An itinerary

Note that I didn't say The Itinerary. It's subject to change, or at least the first part is. I run alone from Split to Athens, and from there I'm with people. This is the rough, absolutely gotta be there at this point, time line: I hit Split on the morning of Aug 2. I have to catch a bus in Tirana in the evening of Aug 9. The 13th was the only day to catch the ferry from Aghios Konstantinos. I arrive in Volos mid-morning on the 19th, and by that night I will be on a train from Thessaloniki to Istanbul. I fly in the wee hours of the morning on the 23rd back to Bratislava.


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Plisner Urquel, aka Plzeňský prazdroj

J, I'm warning you right now that you're not allowed to salivate on your keyboard.


Note our two photos above. You see the one on the left, that's proper Pilsner, served in a proper glass. I haven't met a good P.U. down here in Brno, tho I truthfully haven't looked hard. However, when you go to a nice pub they bring you a tall glass of dark yellow beer with a light, creamy head on top, normally on the cold side of chilled. It tastes just a touch buttery, a little sweetly-sour, and a lot hoppy. It is, however, a very light beer, saved from being watery only by the high quality of its taste (when properly served). The picture in question was taken in Loket.

You see the one on right? It's a plastic cup. It was served too cold with too much head, and the room is probably about 4°C. It is, however, a much better beer. Why? you may ask. And I might tell you that this is the nefiltrovaný, unfiltered, freshly brewed in oak barrels especially for the tourists of the Plzeňský prazdroj brewery. It's thick on your tongue and is about the weight of a nice red beer, but the taste washes away much quicker than a red, and you're just left with a very nice taste of hops in your mouth. For the Czech Republic it's the closest I've come to beer-you-can-chew, but you still can't. It is gorgeous stuff, jam packed with flavor and texture. I'm told that Pilsner Urquel is brewed with something like triple the average amount of hops in it. We had a Gambrinus with dinner about an hour after the cup of nefiltrovaný. It tasted and felt almost like water in comparison. The only place to get this ambrosia outside the brewery is called Na Parkánu. Dig the *chink.* Note the color difference from this stuff to the regular Pilsner.


On a side note: while we were at Na Parkánu we ran into this stuff called Master. They served it in 13° & 18° form, which is something like 5.5% and 7% for the rest of us. It's great! Dark Czech beers are normally very sweet and pretty light, but this had a normal weight and a very carmelly feel on the tongue. It's got a heavy, tan head and smells strongly of fruit or flowers. Try some if you get the opportunity.

Pilsner Urquel Brewery

The Pilsner Brewery experience is pretty cool, especially if you've only got a little knowledge about the how and what that goes into beer making. It costs about 130 kc and it wouldn't be very fun if you didn't wait for an English speaking tour. You start off with a general history of movie and a three story model of an old brewhouse. It's then pointed out that Plzeňský Prazdroj makes two of every three beers sold in the Czech Republic (they also own Gambrinus and Kozel). It's also owned by SAB Miller and is the flagship brand of the company, so there's a display of some of Miller's multitudinous international beer brands.

First stop, after a pointless bus ride of about 100 meters, is the coopers' workshop. Cooping, if you don't know, is the dying art of barrel making. The only reason that the guys here are even employed is because of us, the tourists. However, ten of them work here and they've got a pretty cool workshop. The oak for the barrels is aged for ten years before they do anything with it. And their dust collector unit is two stories tall.
Take the pointless bus back to the place you started and enter the presently-being-remodeled brewhouse. There they give you a brief overview of the Plzeňský process.

Germinated barley, roasted and milled, then mixed with water and thirty percent of each batch is roasted, mixed back in, and done again, for a total of three times. It's then unhopped wort. They add hops, in this case some famous stuff from Bohemia and some other type from Moravia that they like to play down. The yeast is added. There's a cold filter process, the beer sits for a short period, then is moved to a larger vat and aged for 12 weeks or so. They like to say this is the original process, but then they also note that improved temperature and pressure technologies have taken the second aging session down from an original time of around 3 months.

Then they take you into this giant modern elevator. Dave noted that he'd played music in clubs with smaller square footage. As soon as the elevator door opens (to get in) your nostrils quail under the weight and strangeness of a slightly sour roasted smell, that I was later to learn, is mostly hops. Then you watch a video on the origins of the ingredients while standing on this quietly turning platform. Then you go the the Hall of Ingredients, where you can sample barley, malt, and hops. The barley is normal cereal grain, the malt would be good as breakfast cereal, and I'd advise you not to eat the hops. Think alfalfa that gives your mouth a dry-bitter pucker.
You're then taken to some boilers and mash-tuns that are set-up as models. After that you get to peek into the real plant. These things are gigantic, there's a full story drop from the upper level to the lower, and the second step tanks are about twice as large.

After this you get to see a small museum with artifacts and documents. Here's a brief version: in 1845 or so the town residents began complaining about the quality of the beer, and dumped a bunch out on the mayor's front steps. The roughly three hundred families in town with official brewing licenses got together and amalgamated. (Many of these families are still minority stakeholders.) The beer became the pride of the town. Somewhere around the turn of the last century they began winning lots of prizes. You get to see some of these and look at cups that Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria and King of Bohemia, drank from. It even survived the privations of Nazism and Communist nationalization. Then it's time for the fun stuff.



You go down stairs to the old cellars. Our guide, who was pretty cool and funny despite his broken English, told us there's something like nine kilometers of hallway hidden under the brewery. Most of which is unused now. It's also pretty cold. They used to keep it even colder by harvesting a year's worth of ice from the river in winter and dropping it down into this giant refrigeration vault. You get to see the barrels of beer that they brew especially for the tourists.

The marks on the barrel are as follows, strength:12º [about 5%], starting date: 11th of February, starting temperature: 5º C, and the type of yeast used, followed by the temperature on different days. Then you get to taste the beer! Yummy, yummy stuff. More on that in the next post. After that they take you topside, say “That's all,” and point you towards the gift shop.

Sping Break: Plzeň

Plzeň is a depressing place. You step off the bus and are greeted by a classic communist-era wall of a building with a giant Skoda emblem perched on top. The air is gritty and most things are old and grungy. Parts of it are amazing and cool, but that is the general atmosphere for tourists.
This was one of the few cities in the Czech Republic to be liberated by the U.S. in WWII. (Brno and Prague were both taken by the Soviets.) And they have a monument that actually says, “Thank You, America.” I thought that was pretty cool.

Like any Eastern European town the differences between then and now can be quite glaring. This building shows three things: the town becoming the seat of the Holy Roman Empire (for a year), successfully withstanding a decade plus Swedish seige, and ?possibly? the 50 year anniversary of the city's brewery. It was probably built sometime around the turn of the last century, when the town was prosperous.


This is what sits below it today. “Thank You, America” indeed.



Dům Kultury translates to something like Cultural House or House of Culture. Yup, quite....cultural....

But, when you get to the old center of town, most of that is forgiven. I was totally blown away after seeing all the beautiful facades. Most of these were probably added or redone around or after 1900 when the town was booming with successful industry, mostly owned by Emil Skoda.


It's cool to see this building is still fulfilling its original purpose. [click for facade detail]


This is a justice building of some sort, maybe the local courthouse.



Plzeň is also home to the largest synagogue in the Czech Republic, which Rough Guide states is the 2nd largest in Europe, which means it could be 3rd largest in the world, as someone told me. Like many things on this trip, it was no-entry-until-summer-or-at-least-spring.

The town's alright. The people there seem a lot less homogeneous than here in Brno. More odd colors and stereotypical subculture styles. Kinda like the difference between say, Wallingford and Georgetown in Seattle.

The highlight for me was the brewery. Not only for the beer. I'm not such a fan of Pilsner in the wild, but the stuff from the brewer is wonderful. This place was chock full of history and it's presented very well, too. It gets it own post.

Returned

I am back. Slightly rested, slightly footsore, and have seen a lot more. Here's a pictoral preview of the first day of my journey: Plzeň.


This is the essential Plzeň. Left to right we have a very old religious monument, ugly stadium lights, and the smokestack + water tower of the brewery.


Old Czech towns are warrens of interconnected buildings.


Let us celebrate the glories of Communism, comrade!


There are some truly amazing buildings on the old town square.


But this is the essential take-away from the town: it is the place from which comes beer.

More, and more thoughtful, soon.

Prague Castle, St. Vitus's Cathedral, Basilica of St. George

Several of the best things to see in Prague are in the Castle. I suggest going early, there are lots of people, even on a cold November day. If you need food, find someplace well away from the castle to eat, prices get ridiculous in that part of town. I also suggest going through the front section on the western face, and not through the back section, even though the eastern steps are closer to the river. A great spectacle is the changing of the guards at noon. A mini-version that happens on the hour, but this one is worth seeing.
Arrive early under the gruesome gate to get a spot in the courtyard. The guards are awesome to watch, but Americans and Brits will definitely notice a difference between the Czechs and their own Marines. Pant cuffs may bag a little at the ankle, there's some shuffling in ranks to evenly space the men, some movements aren't all that snappy, and it's obvious not everyone takes 'coming to attention' as seriously as others. Simply, the Czechs take their duty seriously, but they don't make it the religiously martial ritual that their Anglo brethren do.

They do however, have a really jazzy bunch of brass to do it to though. And they are a very engaging spectacle. Well worth the watch. I am reminded that at some point I must acquire a sword. For the inside I recommend buying a “Maly” ticket for 250 kc which grants you access to the Old Royal Palace, the Basilica of St. George, and the Golden Lane. The Cathedral is free entry. Order of operations should be something like this: get there at 11:30 to go in and buy ticket, go find spot for changing of the guard. Once done, bypass the Cathedral (everyone is going there), the Palace would be a good option. Then the Cathedral, the Basilica, and the Golden Lane, with a leisurely stroll down the stairs towards the river. This is enough to occupy you for three or four hours if you're a thorough tourist.

The Palace was looted by the Nazis and is fairly small. Don't go in expecting much. I enjoy the idea of a modest monarchy, though. However, it does contain what I'm told is the largest Gothic vaulted space in Europe (or the world, I suppose), and the stonework is quite beautiful. Go upstairs to see the old coal fired ceramic heaters and some documents about failed rebellions. At the far end of the Hall is a small throne room and a church.

St. Vitus's Cathedral is pretty impressive.
It was 800 years in the making has beautiful stained glass windows, one of them by Alfons Mucha. I'm not really into the religious stuff, but I dig cathedrals for the architecture and art. Vitus's is pretty cool on both counts.

Halfway down on the right side there is a tower that you can climb. It's something like 287 steps up a spiral staircase. This isn't terrible until you must share this staircase with the people coming down, as well, and you get squeezed to the inside where the steps are only four inches deep. Can be a bit aggravating. The top will be crowded, but it was far and a way the best view of Prague I had the whole time I was there.

The outside of St. George's Basilica is a lovely red and white, reminding me of an Orthodox church. The inside is very primitive and was severely neglected under Communism, but it still holds a certain majesty. I was quite impressed with the frescoes on the ceiling in the front.

I wasn't too impressed with the Golden Lane. It's a bunch of little cottages built up against/into the outer wall. Once the artisans lived there, especially the gold workers for the monarchy/cathedral (hence the name), and Kafka is supposed to have lived there for a short time. Now it's chockablock with tourist kitsch and the tourists themselves. I'm told I missed the actual historical display part: go left when you get through the gate? Also: don't buy any food here unless you're will to pay true tourist prices. Prague is usually double what things cost in Brno, hot wine or simple food in the Castle is triple.

Prague!

I present to you Prague (the first of several parts):

For travel in the Czech Republic (and maybe the rest of Europe, too) I highly recommend Student Agency buses. Comfortable seats, toilets, movies, free coffee or tea, and English speaking staff are included for less than 200 kc one way from Brno to Prague. They were also quite good when we went to Vienna.

[For geography please refer to the prior map.] Prague is eminently walkable and also quite touristified. There are no shortage of McDonald's, Marks & Spencer's, or any other truly international brand you'd care to name. We arrived in Florenc on the east side of the central city, coming in past Microsoft, HP, and Siemens signs by the highway. The first stretch of town you see walking in is not any more impressive. However, once you get past nam. Republiky things start to look better, older, more European. After a few minutes we arrived at the hostel, squirreled away on a side street just off Old Town Square (Staromestke nam.).

Tyn Hostel is pleasant enough, nightly rates about equal to Brno (which is something of a miracle), if a trifle frill-less. After depositing our belongings we set out in search of grub and a pub. From Old Town Square we stumbled about the tourist quarter to Wenceslas Square (Vaclavske namesti). This 10 minute walk was enough time for Garith to be offered three kinds of drugs by four different people. I dunno I guess he just has that vibe. That 10 minutes were enough to also convince one that a) it was rather cold, and b) that central Prague is for not naught but tourists. We guessed about 40% of the people we passed were speaking Czech and this figure declined throughout the weekend. Upon arrival to the square several of us made purchases from a fast food shack (despite those prices being double what we were used to) and we continued through the bustling mess towards the Charles Bridge. It's quiet at night and quite pretty, though you can't get a real idea of it in the dark. After a few half hearted snapshots we decided that we really didn't want to freeze for that much longer and went in search of beer.

Which proved harder than we thought. Not wanting to pay 50 kc for a small Pilsner (that's really highway robbery), we blundered back through the tourist section, past our hostel, and settled into a slightly strange place which was plastered with portraits of starlets from the Golden Age of cinema. However, they closed at 11, only enough time for one beer. Back into the night, past the sports pub playing Rolling Stones, around in circles, into the 'free entry' jazz club. Free entry to bar that is, and 60 kc beers. Definitively a chin-stroking “yazz” joint for expats with too much money. Back out to stand on the corner and debate options.

At which point I hear a bunch of people gabbling in the street and music, too. A couple of us wander over and hear a live band coming from a crowded cellar. The vibe is very much art gallery/hipster houseparty. Down six narrow and steep steps is a vintage clothing store about the size and shape of a small Quonset hut. Immediately to the left was a glass table with two girls in frilly '60's party dresses
pouring the last of a box of wine. Racks of clothing hung all the way down each side, but the middle was taken up with a milling mass of hip young people speaking in some British but mostly American accents. On the far side of the hip young thangs was a band, and such a band. We later learned they were called Duchess & the Kittens. The lead singer was a large girl with a real whiskey voice. Try to imagine Duffy Bishop and Dr. John having a lovechild. Then get that person seriously trashed and you might have an idea of what she sounded like. The band was an electric bass, a banjo, and a sax. They were doing tunes appropriate to the clothing. The name of the place turned out to be Laly, though I didn't really learn anymore than that.

Maria had decided she'd had enough and went to the hostel. I really wanted to stay, as did Cat. Joe, Garith, and Brian didn't see any fun in that, and Emma went with them to find a pub. As the vintage girls were out of wine Cat and I hurried to the non-stop (24 hour joint) next door and grabbed some liquid refreshment.

The feeling of the place was very comfortable, but deeply strange. I felt like I could have been at a house part in the U District. Most of the crowd looked young enough that they wouldn't be able to drink back home. As soon as I walked in I walked past a knot of fashionably coiffed guys, with attendant women, stridently trashing the band, while said band was playing. I was happy that they left quickly. There were also some oldsters in the crowd, grinning their heads off. And one couple who came dressed for a swing-revival. The band played lots of old standards, Motown kinda stuff, sometimes trading in an acoustic guitar and a steel lap guitar. The sax section magically multiplied. The highlight of the evening was Love Potion No. 9. Oddly enough the Duchess sounded a lot better after her third Jamieson. Go figure. Cat and I were digging it. About 1 am they called it quits, but just long enough to change up. It became Rev. Bob's Revival Hour. One of the sax players came to front and started a “Hallelujah!” schtick. Out of the crowd came a mutton-chopped ska-punk looking guy to take over on electric. Pretty soon there was lots of hollering and 'spiritual' music going. They were pretty good, but took themselves a little too seriously compared to how perverse the lyrics were. Cat and I called it a night here and went round the corner to the hostel.

Prague, a map

Here is a somewhat annotated map of the events in following posts. Probably best to zoom in a little bit.

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this is four pages.....just so you know

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.