Taking a right off a crowded
street, you suddenly find yourself alone on a narrow cobblestone road. In the
stillness, you walk past a chalkboard sign advertising hot wine and beer in two
colours, an open window where the smell of tobacco wafts out, a pigeon. Then there
is a loud, grating noise in the distance, getting closer. You turn a corner and
find several laborers digging up part of your path, and several others sanding
it down. You move past them quickly, searching for the tranquility you had moments
before, when you stumble upon a man blowing his nose. He looks at you and tells
you that God is dead. Rather, God can be heard through a symphony, if you would
like. If you would like, he can show you where you can refresh your cock and
get six Pilsners for three hundred crowns.
You keep walking because you don’t
trust someone who looks you in the eye and smiles so willingly. You take the
escalator down to the metro. It is crowded, but quiet, except for some
tourists, drunk on alcohol, or travel, or both. A young couple is leaned
against the wall making out. The girl is wearing a pair of sparkling Nike
hightops, the boy has his hair cut close, minus a patch in the back and a line
down the middle of his head. There is a woman – wearing several layers of worn
clothing and carrying a cane – with a dog that looks old and tired of slowly
following her around all day. A metal muzzle surrounds his mouth, and you
wonder if he would like to eat you with a side of fava beans.
You get off the metro and buy a hot
chocolate from the Nescafe machines that line the wall, winking at Reese
Witherspoon’s perfume ad as you take a sip. You go to the grocery store to buy
dinner. The store smells like a heavily disinfected bakery, and Michael Jackson
plays from the speakers in the ceiling. The lines are long, but they move
quickly. Your groceries total 195 crowns. The woman behind the counter coughs
and asks you if you have 95 crowns when you hand her a 200.
The cars threaten to run you over
every time you step onto the crosswalk, but always stop in time, and you don’t
take it personally, because it doesn’t seem like anybody else does. You open
your three dollar pint of vodka and take a sip. It tastes pretty good, for
three dollars at least. Later, when you put it in the freezer, it freezes.
The bar you are led to by someone
who knows someone who knows of a place is tiny. But then there is a staircase,
and a basement, and then a room off the basement, and then another staircase,
and another room, and another staircase, and soon you can’t remember how to
leave, but you don’t want to anyways. A vent would be nice, but by now you’re
mostly used to the plumes of spliffs and cigarettes. You don’t want to get lost
in the tram system again, and you don’t want to get ripped off by a cab driver,
so you stay out until past five when the metro starts running.
To save time, you slide down the
middle of the escalator when you arrive at the station, and a grumpy worker
awakens from his brooding slumber in his booth to come out and yell at you in Czech.
The next day, you curse the man who
decided to make it legal to sell absinth, but not ibuprofen. Luckily, there are
six Asian food restaurants within walking distance. Even though you feel a
little guilty for interrupting the owner – in the midst of ironing when you
enter – a hot, greasy pile of noodles is just what you need. Or, at least, you
thought you did. You only finish half, and get the rest to go. The owner asks
if everything was okay, and you assure her it was, and that’s why you want to
save it for later, but this doesn’t seem to work, because you notice that she
screams at the cook before giving you your check. You try and make amends by
leaving a nice tip.
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