I did not get out of the city this weekend. I did have an adventure of a different sort. If, as Joe says, 'the whole family has their eyes on what you're doing,' this may not be the best thing for me to post and all of you to read. But it was fun. And I prefer to be truthful.....
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I'm sitting down to write this at 3:30 in the afternoon. I am very, very drunk. I'm not saying this because I'm falling over or ill or incoherent. It's a statement of fact. I stopped drinking roughly twelve hours ago. Since then I came home, I wisely decided to brush my teeth, and then I slept for nine hours. When I woke up my first thought was, “Mmmmm. That was a nice sleep.” As I rolled over, my second thought was “Whoa-! I am still completely drunk!” I got up and discovered that I am perfectly fine, could walk a straight line, just totally unable to operate motor vehicles or heavy machinery.
The reason for this debauched state is my TEFL instructor Denis [den-y], not as an assignment of blame or him pouring alcohol down my throat, but he was the one who had a bright idea to have the TEFLer happy hour. We finished early-ish on Friday. Veronica had to leave because the farmhouse she lives in is somewhere around the backside of nowhere in direction of Praha. Mark was thinking of going, but his wife got out of woke early and is soon to return to Britain, so he left for dinner with her. That left Denis and me. Let me emphasize this: there was a 6 foot, 220 pound, Ukrainian man who spent years in the army and many more in Eastern Europe and short, skinny, “I haven't drunk more than one beer at a time for more than a month” me.
First stop is a pawn shop around the corner from school. He says “Hey I've been wanting to check this place out,” and we duck into this little shop. From the outside it kinda looks like it sells shiny, flashy, loud things for cars. But inside it looks like a very clean, under-supplied fence operation. There's a few stereos, some other electronics, a bunch of cell phones, some frou-frou Halmark-style crap in glass cases, and then the consumables. Lots of stuff has been falling off the back of the truck on the way to the drug store. Lots of American brands of deodorant, shaving cream, soap, and other things of that nature were taking up several full shelves. Expensive car wheels line the cabinet tops. Very odd looking, but it's the cheapest I've seen any phone since I got here, so I'll probably go back.
We wander down the main drag to Svoboda [Freedom] Square. It'ss a nice afternoon after a cool week with lots of rain, there are lots of people around: school kids, families, tourists, couples. Doesn't feel crowded though. There are some really incredible old buildings around, some a few that've been restored, others that are shedding their outer layers of paint and white wash like bad stucco. There are some egregiously modern elements, the McDonald's in one corner, the Omega building that's composed of giant glass blocks that stick out or hang back from the front of the building. Everything is jammed right up against everything else, so it always feels sort of busy. There are benches and cafe tables with umbrellas scattered around the edges of the square. We made for the Italian place run by some Croatians at the south end of the square. According to Denis it's best to just avoid local food completely. From my lunches around school, I see the sense in this. Czech food really is fairly simple and not too creative. Calzone for him, lasagna for me, and some ice cream afterwards.
Pilsner Urquell really does deserve its reputation. It's a lighter beer that they bring to you by the half liter, toped with a thick, creamy head and just as golden and not quite clear as those back-lit beer commercials at home make you think beer ought to be. It's very smooth, feeling pretty light on the tongue, with some hops in the aftertaste. Around the fourth one I was told that it's also a 10 or 12 percent beer, two or three times stronger than the standard commercial fare back home. I was shocked. The reason I even asked about the subject in the first place was that I was feeling remarkably little 'buzz' like I ought to after a liter and a half, I was just very relaxed. Starobrno is the local version, Pilsner being from further north. I don't like it as much, it's more bitter, but the Czechs really do deserve their reputation as brewmasters.
Christoph and Ahmet showed up after awhile. Christoph is Polish, but he and Denis have some friend in common back in the Ukraine. Ahmet is from Tunisia. He's rather typical of the young Arabs I've met (all men, by the way): on the surface very self-confident, especially with regards to a professed past full of women and partying, underneath more insecure and maybe less experienced than he'd lead you to believe. Very friendly and talkative, opinionated, and in Ahmet's case, completely on the make. I took to calling him 'Horndog' before the night was out. Both Ahmet and Chris work for IBM and have been here less than two months. Ahmet was quick to tell me that I could easily work for IBM just being an English speaker of reasonable intelligence, no Czech or computer background required. I said that sounded sort of insane and he chuckled while telling me that they had people in the 'French division' that could only say “Bonjour. Comme ce va?” It was getting quite dark and another IBMer was due to arrive soon, so we wandered to meet him. He's a Bulgarian named Greorgi (gree-or-ge). We find a bar/cafe that's open for the next hour, until midnight. I liked Greorgi the most of all the people I met that night. His English is quite good, especially in terms of the normal difficulties Slavic speakers tend to have (not using articles, lousy use of plurals), even though he doesn't seem to think so. Maybe he does have some difficulties, but he had the most natural usage and could tell stories with out those weird pauses or stretched out pronunciations that happen when people speak in languages that they didn't grow up with. He told me that he was supposed to come to the States for school, but 9-11 happened and he went to Germany instead. At one point we were talking about the presence of Mexicans at home and the sorts of jobs they normally have and he told me that he lived that sort of life in Germany. Even though he was there legally as a full-time student, he could only get a few small scholarships. The remaining cost was something like four times what his parents made for an entire year in Bulgaria. He knew how to wash dishes. He also chain smokes Galiouse cigarettes (I don't think I spelled that right.)
At midnight we head to the Livingstone. One thing Europe has figured out how to do is integrate their clubs and discos with normal commercial and living spaces. I suppose it helps that most of them are buried in basements or in mall-style buildings with three foot concrete walls, but you never know there's a club there until you see the sign or someone entering/exiting. There are no lights leaking on to the street, no loud music as the door opens, no obnoxious people obviously going in or out. The streets usually feel empty, but when you walk inside, it's packed. They tell me the Livingstone is a college bar (between Masaryk U. and a few other schools there are probably 70,000 students here during the year) and it does feel that way. Pretty dark, but brighter yellow lights where there are some. There's a tiny dance floor to the left as you walk in. Strike that. Every dance floor I've seen over here is cramped and small by American standards, so it was a dance floor. It's loud and young is a very casual manner. More foreigners than usual, too. Probably the most t-shirt & jeans types I've seen since I got here. I'm not counting the ones that are obviously straight off the rack at designer boutiques, but thinking of the relaxed and not putting on plumage variety of people here. The soundtrack is mostly popular American rock from the late '90's. Greenday, Rage Against The Machine, and Cypress Hill were all there, interspersed with some European stuff that also seemed to be in the same 'popular and older' vein. We grab a table in the side-room. There are beat-up wooden tables with no finish or they're merely so old it doesn't make any difference. The seats in this corner are all wooden and faux-African folk art. Denis sits in my favorite: a cupped hand with tapered fingers in dark stain. There's some debate, but Denis and Greorgi disappear and return with a full bottle of Absolut vodka, a can of Redbull, a pint carton of OJ, and some glasses. Good times continue to roll. Ahmet is vacillating between gregarious and being moody over some ex who's sent him a text message. When he's feeling funny he's telling everyone that he's Israeli. Seems to be some kind of running gag. Chris has rolled his eyes at it a couple times and is rather quiet otherwise. After somebody's trip to the dance floor they return with Bruno.
Bruno is from Yakima or somewhere thereabouts. Went to UPS for school and has been out here doing TEFL for the last year and some. Says he works for a school called TLC and that they could definitely hook me up with a job. I think more job offers should be made while partying. Somewhere around here RATM's “Now Ya Do What They Told Ya!” comes on and I feel the need to jump around and throw my hands in the air on the dance floor. It's very funny to me, the Europeans treat everything as dance music of mild intensity. Russian pop-electronica, punk rock, whatever, they're all just kinda out there moving a little to the beat. I think the thrashing Americans that showed up for the Rage song weirded a few of them out.
A few of the guys are sitting with Bruno and his friends against the near wall when I get back. There's a tall, skinny, dark haired guy sitting alone at our table. I wind up talking to him. He calls himself Patrick and says he's Iranian. I have trouble hearing this and ask “Persian?” to confirm it. He's delighted, with intensely emotional eyes and sort of quavery aspect about him. I ask him if his name's really Patrick and he says no, it's Payirm. That's not really it, but it started with a P, also having a Y and an M. It's not hard to say but it's hard to remember, I've forgotten it by the time he leaves two minutes later, saying something about a girl. Bruno has about ten people at his table, I meet Paully, a Brit, and Lenka, who also speaks English, and 'Harry,' who doesn't. He does, however, smile and nod while not saying anything. I address several comments to him before Bruno clues me in to his lingual status.
The bottle of vodka has been killed. The decision is made that it's time to leave as one of the boys grabs me and we head for the exit. Ahmet has been drinking fast. He'd caught up with Denis and I before we left the square. Most of us are through the door before the bouncers stop Ahmet, who is still drinking from a screwdriver. He says 'ok, ok' and goes to pound the rest of his drink. The bouncers aren't happy but don't seem to mind until he takes one step down. (There are people piling up behind us and I think he didn't want to block traffic.) The bouncer nearest him grabs the glass from his mouth. He tries to follow it, gets off balance, and the other bouncer firmly seats him on the step. As he begins to protest we hustle him into the street.
The following scene is a circus of typical nature. We get Ahmet about half a block before he realizes that he really needs to go back and either tell the bouncers off or finish his drink. I can't tell which and he frustratedly tells us that he cannot explain it in English. There is something said that's stereotypically whining and chest-beating with an Arabic accent. Greorgi and I are the ones in his face while Chris hangs back and Denis brings up the rear with a very serious look on his face. Ahmet breaks left and makes a run towards the bar. I run after him, he jets past Denis, who's feet slip out from under him. After five seconds Ahmet decides that maybe he doesn't want to go back to the bar and faces us, the crowd pounding pel-mel down on top of him. We propel him to the square in the following hubbub. There are more protestations and frustrations and Ahmet is entreated to lead us to a place called Mandarin. He does, but the bouncer can either see he's too drunk or just doesn't like the Arab look, so we can't get in. This sets of a further wave of frustration and recrimination. Greorgi and I try to speak sense with him but he argues everything. Doesn't want to find another bar, doesn't want to walk home, doesn't want to get a taxi. Doesn't like the way he's being treated or talked to. All of a sudden he throws up his hands, walks to a taxi that's sitting at the corner, climbs in and leaves. Greorgi's a little upset, but I'm glad to see him gone and Chris seems to feel a little relieved too.
I enjoy drinking with Chicagoans. It doesn't matter how old they are or what level of Chicago accent they have under normal circumstances. When they get altered they revert to whatever they sound like at home. And it's hysterical. Denis takes Greorgi to task for still thinking he needs to do something. Denis sounds like a cross between a wise-guy and a weasel. “Let 'im go, hee not 'ere, den he's not har problum.” This goes on for about two minutes. I can't even begin to imitate this in my own voice.
The Mandarin is every clichéd European club from the movies. There's a bar upstairs with high vaulted ceilings, down a creepy set of grimy tile steps is what was probably a wine cellar. It's still bare stone and concrete, but now there are little raised daises and a long plexiglass bar that looks it ought to light up. The light is red and dim and doesn't seem to come from anywhere in particular. The people inside are all dressed in clothes that are probably very expensive but just look trashy. There are shaved heads, gold chains, and attitude galore. The soundtrack is loud, electronic, and occasionally there's singing, not in English. Greorgi and Christoph fit right in. I've got long hair, wear glasses, and the wrong clothes. Denis is the best. He's pale, has a shaved head, and is kind of chubby. He's wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He also dances with the very loud attitude of “I do not give one single flying fuck about what you think of me.” We're there for a while. It's too loud to talk and there's nobody I'd really care to meet. Dancing and drinking are about all that's on the menu. We leave the place, less crowded, but still in full swing, a little before five in the morning.
I grab the first tram heading towards my house. Having been up since about six am the day before and drinking more than I have since I don't know when, I nod off. I wake up near the outskirts of the city. I realize this because I look up and the hills are right on top of me and I don't recognize the street at all. I hop off and catch one headed back in a few minutes later. It's a different line this far out and goes back in a different direction. I wind up back at the train station, about five blocks from Mandarin, at roughly 6 o'clock. I get on the number 6 headed the right direction. I wake up to someone yelling at me in Czech. He's probably been yelling at me for a couple minutes because he seems irritated. I blink at him and realize he's the driver (the only reason I can tell is that he's stepped out of the compartment at the front of the tram) and this seems to be the end of the line. Even if I ever get Czech down as a language I'm going to have a hard time with the emotional nuances. Even anger sounds very different here. I got out, went to the other side of the street and caught the next line back in. The sun is fully up by now. Rather irritated with myself for falling asleep twice and getting a cramp in my neck, I resolve not to do it again. The tram crosses the right line near the main park downtown, so I get off there and get on the next one in the right direction. It's Saturday, but there are still a lot of people on the move. Some of them are old, some young, but I don't see anyone else in my condition. I yawn and get off at my stop, trudging home. I brush my teeth, grab some water and hit the sack.
I'm here. Feeling pretty well, but not really looking forward to sobering up. At least I'm not hung over.
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