

I realized today that I could do freelance work; for newspapers, periodicals, travel websites and I could make money-- not very much, sure--enough for a meager apartment if not in Amsterdam then in Praha; it's the whole wall of requisite college falling down if I can just get a steady stream of prospects-- publication, a survival job sure, freelancing--all by the time I'm out of Amsterdam (a year) and I will have the weight of momentum on my side to just start living that way, much like many other Americans I've met over here. STA keeps airfare dirt cheap for the next six years, I could do this. I really could. It will start alphabetically fashionable with Amsterdam and Artek, this Russian-language literary magazine Davidov has been encouraging me to submit to. There is the additional advantage of being published in another language, regardless of money. I bet plane tickets from Amsterdam to Cincinnati go at 300 euro a pop. Two paychecks as a cafe attendant or bartender. 

It is funny. There is this strange sort of invisible procession as a writer. You begin at 16 or 17, purely as an individualistic, indulging, narcissistic yeah-yeah and you may think you are good, you at least have the conviction in your own work to continue until the time you're 19, 20 when you begin to show your work to others, maybe you already have. Your friends say "He is an incredible writer," or "Have you seen what he can do." "You have to promise to remember me when you're published." Well, these are just friends not literary critics, it doesn't mean much but then maybe your peers and fellow writers begin to acknowledge the gift if they can overcome their own narcissistic obsession and conviction if even momentarily. Then your Professors. Maybe they are "writers" or "authors" maybe not. But they say "This is writing of the highest caliber" and you return to your room after class and pillage your favorite works, read furiously, not even sensibly just for the masturbatory pleasure of it all. All the while honing your craft, ordering replacement parts for the apparatus, refining the technique and of course you ought to be indulging in every distracting whim, never forgetting your life of the self but writing she remains your one true lover. Professors will have suggestions for small publications run by themselves or acquaintances or former students and you send away to these as well. Then you are a published writer-- though not on your own terms. Gathering your provisions and leaving just enough of the garrison, you push forward with the army. With enough failure, dumbhard work, translations into various languages, small successes and dumb luck you might just break the glass ceiling and get published by a big boy; a literary powerhouse and then, by then and given even more time and people's belief in your ability to traverse the tight rope, soar above the awestruck faces and walk on air then you will have the novel or collection of short stories, you'll take a backwards look and see the smiling 16, 17 year old with the bad poetry and you look forward again and there you are, an author, a writer call it what you want cos by then you won't have to-- the world will cal it for you...

Ok. This rosy rimmed picture did just dodge the suffering, the unfathomable feelings of guilt, worthlessness, frustration, backtracking, inadequacy, insecurity, exhaustion, starvation, doubt, sleeplessness, nauseam, trouble, burnoutedness, disaster, heartbreak, failure, catastrophe of success, even greater catastrophe of inconsequentiality, death in the gutter, the sickness, the swelling, the heresy of ancestor worship, the requisite piety of your ancestors, the falls, being lost, hesitation, drunken stupors, academic kiss-ass, betrayal, always-critics, everybody-critics, critics that are actually right and of course the hatred 

but you said you wanted to be a writer, right?

Day 12: Petrin Hill

On top of Petrin Hilll. Wondering if people were ever shot up here. That's what Kundera said but of course that was during Communism, an impossible time. At the sound of thunder somebody said, what's that and I said the sound of cannon from the fort. The rain is falling in droves, so loudly on top of the cafe tarp where we have taken refuge, the rain drops hammering away at the tarp. It's deafening. We can't do anything-- not dryly anyway. So we wait. Later there is the promise of coffee, of food. Right now there is us in the tables of the blank cafe, no money (no Crowns, at least) no seeing. The rain just crescendoed in its stampede against the top of the shelter. Given the--now softened to a whisper, given the transient nature of this city we could be here for a few more seconds before it stops or we could be here for hours, we'll never know until its done. So we wait. The rains slowing, the sun is trying to steal a glance, a rainbow as clear as day, as clear as I've seen anything that isn't real just formed. Maybe I will step out for a bit and see it...

Days 9-11: Hungarian Rhapsody

But a new page! I’m here in Hungary and couldn’t feel more released. Amsterdam is still an option for the next year as soon as I get a signature from Mark Davidov on a reccomendation which he already agreed to do. Get that in, plus a visa and I will be golden nuggets.

            Budapest breathes even more heavily than Prague, her open hill-spanning streets and towers—not ever too crowded but gorgeous. The people here are vibrant, helpful and always in the art of doing. I remember Friday when we almost left Prague but found out the train would cost too much, that was a day for me that culminated in a trifecta of angst at home, lack of money, the anticipation of suddenly leaving the country—I had been devastatingly drunk the previous night and had two double-espressos that morning, all the while we brooded over a lack of plans to even get to Budapest/have somewhere to stay, I had stomach pains all morning because I was full of nada but espresso, alcohol and anticipation.

            But by gum… we’re here. I met a very pretty Hungarian last night; shy but self-confident, whose name was Rita, which she admitted is ironically an Italian name. She was of mixed race, white and either Mediterranean or black—she had that elusive Aegean beauty I’ve always sought in a girl; long chandelier earrings, curly hair styled back, colorful clothes, her lips were sensuous and pert but not big, something about their texture was so perfect the way they emerged from her mouth. When she spoke I never thought I would hear anyone make Hungarian sound pretty. But she was an angel—now don’t take me for a fool. I wasn’t in love. I’ve since learned to discern. But a great companion, a warm body moving with mine in the night, her eyes transfixed against mine, she was so intelligent too! Knew English just about as well as I did, asked me what I thought of Budapest—and after a night of strolling along the river in both towns, a sensational Hungarian dinner, a Summer music festival, watching the sun set from the Chain Bridge and all the droves of pleasure-seekers taking to the streets in the cool air of the night it was not any particular wonder I told her, “It’s beautiful.” But maybe I was talking about her. Maybe she knew that.

            Well, she wasn’t alone, she was there with a friend, who, in trying to get over a boyfriend was drinking and dancing herself into sweet oblivion. Well, of course she got sick and Rita must have been terribly embarrassed—she looked like it. Either that or frustrated, but she never stopped watching over, taking care. And so I offered to leave if it was a burden but she insisted, “No… I like you.”

            We danced and danced, to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” (the world is still in mourning), a remix of “Funkytown” and eventually her friend reached the point of no return. I ended up carrying the unconscious corpse off the dancefloor with Rita at which point Kody spotted me for the first time that night,

            “What’s going on?”

            “Hey! Nothing man, don’t worry about it.”

            I carried this girl out, past the bemused bouncers at the gate, up several flights of stairs, bear in mind that this club is entirely outdoor, under the stars. I rested her on the curb while Rita, crouched over the body phoned some friends to pick them up, switching seamlessly from Hungarian to English to explain to me what they were saying.

            From there it was another voyage of sorts out of the island to the bridge where I was able to get her safely to the bus stop. Rita was immensely gracious and thanked me profusely but I just smiled and declined; more amused and exhausted physically by the whole thing than mad. She had to say goodbye, insisting she would take it from there but before she left she pulled me tight and kissed me twice on each cheek (a European thing, sure) but she didn’t have to! It was genuine, firm appreciation, not obligatory. She was so cute. Her friend too, before I could leave, gave me a huge warm hug then I galloped back across the bridge to my friends, waving goodbye.

            I remember talking to her for a while about Budapest. She was glad I found it so appealing, she was tired of it and wanted only to get out. She had just graduated from University. There was a funny moment when she asked me how old I was and I lied and said twenty-one. She laughed,

            “You’re young.”

A Computer Science major if you can imagine! How many hot, young Computer Science majors do you find in the U.S.?

            If there is one thing I may always remember about her—it would be the feeling of her skin. When I ran my fingers down the small of her back it was like running them over the surface of a still body of water. It was remarkably smooth, impeccably. And the way she moved on the dancefloor was so lucid, it wasn’t forceful or forced, just a long, cool sway; slow and low and intent. Always intent on precisely the motion she was doing. The stuff of dreams, my friend.

            I talk about the dancefloor but really there were so many other cool cats we met there; two Swiss guys who knew English English like I’ve never seen a foreigner know it, who could talk football as seamlessly as American politics and vacationing in the Alps and in Italy, even World War II. We compared stereotypes of Switzerland (Swiss cheese, Neutrality, Swiss Banks, Chocolate, Swatch, Rolex) to stereotypes of America (McDonalds, Coca Cola, Cowboys, Wide open spaces). It was funny and I’m glad they had a sense of humor about it. We implored them to understand that most Americans hated Bush, even going as far to explain the concept of Approval Ratings.

            By the way, there is apparently a prevalent Facist party in Hungary. There was an odd moment from our day walking past the Neo-gothic spires of the Parliament building; there were several armed soldiers outside, who knew why. One of them hopped the barrier, walked over to a memorial where a crazy old man had thrown himself to his knees praying hysterically in supplication to whatever it was of, the guard removed what looked like an American flag from the soil, carried it back with him and disposed of it in a trash can. Well one of our British friends related to us that there had been a huge Facist demonstration earlier that day, including clashes with the police. The flag was not actually an American, but the all-red-and white-striped-flag of the Hungarian Facists. Bizzare to think that a country long under the taint of Communism would so quickly turn to the solace of near-Nazism. It was explained to us the Facists primary goal was to keep Jews, Africans and Romanians out of the country.

            Two of the other British girls this guy was with from Londontown, Francesca and Lucy who were cute but not pretty, nonetheless proper Londoners in the way they talked and carried themselves talked to me a while in the Hostel about British music, which almost didn’t end—they were fascinated to see that some of these bands had been heard of in America. They filled me in on Brit slang; innit and proper. I even danced with the pair for a while—they offered me drinks! “Satisfaction” remix was killer and came on while we were doing the hip shake.

            Pictures survive so of course you realize this means Facebook. As any perfect ending in such a city of the night, we walked back along the bridge, chewing on greasy burgers from a stand as the sun was just peaking its sleepy forehead out from behind some buildings as if to ask permission to come out.

Day 8: The Kafka Museum

I could tell after the Kafka museum something had struck Davidov, either that or his caffeine was wearing off. He had that expression on his face, that solemn kind of inward look that meant either he was reflecting or he was disappointed. He called us over, all five of the stragglers and said nothing, just motioned us to follow him down the short streets of the Little Quarter. We didn’t ask we just followed. We passed the plaza, which was full of natives and their dogs, huge black hounds that don’t walk but sort of trot. Then to the nearest building, out into a courtyard and into another building, we didn’t notice this whole time we had been marching two by two.

            Our instructor asked a security guard some question, I wasn’t paying attention, either because I was still zoned from Kafka or I too was coming off a caffeine blitz. Retracing our steps we came this time not into the square but into palace gardens, complete with fountains, hedgerows and peacocks. We sat on benches adjacent each other and the master very deliberately took a seat.

            Whatever he was so passionate about—I don’t remember what his words were—there was no giveaway from his speech. It started with how he had noticed several distinct group of tourists outside the Kafka Museum in the little plaza; Asians, Russians, Germans but none of them seemed to have the first concept of who Franz Kafka actually was, just sightseeing. One of the Asians drew a camcorder, pressed record and circled the square. Then there was the museum itself, a “great” museum, but he was sure to point out that Kafka was many things, not just a surrealist and that seemed to be all that the exhibits were interested in. He also said something about a specific piece the author had written, “Preventative Measures Against Damages Caused By Metal Brush Machine” an actual safety pamphlet, but was not everything Kafka wrote a sort of a safety manual.

            By this point we were so mystified by what he had brought us out there for and yet so perplexed by what he was telling us and how it was relevant that we all hung on every word. It turned out he wanted an assignment from us, “Preventative Measures Against Damage Caused By Life Machine,” and/or what we would expect from a museum commemorating our own lives—not just as writers but as people. Then I gave him a cigarette and he left with a wave in the same distant way he had come in.

 Now it’s chilly outside and I’m chilly and there’s a full moon. My roommate managed to lose a full pack of cigarettes before he even opened them. I can only think it had something to do with the moon. The whole day has been odd. But even odd doesn’t justify the untouchable feeling I have right now. Imagine anticipation. Now hold that and take one string of the heart and begin to tug, firmly. Take another string. Then you take another string. And I think by now you see the pattern—

            It… when you are in one place, there’s such a power, a simple beauty about waking up and being in that place. Prauge is an easy place to be. An enviable place to be. I have a self-calling here and if I don’t reach it the failure will be far more horrifying than anything academic or…

I may not be going to Columbia next semester, which makes this a sort of do-or-die. Or die to do, which may be the more likely. I need focus, not external distraction. At the moment that distraction is peers, not Prague. Prague spurs me on whilst inviting me into the cage for another beer.

I’m sorry focus infers that there is a goal, that is a concrete requisite goal. The goal is only self-satiating, self fulfilling. And while I burn, burn here in Prague. Life burns on more dimly somewhere else, maybe at home. It’s bizarre; I’m not homesick, I don’t want to work a job—there is nothing whatsoever that could compel me to want  to go home. Just today I thought about rebooking my flight for a significantly later date before realizing the impossibility of that monetarily. Otherwise, I would. Already I’m spending money way faster than I should be. A dramatic scale back is going to have to happen, which will be difficult if not out of the question.

 And I have sat late tonight by the moon with my comrades, drinking and howling and I have been plotting and plotting and plotting my come-uppeth. How will I go about it? 

My answer is two-fold. 

Artistically, through the passion (and by passion I mean suffering) I will imbue in what I am about to write and Physically through the city of Prague, the golden one— her great carpet of opportunity now spread before me, the towel is dropped and she beckons me forward…

Day 5: Kutna Hora

Days 2-4: "The Real Prague"

I've had to come in to the country practically backwards, making up for lost time in class as well as working toward something new all the time. I juggle this with spending time with my friend, Andrew who is only in town for the first five days I am. Not ideal, sure. I’ve often seen my roommate writing diligently while I’m on my way out on the town—to bars, museums, Kutna Hora. I should be working hard and everybody’s working harder than me. That being said I was indescribably disappointed when I heard how my peers spent their first free time here; going to an American hostel, making friends with a bartender there who was also American. Were it my first day (and it was, a few days ago) I would be everywhere, a Kafkan madman talking to strangers, getting lost, going in to every place with a light on and people inside, rejoicing in the wind that a new place gives you; not just in Praha 7 but all over the map. They want to do everything as a group—go to new places in Prague and talk amongst themselves. I’ve made a point on numerous occasions now to duck out.

My insatiable search for the insider spot, no guidebook fodder, has driven me mad in seeing it happen. Just the other night I was in Praha 3 on the west side for just this reason. Everything seemed to be closed and in act of desperation I joked to Andrew, “We should follow some Czech people to see where they go.” God bless him for having the balls to actually do it. We ended up in a neighborhood tavern; quaint, close and warm with spirits, old friends and laughter. We had a few beers and within no time I struck up a conversation with some girls at the table next to us. They turned out to be Swedish, so my plan failed on that level. But just the conversation and sort of hatching from this shell of comfort I had previously been in was like a rebirth, my best night thus far.

One of my Professors, Patricia, after reading a journal I had submitted on this topic, has since made it a point of derailing what she calls "the search for the real Prague." She really is warring on it. But she is totally misplacing her hatred. Everything that isn't a church tour or on the school itinerary isn't worth caring about to her. So contrived. So first she calls (not specifically, just 'some people) my search commonplace and cliche "there are always a lot of students every year..." and then she claims that it's a futile search, or at least one you shouldn't be on, there is no real Prague. Recently, it's become a matter of all things negative she sees are "the Real Prague." In fact her new criteria might as well be "if it sucks and it's in Prague, that's the real Prague. The guy driving our rickety, faulty old bus with the dirty pictures on the window and weird Russian films playing from the 1970s--that's the real Prague!" Today there were kids playing and yelling, God forbid, in Stromovka park by the cafe and trampoline and she and most of our table were annoyed by it, "This is real as it gets, parents with their children. Screaming kids--that's the real Prague." Death, Patricia. That's the real Prague isn't it? Death, disease and famine under a pristine facade of quiet expat bookstores with cafes you like, unlimited church tours and restaurants where smoking is prohibited.

So this, being here, has been a struggle. I’ve been trying so hard, already incognito, to disinvent the everyday I know and be somewhere new and at the same time uninvent this “notion” of myself. I’ve spared nothing, no whim no impulse or goal. I wouldn’t say that there is a plan. Well obviously not or maybe I’d be taking my academic endeavors more seriously. Success in this sense will mean a ying-yang balance of debauchery and scholarship. It’s hard because I don’t have faith in my peers ability and I give in too easily to pleasure, especially when it surrounds me. My mother always says to me “You push the limit… You push the limit and you don’t know when to stop.” Maybe I’ll make a note of it and go through every day in this place exploding with the unexplored with a little mental disclaimer hovering in my vision DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT KISS. DO NOT TAKE. DO NOT DO. DO NOT LISTEN.

A long time ago I saw one of those cheesy motivational posters, and I couldn't help but buy it. You know how they take a core value and offer some profound and breathtaking description, well this one was

 RISK: A ship in the harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships were made for.

Let’s go see what ships were made for.

  

Day 1: Late.

Four days after I should have walked off a plane into Prague International I walked off a plane into Prague International. The details are complex-- involving a sudden trip to Chicago, my mother and brother putting our house on the market, a lost passport, a lost birth certificate, a lost social security card, money scamming "expedite" services, a money scamming re-booking, a broken iPhone, another sudden trip to Chicago and a hell of a lot of money.

But as Mike Robinette so adequately put it, "It's just money." Easier to say, if you have it, I guess.       

Immediately seeing airport ads in Czech made me want to drop my bags, whip out a camera and record everything in sight. As lame and touristy as that sounds, it is a world apart out here. Only the second time I've been on the morning side of the Iron Curtain and the first time I consciously remember. Before I came here I could speak Russian somewhat conversationally-- Czech is similarly spoken--but it's written in the Latin alphabet with all sorts of bizarre accents and underscores and as hard as I tried to understand their sounds (which are not Latin sounds) on the plane, it was futile and I'm learning all over again. So far all I've remembered is "Thank You" and even that manages to put a smile on the local's faces, I can't tell if out of cute badness, or genuine appreciation.

So past guards wielding submachine guns and dozens of "duty-free" outlets, I fumbled my way through the faces to the Customs Counter, where my passport was processed by a drop-dead gorgeous Czech woman in uniform. Through the lobby past dozens of business class pickups waiting, I found a handwritten sign in marker "TAYLOR COWAN." He didn't see me. 

"Dobre Den," I said and he smiled,  grabbing my bags without a word (he didn't speak English) and lugging them into the parking lot immediately outside where his cab was waiting. He saw me to the hotel, free of charge. I guess the hotel sent him out.

Residence 4 is nice. Tucked away on little Umelecka (pronounced oom-(y)e-lets-ka) in Praha 7, an up and coming district north of the Centrum, it's always quiet here. My roommate Matt and I have a little balcony, great for evening chats and a smoke and a three-room flat that is practical if not a little Calvinist. You can imagine, after going through losing your political identity—and all other forms of identification, the strange sensation of traveling. It’s almost like being a ghost, incognito. I positively love it. With no cell phone, no occupation and almost nothing you must do, the absolute freedom to write and live in a foreign country is exhilarating.

       From first impressions and in a word the Republic in which the Czechs live in is refreshing. Its refreshing to see a city not drowning in tourist traps—more a Disneyland version of itself than an actual country. Prague is a living breathing entity, where graffiti is just as valued as art, there are as many statues as people, where you can’t always speak English and get away with it, in short, a place where I would be any day of my life. As Dostoevsky would say “there are intentional cities and there are unintentional cities.” Chicago with her perfectly square grid system, zoned city parks and sculpture, wide open spaces and absolute flatness is the worst and most contemptible kind of intentional city. While Prague, a gem of an undulating urban sprawl comes to life at you from behind every winding hill, every basement hideaway and surprise window.

My friend Hakala gets here soon from stateside, but he's on a later flight and there's class later today so nothing immediate.

Oh, I should tell you that I went to exchange currency today. My professor gave me a 24 hour pass to serve in the stead of the month pass I'll have and I took the 14 tram into Stare Mesto (Old Town), which was sprawling with wide cobblestone boulevards, designer clothing stores, restaurants, cafes and naturally tourists. I entered one place, greeting two foxes behind the counter in Czech (beginning to wonder if the whole damn country was this attractive), I walked right up into line dollars in hand and the security guard, a bear of a man began shouting at me. I couldn't understand what he was saying so I pretended to, nodding. He kept shouting though and now I was genuinely confused, still waiting my turn in line until he came up and physically moved me back from the counter. I hadn't realized that the man in front of me worked for a security company and was loading a locked briefcase full of bills from the counter to take to his truck, at least not until he left. The girls giggled at my touristy error, but I got my crowns!

So now back on the porch, sipping a Budweiser (not the American but the REAL one that America stole the name from) beer with Matt and wondering just how classes and my time in Praha will go. Here's to. And you know what, bearing jet lag, I can hardly contain it--after class I will be out all over this town!         

-July 2nd