Via Prague

My guests have settled in quite comfortably. Last night after meeting Gordon for a night cap at Shakespeare and Sons, I got back to the flat and everyone was asleep. Tonnie and her boyfriend were curled up on the wood floor in my room, and Carl was crashed on the sofa.
Today we were all up and around about noon. Tonnie was already on the computer. The guys, in that daze just after awakening, sat on the sofa in the kitchen. 'My toes are freezing,' Tonnie's boyfriend remarked. 'It's an old apartment,' I said, by way of apology.
Later they cooked themselves breakfast. They took turns shredding potatos to make a heaping pan of hashbrowns. Since leaving China last week they've been living largely on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. At one point I suggested they buy a big economy sized sack of rice. 'No, thanks,' Tonnie's boyfriend said. 'We had more than our share in China.'
They'd been living in Daqing, way up in the north part of China, where temperatures were well in the minus. Tonnie's boyfriend (I forget his name, I'll just call him Jeff from now on) went to use my toilet. It's one of those old-fashioned kind, with the box and chain. 'Wow, this is an old apartment,' Jeff said, upon returning. 'But you should have seen what we had in China. It was just a hole in the ground, you had to squat. And you have to bring your own toilet paper. They don't supply the bathrooms with it.'
So much for the next great superpower, I'm thinking. I've been in discussions recently with a couple of schools. Of course, I know it's not all like that. One of my students, an EU affairs attorney named Daniel, returned from a month-long hiking trip through 11 provinces. Judging from his photos, it's a country of astounding, mysterious natural beauty, and across the country steel-and-glass skyscrapered cities, looking like new money from the mint, have sprouted up overnight and tower toward the heavens.
Later we talked about Chinese food some more.
'It was really weird,' Jeff said. 'The chicken there. They eat every part of it, and it's all laid out -- all the chicken parts -- right out in the open, they don't even use bags.'
'Did you eat any dog?' I asked, somewhat niaively.
'No, but we brought our dog there, and we worried about him sometimes.'
'Where's the dog now?'
'In China. We had to leave him there until we either get settled here or go back to the States.'
'Oh.'
Being New Year's Eve, I decided to head out for a while and leave my guests to themselves. I went down the street to Dobra Traffika, a cozy student cafe that offers a ham and egg plate, with fresh tomatos and zuccini, for about two bucks. Then I walked down the hill from Vinohrady into Vrsovice. Earlier the sun had come out for a while but now it was gray and dismal again. Pavels was closed, to my dismay. Maybe he'll open later. Or maybe he's spending the New Year with friends.
I went down the street to Shakespeare and Sons. Kristina, the pretty brunette with a dancer's figure, was working.
There were only a few people there. One was a very old man, gaunt, with stringy long grey hair. I could be mistaken, but I think he used to play saxophone for Plastic People of the Universe, the Velvet Underground-inspired band that made waves here before the 1989 Revolution. He was sitting with an American woman, and they were talking in English. The American woman was friendly, but had that (for me anyway) annoying characteristic of replaying the whole Bush/America debate, as though it had never been discussed by anyone ever before in human history.
'I feel really embarrassed, as an American,' she announced, 'about George Bush and the 2000 election. And the election after that.'
Her older Czech tablemate listened, nodded. He spoke English well, with a deliberate, thoughtful manner.
'A lot of Amer-icans,' the woman went on, 'Said 'I like George Bush because he's just like me. He's an ordinary man. Well, I don't want an ordinary man to be president of the United States. He'd better be a helluva lot smarter than me.'
I was trying to tune out the conversation, and buried my head in a book I'd brought along. It wasn't that I disagreed with the woman, it's just you hear these conversations so many times, and by the way people talk you'd think they thought posterity was standing closely by at attention, and that worlds shifted on their opinion, and that they saw themselves as emissaries from the better angels of American nature, called upon to explain America to the world. I'm guilty of it sometimes too, I know. It's not until you hear someone else you realize how presumptuous and grating it can sound.
'The thing I can't understand,' our pleasant pundit went on, 'is that the world has nothing to do with electing the president of the United States. Only Americans can vote. But the president's actions can affect the whole world!'
'Yes, it's very complicated,' the old man observed.
I fell into my book and soon tuned out the conversation. After the tea, Kristina came back and I ordered a beer. The book was 'This Side of Paradise,' by Fitzgerald. It was the book of burning, post-World War I youth, and generally considered the first literary shot fired into the Jazz Age. It's in many ways a very poor novel, immature, the first novel by a brilliant, but unfinished master. I was almost through with it, the last scenes where the protagonist, the handsome romantic egotist Amory Blaine, returned from the war, disillusioned by the loss of his fair Rosalind, emotionally at sea, confronted by a new world, rejecting the superficial balms of 19th Century Romanticism, his faith in the Church at best a wavering connivance, seeing even sacrifice as 'arrogant and impersonal.' At the end, Amory realizes that for him lays only the labryinth, and that his best path to salvation is 'not to be admired, as he feared, or to the be loved, as he made himself believe, but to be necessary to people ... A new generation ... grown up to find all gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in men shaken ...'
Back in my late teens, growing up, Amory Blaine had been an ideal, and the book a kind of refuge from the blind turbulance of late-1980s adolescence. It was interesting reading the book again, nearly twenty years later. Back then, Amory's struggles, his vanities and poses, his egotism, his hopes and loves and disillusions, had represented to me everything that I thought life was supposed to be. The funny, or maybe sad thing, is that even now, after so many years, after I have also known something of ambition, of love, of success and failure, of youth and disillusion, I can't bring myself to laugh at Amory Blaine or think patronizingly about him. And I still marvel at the flawed, overly histronic, but nevertheless prescience of the young Fitzgerald, who was only 23 when the novel was published, an overnight success that immediately catapulted the author into the position of spokesman for his generation (a role he never felt comfortable with).
How much do young Amory Blaine's strivings, ambitions, realizations speak to today? I would say as long as there are people who are young, who aspire, who pose and dream, who burn to live and love, who struggle to comprehend a turbulent, chaotic world that's constantly changing, I'd say quite a bit. And I can't help but think he'd find my compatriot, the earnest, well-meaning woman at the next table, equally annoying.
I finished the beer, paid and went up the hill. Pavels was still closed, but it was only four. New Year's Eve. Maybe it would be a good idea to head to the center. The Chinese kids would be out on Wenceslas Square, exploding all their illegal fireworks that go off like carbombs in Baghdad. Then there's the Chateau, or maybe even the Tulip over in New Town. Forget about everything, get out and have a good time.
I got back to the flat and my guests were curled up again on the couch. They were watching 'Lethal Weapon IV' on their portable DVD player. They looked warm and comfortable, so I didn't disturb them.

Posted by James Tressler at 07:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You may recall last week I got a desperate email from Tonnie, an American girl who was teaching with her boyfriend in China. The story I've got is a bit sticky and convoluted, but essentially they weren't happy there, were getting a bit of the runaround from their school, and had left China, flown to Prague and arrived at my doorstep basically penniless.
Since our initial communication, when I'd offered floorspace at my flat, I'd become to have reservations. My flatmate, Hana, had said it was OK for a few days. But it's an old flat, and I wearied at three or four days of having to share the hot water, the kitchen, etc. I'm on holiday for a few weeks and was looking forward to enjoying it on my own.
Gordon, my Australian business friend, agreed.
'Get rid of them,' he advised.
So on the day they were supposed to arrive, I played possum. I let the phone ring and ring without answering. Hours went by. FInally, around noon I got out of bed. Four missed calls on my mobile. When I went out into the hallway, I stopped. There were voices outside in the stairwell. Shit. They were outside, just waiting for me, probably thinking I was out.
What to do? I crept back into my bedroom, lay back in bed. But I didn't want to sleep. I needed to get downstairs to the Vietnamese potraviny for cigarettes. I wanted to be up and around, and felt resentful at feeling I had to hide in my own flat, like a refugee from police.
Finally, I got up and took a shower. It's always cold here in the morning in the winter. The shower was nice and hot. Fuck it, I thought. Get dressed, go downstairs. If they're still there, just go with it and let them in. If they've left, you're off the hook.
Sure enough, they were waiting, all three of them, on the stairs, with a small mountain of personal gear stuffed in backpacks and travel bags.
'Heeeyyyy!' I cried, doing my best impersonation of cheerful surprise. I made profuse apologies. 'Late night last night -- you called? Wow. Never heard it. Oh, my head--'
'Have you been here long?' I asked.
'About three hours.'
I felt bad. It's not too cold in Prague right now. I mean, it's not freezing. But still, the mornings have a moisture that cuts right through you.
There was Tonnie, who I'd communcated with through email. She and her boyfriend are from Pasadena. They're both in their early twenties. Then there was Carl, another young guy from Australia.
We went back upstairs. I showed them the room, the shower, the washing machine, then the kitchen and the computer, and gave them the basic rundown on Hana, cleaning, etc.
After awhile, they were settled in. Tonnie's boyfriend was on the computer sending an emergency email to the States. Between the three of them they had about 800 crowns left (about $40), and no job prospects or place to live. Of course, it being the holidays, it's not the easiest time to look for work. But they had a couple interviews lined up for next week, and I agreed to take them over to the schools where I teach.
The day -- it was Saturday -- passed smoothly. By late afternoon, I'd become quite used to them. I told them they could get a big sack of potatos at the downstairs potraviny for 30 crowns (one of my own tradelasts during frugal winters). They peeled up the potatos and got them boiling.
'Your timing was perfect,' Tonnie's boyfriend said.
'What?'
'Oh, when you came out this morning -- we'd been waiting there for three hours. And we were just thinking, oh well, maybe he changed his mind ... we were just about to leave.'
At five, I left to meet Gordon and Kristina and some other girls for drinks, and passed a pleasant evening. About 8, our little party broke up. Gordon and I were supposed to meet up at Pavels for one more. On the way, I decided to drop in and check on my guests. They were on the couch, huddled together under a blanket, watching a movie on their portable DVD player. I noticed the kitchen was clean, all the dishes washed.
'Everything alright?' I asked.
'Yes,' Tonnie said sleepily.
Later with Gordon, I remarked on the day. I told him I was glad things had worked out that way. I realized how close I'd come to doing a very hard thing, leaving people outside in the cold -- and at Christmas!
'So it's alright?' Gordon said.
'Yes. By the way, one of the guys -- Carl -- is from Australia.'
'Really?' Gordon thought about it. 'Well, if they're really down and out. Give them my number, and I might be able to help them with some cheap accomodation until they get on their feet.'
'Really?'
'Yeah. Well, normally I don't like to help fellow Australians. I don't really trust them to be honest.' He grinned. 'But in this case, if you've got a good feeling about them ... well, I can at least meet with them.'
'Yeah, size them up for yourself,' I said.
'Next week.'
'OK.'

Posted by James Tressler at 02:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It's getting easier, I think. Easier than it was three years ago, when I first arrived in Prague. Then I was just coming off four rollercoaster years at the T-S -- particularly the Gallegos saga, and the whole debate about the war -- and came here with a furious, unfocused determination, a confused striving. In a way I sort of ran straight into a brick wall, or rather several brick walls. Not just culture shock, I guess I also ran into too many pubs. Anyway, here we are at the close of my third year in Prague, year four of the great adventure begins.
Some things: You learn not to talk about the war, not if you can help it. At Pavels, in particular, it's nice to talk of other things. You meet people, and you do your best to be open and pleasant and not lose them even if you have to ask their name three or four times. It's OK, they'll often do the same. You also try not to talk about America, unless someone asks about it. Usually they ask sooner or later. 'Which part?' they ask. Sometimes I say Pittsburgh and sometimes I say California, depending on my mood. Both get nods of approval, California because it's California and Pittsburgh because Jaromir Jagr used to play for the Penguins. But as I said, you learn not to talk about it. You talk about Czech life, about Prague, about the latest gossip, about the movie that's showing that evening at Pavels. Yesterday we watched 'Supersize Me,' then the classic Czech film 'Svejk,' with Rusinsky playing the good soldier Svejk, and a Leonardo de Caprio film where he plays the French poet Rimbaud. I really love kinokavarnas, or movie cafes. Arcata would do well to open one. It's basically a cafe, where you can roll joints, smoke, drink, eat, talk and watch movies.
And keep listening and speaking, even if it's in a language you don't understand. In fact, sometimes it's better that way. Would you believe you can sometimes communicate more in a different language?
The other night we were at a pub called Barbera's, across the street from Pavels, and there were some faces I knew and some who were new to me. A young kid, probably late teens early twenties, with a two-toned ducky-style haircut (he bears a passing resemblance to Jon Cryer, if you remember from 'Pretty In Pink). He's been seeing Andrea, the prettiest (in my opinion, Gordon would prefer Kristiana) of a group of young girls who frequent Pavels. Like most young couples, they're totally into each other one moment, kissing in public, and then the next you can see there's been some drama off-stage, and our romantic young man disappears for a day or two. Andrea sits with her Coke and shares a joint and sympathetic sisterhood with the other girls, etc.
Anyway, their young love touched me, and vicariously I shared their hidden dramas, dispaired when hardship hit, rejoiced when young love triumphed once again, and the two sat thick as thieves, Andrea dove-eyed with adoration for her good man come back again. Lucky bastard.
That night, just after Christmas, Pavel's was closed so I was at Barbera's. As I walk in and say hello to familiar faces, I suddenly hear 'Cau!'
I turn and it's -- you guessed it -- our romantic young man.
'Cau,' I said. 'Hezky Vanoce.' That's Merry Christmas in Czech.
'Hezky Vanoce.' He has a big sloppy grin and a sort of muggish charm, and he has a goofy laugh. Altogether, there's something of the puppy about him, and I could see why Andrea liked him. Of course, my conversations with Andrea, back at Pavels, had up to that point consisted only of a few pleasantries. I'm nearly twice her age, and not wanting to come across as some clumsy lecher, was happy to keep things that way.
Still, I guess I've reached the age where you accept the fact that you're getting older, but I'm not ready to consign myself to old age. It's nice to talk with 'the younger generation' (I can't believe I actually used that expression).
So when a stool became available I sat next to the young man, and suddenly realized that although we'd seen each other numerous times at Pavels, we'd never been introduced. I told him my name and extended a hand.
'Smrta,' he said.
'Excuse me?' It was not a typical Czech name.
He repeated it a couple times, and even wrote it on a slip of paper. He then turned to the bartender. 'Jak se rekle Anglicke 'smrta?'
'Death,' somebody offered.
'Death?' I asked.
Death smiled his sloppy, puppyish grin.
'Nice to meet you,' I said, in Czech. 'I mean, maybe.'
Death, or Smrta, passed me the end of a joint. Then for the next few minutes he busied himself scrawling on a slip of paper. He then showed me his work. At first I wasn't sure what it was. Then with some more explanation (our conversation was, as always, in a horrid mixture of Czech and English), I realized it was a drawing of the Grim Reaper. The scythe was drawn badly, that's what threw me at first. I took the pen and elongated the scythe, emphasizing the slope of the blade. I handed it back to Smrta. He inspected it, then nodded with approval.
Silently I wondered if he was pulling my leg, about being named Death, but then said oh well, and figured it was a nickname, like back in Eureka I used to know these guys in the death metal band Transii. One of the guys, Marcus, everyone called Carcass. I figured it was something like that.
'And zivot?' I asked. Zivot means 'life.'
Smrta looked confused.
'Zivot?'
'Ano. Zivot.' I took the sheet of paper he'd drawn the Grim Reaper on and turned it over. I handed him the pen. 'Zivot,' I said.
Understanding, Smrta took the paper and pen. He spent several minutes scratching his head. Eventually he scribbled something and handed it to me. From what I can recall, it was a picture of a woman with a baby carriage, except there was a small sign above the carriage. It indicated that the baby was dead.
'Zivot?' I asked.
Smrta broke into laughter.
'Ano! Zivot!'
You can see many Czechs have a strong taste for cerne humor, or black humor.
I had an idea, so I grabbed another slip of paper and drew and embryo, starting with the form and working with the same line expanded waves around the child so that the wavy lines continued off the page.
Smrta studied it.
'Embyro?'
'Yes.''
He nodded.
It's too bad about the language barrier. You'd think after three years my Czech would be better. My only excuse is that as an English teacher, I spend the majority of my time speaking English, that's what they pay me for. And many Czechs, particularly younger ones, like to practice their English. Some even feel strangely affronted, as they say Parisians tend to be, if you try to speak Czech.
We got along OK for awhile. I asked about the girls.
'Kde je holky?' I asked. I didn't understand his reply. They were somewhere.
'Andrea is very nice,' I said.
'Andrea?' Smrta's eyes widened. Then he grinned. We talked about the girls. Andrea, Stevie, Kristiana ('Kiki!' Smrta said) and Simcha.
'Ano. Ano. Ale, Ale, Andrea je nelepsi!' Smrta said. But Andrea, she is the best.
'Ano.'
After a while, another regular, a stout middle-aged woman, intervened at that moment, thrust herself into the conversation with a drunk person's sense of propriety, and that was the end my conversation with Death, or Smrta. It's a pity, I would have liked to have learned more about him.
A couple nights later, Pavels re-opened, and on Friday afternoon I went in. The schools have been closed for the holidays, so I have a lot of free time. The girls were all there, except for the dark, raccoon-eyed one they call Simcha (short for Simona). Death was there as well. He got up and offered me a bite of his chocolate bar. I took a piece and said thanks, and also waved to Andrea. She smiled and waved back.
The couple sat and smoked and every now and then exchanged little kisses in that way young people do, and I supposed that all was well again. But presently, Smrta got up and with a little kiss and wave, was gone. Then the other girls after a while left too. I suddenly found myself alone with Andrea.
'Kde je Smrta?' I asked.
She shrugged.
'Mate Hezky Vanoce?' I asked.
'Ano. Nice Christmas.' She smiled.
Later she was sitting with another girl who I didn't know. Gordon had come in for a little while, but then left early because as he said, he needed to spend time with the Mrs. So I was alone. On impulse, I got up and went over to the table where the girls sat. They smiled when I sat down. We talked for a while of general things. Then I noticed Andrea had some scratches on her forehead.
'What happened?' I asked, pointing to the scratches.
I'm not sure I understood her answer, but she sort of shrugged it off. Then I asked about Death.
'His name is Tomas,' Andrea said.
'Tomas?'
She smiled again.
OK, so his name was really Tomas. Not quite the same ring as Death, but it is a nice typical Czech name.
What's the point, you ask? I don't really know. But going back to what I said up top, I'm learning -- after three years, I hope so -- that sometimes it's better not to understand much, and just put yourself out there. Maybe you make mistakes, or sometimes drink too much or spend too much money, but you pick up something too. I can now say I had a conversation with Death, or at least I did until I found out his name was really Tomas. It's nice to know you can still meet people, even if you don't speak the same language. You don't' always have to. It sounds like a cliche, and it is, but there is a universal language -- beer being one of them I know, but also fellowship. You learn when people want to receive you and also to respect days when they want to keep to themselves. That happens sometimes. Sometimes I'm tired and not in the mood to speak my broken Czech, and am content to sit with Gordon and talk about his new business, or just watch whatever movie is showing and drink beer and wait until Islam comes out and he sits awhile.
I've been playing with New Year's resolutions, but have hesitated to get set on one until after I get back from Paris in a fortnight. One I've been playing with is to spend less time at Pavels, and another to drink less beer, another to stop smoking, another would be to take up boxing (just for the conditioning). But as with all resolutions, you are careful about making promises that will back you into a corner. Part of me wants to live a healthier life, but another fears getting closed off I guess. Since I've lived in Prague I've met a great deal of people, from all over the world. But Prague is also a transient city, like most capital centers. People come and go. I've stayed, in part because it's the most convenient choice at the moment, I don't have much money, but the city suits me and I'm used to it, and it's proximity to the other major European capitals makes it ideal for travelling. But like all cities, you can get sucked down into the grind if you let yourself, and so it's important to get away. That's why I'm going to Paris. Sometimes I say I'm tired of Prague and should move on, say, to China. I'm still playing with that option too. But I also realize it's winter, the dead season, the melancholy and dark season, where you wake up and it's dark and cold, and outside the trees are stripped and the ground hard-bitten, and the wind blowing through you and you can never feel quite warm unless you're in a cafe or pub and around people (yes, even Death was warm). But the spring, when the Prague spring comes, everything is new again, a vital force comes flowing up the Vltava, pumping greenness and freshness and a fragrant smell to the city, and the sidewalks become full of tables again and the people sit outside, and the beer gardens are open up at Letna and Riegrovy Sady and you see people again that you haven't seen since last summer. You feel vastly thankful for the spring, and want to live in it forever.
I see I've gotten away from my conversation with Death, or Tomas. Well, I'm sure I'll see him again at Pavels in the next day or two.

Posted by James Tressler at 07:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

'James, you have three days ...'
Don't ask me what he meant by this. I'm not sure either. Our conversation was like so many I have these days, a mixture of something like English and Czech, and another language I still don't undertstand.
What did Tweedy say? Do you always have to understand me?
Right. That's what I tried to say. This was this evening, and it suddenly hit me, a headline I'd caught on the BBC just before leaving the flat for Pavels. 'Pakistan ex-president Bhutto assasinated.'
We were just watching a few James Bond films, talking about each others' Christmases. Islam, the cook, is from Bangladesh. He made me a special variation on the Czechs' traditional Yuletide meal, carp, in that he added curry to the wonderfully sweet river fish. Islam is about my age, but has a wife and daughter living in Bangladesh. He's a really cool guy, and is working here to save enough money to go back home and open a granite mining business. Islam reckons he needs one more year and he'll have the money, but this Christmas was particularly painful for him, since he misses his wife and daughter terribly.
He doesn't drink, part of his faith, but when he's not busy, Islam comes out and sits with me. Sometimes we're the only two foreigners in the place. 'I don't like Bush,' he once told me. 'But American people, I think are good.'
One evening we sat and talked.
'You must come to India,' he said.
'India?'
'Yes, you must come.'
'Where in India?' I asked.
He smiled.
'Anywhere.'
Tonight Pavels was really slow. Most people are still away with family for the holidays. But Pavel greeted me warmly and I recognized a few other people from the neighborhood. Then Islam came out from the kitchen and sat down for a while and we had our talk. We usually don't talk much, but we don't have to. That's what we like about each other I think. We just sit together, me with my beer and cigarette and Islam just relaxed, and a movie showing on the TV (it's a kinokavarna or movie cafe, after all). And after some time, Islam gets up, pats me on the shoulder and says he'll be back.
Sometimes, especially after he's done me up with an especially tasty meal, I go back to the kitchen and see Islam. He's back there by himself (I think he has a day job, so Pavels I suspect is a time to relax but I'm not sure) on the computer, waiting until Pavel comes back with an order.
Well, tonight I was sitting with some people when I suddenly remembered the BBC story about Bhutto's assasination.
'Pakistan -- ex-president Bhutto,' I said to a drinking companion, in my excrable Czech.
The Czech guy, who said his name was Jeremy (translated), was dazed by my comment, but then half-comprehended and shrugged.
'Moment,' I said. I went up to the bar and repeated the announcement to Pavel. He didn't know about it.
'Really?' he answered, in English. 'And who did it?'
Pavel told me to ask Islam.
So I went back to the kitchen, remembering to knock first. Islam, who was at the computer, waved me in.
'Did you hear about Bhutto?' I cried. I don't know why suddenly I was so moved.
Islam met my eyes.
'I know,' he said.
We sat down together at the computer. He was looking at a news website, the news in a language I couldn't understand, but I guessed by the symbols, to be Eastern.
Islam clicked on an English news website, and we looked at the terrible headline together.
'She was shot in the neck and chest,' Islam said.
' -- and then a bomb! I enjoined.
We recounted the story together in a whirl of desperate and confused words.
'Who do you think did it?' I asked.
'Taliban, Al Queda,' Islam said. He looked at me with commiseration.
'We are not all this way,' he said.
'Extremists?'
He didn't understand at first. I repeated and he sort of nodded.
Pavel came back to place an order. We showed him the news. He leaned forward, talked with Islam. I thought it might be better to show it in Czech, so I told Islam to go to ceskenoviny.cz. He didn't know it, so I typed it in. Pavel had to get back to the bar.
'I will show you,' I said.
'I will be back,' Pavel said.
Later Pavel did go back, but I was already at my seat in the bar again so I don't know if he read about it. We all settled in and watched a second James Bond film, The Living Daylights, with Timonthy Dalton. Somebody passed me a joint, and more beers were ordered. Then suddenly it was nearly 11 and I was tired. A Czech guy, whose face was familiar, was at the next table. He was pony-tailed, with a chiseled face and withdrawn manner. I only met him because the people at the next table passed me a joint and on principle I had passed it on to him.
We got entangled in some obscure remote discussion, and I found myself being confronted by the stranger on the question of existence, or God, or eomething grandiose. And I said something, in gestures, like, I don't think, I know.
'So you believe?' he said.
I said yes. That day I'd been re-reading some Maugham and mentioned Brahma and Siva and Visnu (hope I got those remotely right), the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer, the eternal distractions from the Self. I don't want to be one with the absolute, said Larry, I will risk any privation, hardship or sorrow, to go on to the next life, to keep on living. And I suddenly agreed.
'So you believe?' my bar acquaintence repeated.
'I don't believe, I know,' I said, thumping my chest for effect.
To my surprise, he relented. You see, Czechs, because of Communism, are by vast majority atheistic, and I was expecting that the guy was just baiting me (you get that sometimes). I was waiting for him to laugh and proclaim to everyone in the bar what a typical American idiot he was sitting next to.
But he didn't do that. He sort of bent his head down, relented.
'Ah, you are a real man,' he said. And he repeated it.
I was surprised and flattered, and of course a bit drunk. I think he asked how long I'd been here. Three years, I said at any rate. I told him of my upcoming trip to Paris.
'Paris?' he asked. 'I think you shoudl be here.'
'I am here,' I returned. 'I've been here three years.'
'Three years.'
We talked of some other things but I've forgotten. Suddenly he turned and proclaimed:
'You have three days.'
'What?'
'You have three days.'
'Three days?'
I paid my bill and left.
What does all this have to do with the murder of Bhutto? I have no fucking idea. But there is something happening, a seismic trembling or manuever, a flutter of wings, an unexpected sigh from a beautiful girl. Will it get worse? A bude hur, as Czechs would ask? Don't ask me. But at the moment, I have a feeling things are bad. Bhutto -- shot in the neck and chest, and then a bomb exploded. Somebody really wants to stop what she has to say evidently. Evidently somebody wanted her dead really bad. Why?
Maybe she was saying something worth hearing.

Posted by James Tressler at 02:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

A big headline on this side of the Atlantic this week, and probably yet another one few Americans know or care about: the Czech Republic and Slovakia have joined the Schengen Zone. Most of Western Europe already has signed on. But what it means is that starting now, Czechs and Slovaks can travel throughout Europe -- at least through the 27 member states -- without passports.
Imagine if everytime you drove up the 101 into Oregon you had to stop and show your passport to border patrols. That's what it's been like here until now. I remember last spring taking the train to Dresden, Germany, which is only a couple hours by train from Prague. We had our passports checked by German police who came through the cars when the train crossed the border, then Czech police on the way back.
I'm still learning all the details of the new law, but I think Czechs and Slovaks will still carry their national ID cards. As far as for non-EU citizens living and traveling here, I'm not sure what it means yet. I'm flying to Paris next week, but it won't matter then, because for the time being we still have to have passports when flying.
Of course, the Schengen agreement is not without controversy. Critics fear it will unleash waves of unwanted immigrants from the Ukraine, Romania and other points East, and will make the flow of drugs -- the Czech Republic is already one of Europe's leading drug-trafficking capitals -- easier as well as the flow of travelers. Law enforcement officials, perhaps predictably, say that in fact they'll be cracking down harder than ever.
Anyway, for those of you who may give a shit about what goes on beyond US borders, the expansion of the Schengen Zone is yet another milestone passed -- along with the signing of the new EU treaty at Lisbon two weeks ago -- that the so-called New Europe, a rapidly growing and changing entity that may already equal or even surpass America in terms of population and economic clout -- is fast becoming a reality.
I realize I like to spend more of my time enjoying the less political aspects -- by that I mean, Old Europe -- the cafes and pubs, walks with friends, traveling -- but I'll try from time to time to keep this page updated with bits of news I think should be of interest to folks back home.
As my student Frantisek used to tell me, 'It's a whole new world.' Indeed. A whole new world.

Posted by James Tressler at 02:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

'Alena -- you remember Alena?' Liam asked. We were at Pavel's.
'Of course,' I said.
'I was at Sport Bar today -- and she asked about you.'
'Really?'
Alena was the beautiful young Czech girl who was tending bar that night Floyd Mayweather fought Ricky Hatton. We'd talked about the fight afterward, and her face was lit up with a strange luminescence. I asked her if she liked the fight, and she'd said, 'I don't know. I'm not used to this, two people just beating each other, with no thought of the future. I am a sensitive person. I am not this way.'
That was at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning in Prague, and after the fight I'd gone over to Liam's place and we caught the coverage on BBC and ESPN. Now it was two days before Christmas, and I was adrift and lonely in Prague, so I thought I'd go and see her again.
My Australian friend Gordon, who is starting up a business here, was decidedly unimpressed when he read my account. 'It was just one night,' he said. 'I don't know if I'd go revealing all this information.'
'Yeah, but it was a great night,' 'I said, with characteristic melodrama.
And Alena for some reason made it stand out. It wasn't just a great fight, but Alena also -- her passivistic nature stood out in bold relief against the violence.
Well, now it was two weeks later. With Christmas, the schools closed, and by mutual agreement with my students, I had a trip to Paris to look forward to and in the meantime, a lot of time on my hands. Two days to Christmas (Czechs celebrate it on the 24th), I was feeling what is known here as 'expats depression.' Far from home, no reliable drinking friends to be found, outside cold and hostile to peaceful walks, low on cash, full of the seasonal melancholy that's impossible to shake except by sleeping or drinking or being busy. So I decided to go and see Alena again.

I got downstairs, down the winding steps into the stone room that feels like an old wine cellar. Her face lit up with recognition when I arrived.
'Cau!'
'Cau!'
'Nice to see you again,' I said. 'It was really early last time I saw you.'
'Yes, it was a nice night. Beer?'
'Yes.'
Unfortunately, there was no great event to buoy the evening. The bar was almost empty, great handfuls of reliables at home for Christmas. The TV could boast no more than a college football game, Southern Miss versus Somebody. I tried watching it for awhile but it was impossibly dull. I left Alena alone while she tended to the handful of customers, mostly British. After a while she brought a second beer.
'What are you doing for Christmas?' I asked.
'Christmas?'
'Yes, Christmas.'
'I don't know yet. I will probably be alone.'
'Yes, me too.'
'But I like to be alone.'
'Yes?'
'Yes, it is a good time, you can really focus on everything. Right now things are very complicated for me, I like to be alone.'
'I think you're right,' I said. 'For me, it is the same.'
I tell her about Paris. 'Well, if it were me, I would look forward to that.'
She came back a little later, bringing a fresh pint when I finished.
I texted Liam, but nothing doing. 'I'm off the booze again. Merry Christmas,' he replied.
Gordon's brother was in town. Earlier I'd met them at Namesti Miru, or Peace Square, by the big church. A Christmas tree was lit, and the wooden booths were frothing with people in line for the sausages and bread and hot wine. Gordon finally introduced me to his girlfriend, Kristina, along with his brother's companion whose name I didn't catch.
'Come along with us if you want,' Gordon said. But I'd declined, not wanting to be a fifth wheel.
'Well, maybe see you later.'
'Yeah, we'll call you if we're going somewhere, but it'll probably be in the center.'
I watched Alena for awhile, but she was busy, so I went back to the TV. There had been more to the conversation, but it's hard to piece together.
'Do you believe in God?' she'd asked.
'Yes.'
'So, you do. Me too.'
'But I'm not a religious person,' I said. 'I don't like these Christians, Muslims, Buddhists --'
'Me, too,' she said.
I muttered something about a 'cosmic intelligence.'
'Yes,' Alena said. 'Something higher.'
On the second TV a college basketball game was playing, UCLA versus Michigan. Both teams looked lousy. At the end of the first half the score was something like 24-21. Both sides were shooting enough bricks to rebuild the World Trade Center two times over. God, what's happened to basketball? I guess Jordan spoiled it for everyone. Watch the Michigan player as he spins, turns and fades, fires from like 25 feet, misses not only the basket, but doesn't even come within remote reach of the backboard. Jordan could do it and get away with it, fire a shot like that. Now they all try and they just make bad plays, and go back and forth up the court shooting ambitious, but crazy blanks.
I checked my mobile a few times to see if Gordon had texted. Nothing.
The second half of the basketball game started, but it wasn't any better than the first. How many was it? Five beers. Remember Paris.
The phone rings. It's Hana from the flat. I go to the toilet to get away from the noise.
'My mother is at the flat,' Hana says.
'OK?'
'I'm just calling because if you get to the flat and see her --'
'Right. OK.'
'Jiste pivo?' Alena asks, making the rounds.
I order a pizza to go along with the beer, and watch the game. I try not to bother Alena, who between refills sits on her stool behind the bar and relaxes, occasionally disappearing upstairs. What am I doing here? Think back to the Sport Bar in Arcata, New Year's Eve 1995. You felt alone then too, and what was the girl -- Alex? -- she felt sorry for you and kissed you when the banners were waved at midnight. Looking back, that had been a turning point. These places are not for you ...
'I think maybe I shouldn't be here,' I found myself saying aloud, when Alena came by again.
'What?' She leaned closer. 'I'm sorry. I don't understand. My English --'
'No, it's alright,' I said. 'I was just thinking, maybe I shouldn't be here.'
Alena stood back.
'I don't understand. You are here. There is nothing wrong with that. I don't like these terms -- right and wrong -- but if you want to be here, you can be here.'
'What do you do in your free time?'
'I don't really have. I work two jobs and the rest of the time I am alone.'
'What's your other job?'
'It is like this one.'
'But why are you doing it?'
'What?'
'Why are you doing it, there must be some reason.'
'Oh, there is. I just don't want to say.'
'You're the reason I came here tonight,' I found myself saying. 'I came here only to see you.'
Alena smiled.
'I don't know what to say to that.'
Later she said, 'I really hate alcohol. It's because I see what it can do to people.'
'Yes. It's because in your job you only see people who are drunk.'
'Yes. And people, when they talk to me, they are only thinking of themselves. I don't mean that you are ... I'm sorry I am not good at these conversations. It is better to talk of general things.'
'Yes.'
'But I like to be alone.'
'I understand,' I said. 'I am a teacher. All day I am talking to people. It's nice to be alone.'
After the beer, I ordered a tea, which surprised her.
'Tea?'
'Yes.'
'Black?'
'Green. I have to walk home, I need energy.'
The tea was good and hot, and as it went down, I felt revitalized. The night before at Pavel's, when I left Pavel had insisted on us having a shot together, and he'd given me cucurietka, the Slovak brandy made from blueberries. That and everything else, I was still feeling it, so the tea was good.
I finished the tea, and got my jacket and scarf and went to pay. Alena had already rung up the bill. I gave her my bank card, and she disappeared upstairs. I waited, then decided to just go up, save her the trip back down.
We met on the stairs.
'OK, so here, you can sign.' Alena put the receipt on the stone railing.
'But I wanted to tip you.'
'It's too late.'
I signed, and reached in my pocket, found twenty crowns. 'Here.'
'Thank you.'
'I'd like to go out with you.'
'What? With me?'
'Yes, with you.'
'But I am working so much, 17 hours a day, and then I am alone.'
I felt sure, the way it was after the Mayweather-Hatton fight, when Alena's face was all lit up. I'd asked her if she liked the fight, and she said she didn't know, but it was there in her face. She had liked it. Her hand was there, so I took it, and then we both leaned forward. Alena offered her cheek, first one, then the other. I wanted to really kiss her, but she moved away.
'Life is short,' I said.
'Yes, I know.'
'You don't remember my name, do you?'
'Yes, of course. James.'
'See you then on Wednesday maybe.'
'Yes,' she smiled. She was already going away back downstairs.
Outside it's cold and quiet. I felt good, awake. I walked a few blocks to the tram station at IP Pavlova. It was nice evening -- don't worry about it. It's nice to have contact with a human being. You're not just here to teach grammar. You're here to live and love and be loved. Don't worry about it. Maybe you will go back on Wednesday, maybe not. We'll see.
Even the tram was quiet when it came. Only a few people were on it, a far cry from the height of the tourist season in summer. A couple, wrapped up and warm, sat in seats opposite each other and made jokes. A young man with white-blonde hair and high cheekbones gazed out into the black night. Maybe he's an artist. He looks like one. I wonder how much he knows ... I want to share it with someone, but I can't. It's a low, lonely story and quite common and old, but I wasn't thinking that at the moment. The evening had lifted up and shone a different face, a warmer and brighter face, and the thought of going home -- to the flat, I mean -- was less remote and terminal. To sleep, to be warm, to dream and maybe be loved, if it was possible. No we're not that busy, are we? But you never said, 'Hesky Vanoce.' Merry Christmas. That would have been the obvious thing, the expected, the decent thing. Maybe you're not decent. OK. Stop. Remember Paris. Remember the lunch yesterday with the girls, and how Marketa when you hugged her said, 'I'm sorry you don't have better students,' and how Jirina said Rudla would try to meet with us in the New Year, and Jitka teased you and said, 'Next time -- something different,' because everytime you order the burrito. There's plenty of reason for that burn of conceit, literary or otherwise, or 'cosmic consciousness,' or half-remembered, fully offered kisses with semi-strangers, or beer, or whatever it is that keeps you going. The promise of another year -- this one we won't lose, this one we'll make use of, a year that will begin on the high note of a lifelong dream, or at least the crowning of a persistent illusion. Remember you asked yourself, 'What is you expect when you go there?' What have you got left to give? Are there any secrets or surprises left? Of course! Remember this year was the year, the one you'd turn it around. Maybe you're starting to finally. Hemingway would say you're cheating -- because you didn't really think that, or are going back and making it all sound more neat and handsome, not remembering what really happened, how you really felt, and what really happened to produce the emotion, the change. But there's nothing to be done about that now. The change is there if you want it. And even if you don't the change is still there. There's nothing you can do about it. So maybe you'll go back on Wednesday, or maybe not. Just see how you feel and see what happens. Remember Paris. But also remember what Van Gogh said. Don't sacrifice the tender smile, the look in her eyes, just to prove some abstract idea. Beware of becoming a sectarian. There is something after Paris also, maybe.
And after all, it is still Christmas. Think about others, not just yourself. Think about Tonnie, and her friends stranded in China. You said you'd try to help them when they arrive in Prague. 'I know it's Christmas,' Tonnie's email said yesterday. 'So we'll call you on the 26th.' That would be Wednesday. So you may be busy.

When I got back to the flat, Hana's mother was there. We exchanged a few pleasantries in Czech, and then she disappeared into Hana's bedroom. A little while later Hana came home. On impulse, I remembered the bag of cosmetics and toiletries the girls had given me as a present. I went and found a bottle of perfume, still in its box. 'Merry Christmas,' I said, handing the box to Hana. She was surprised, but then she took out the perfume, tested it on her wrist. 'It's nice. Thank you.'
'Oh, thank the girls at Oriflame.'
'Of course. Want to share a bottle of wine. It's a cabernet.'
It was a good cabernet. All cabernet is good. We ended up staying up and talking til well past midnight. Like many flatmates in the city, Hana and I were flatmates of convenience. We seldom see each other, busy schedules. So it was nice to talk. We finished the bottle of wine.
'Are you going home for Christmas?' I asked.
'Yes, in the morning. My mother is here and we will go together tomorrow.' She looked at her watch. 'And we must be up at 630.'
'That's early.'
'And you? You have somewhere to go for Christmas?'
'We'll see.'
'You should have somewhere.'
'I know. We'll see.'
I told Hana about Tonnie and her friends in China. We went to the online hospitality club and viewed her profile.
'She looks sympathetic,' Hana said.
'Yes,' I said. 'So you think it will be OK? I told her a couple days. She and her friends can just crash on the floor in my room.'
'Sure, no problem. As long as you tell me, and it's only a few days.'
'Of course.'
Eventually we both stretched and got up.
'So, good night.'
'Good night,' Hana said. 'This was nice. Our own little Christmas party.'
'Yes. Good night.'
'Good night.'

Posted by James Tressler at 12:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I joined an online hospitality club a while back, on the advice of my Czech friend Karel. He was hosting a group of students from Budapest. We all went out on the town in Prague, and spent a pleasant evening talking and partaking of sirs Pilsner, Gambrinus, et al. The students told us we were welcome to stay with them in Budapest anytime. Encouraged by this contact, I signed up.
My first contact came from a guy in Romania, who offered to share 'mouth candy kisses' if he could stay at my place while he was in Prague. Notwithstanding the rather worrying concept of 'mouth candy kisses,' the idea was nixed by Hana, my flatmate. Romanians aren't received too well over here. She was probably afraid he'd move his whole family in.
But there have been benefits too. For my stay in Paris next month, a French couple has offered to put me up for a few days, and even show me around.
Now consider this curious message I got this morning, from Tonnie, a So Cal girl currently working in China.

Hello,
Karel from Roztoky recommended you to me, because he already has people
staying at his house. I know 4 people is a lot, so whatever you can do
will help. We are currently in China, teaching English, but our boss
is ridiculous. We are all leaving Sunday night and flying to Prague.
Since our boss is holding money from us, we dont have any money; only to
get to Prague. I know it's short notice, but we can stay in a hostel for
a couple of nights. One of them said we can stay for free. and help us
look for a job. If you know of any jobs or can help with sleeping
arrangements, that would be awesome. Thanks for your time.
Tonnie

I've been considering moving to China ... hmm, well. I emailed Tonnie today and told her to contact me when she and her entourage get to Prague and I'll see what I can do. She'll have to pass the Hana test, but I think it will be OK for a couple nights. Our flat has plenty of floor space, and a couch in the kitchen. Plus, it's winter and I don't like the idea of anyone, especially a countryman, being out in the cold. And I figure it's karma -- I've got to answer for the free bed in Paris.
What do you think of the story in China, about her boss not paying? I've talked to other teachers who've worked in China, most had good experiences. I guess it depends on the company. Earlier this year in Japan one of its biggest language schools shut its doors abruptly. All the foreign teachers couldn't get paid, and were basically left in a foreign country stranded. I can count my blessings. Would never happen in America, you say? Well, I guess we'd have to ask one of the Mexican migrant workers, or the Asians working in the kitchens.
Anyway, I just thought I'd share the post.

Posted by James Tressler at 11:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

From here on on out this entry will be known as Dear Humboldt, Dear Prague. It sounds sentimental but I don't give a shit. I noticed yesterday you've got some storms coming up in Humboldt. You should feel it here -- I'm sitting at the computer at my flat shivering. Did you read the news in Oklahoma? Ten days without power -- without heat! And in this winter! There's a strong Alaskan current , I guess. Here, we passed a lovely autumn, only had one real snow yet. But the other morning, Sunday, or maybe Monday, got up to teach and man, it was cold! Je zima jeko vruksu. Cold like in Russia, that's the Czech saying. My students would laugh at me -- are laughing, I mean. 'James, this is cold to you?' 'Yes,' I say. 'Well, then, put on some more clothing, for Christ's sake!' These foreigners, jeez.
Anyway, it's been a good past few days. Had an interview this morning with a pharmacuetical company, needs a teacher for its employees that need English. Told him I'm pretty well-employed at the moment (knock, knock) and we'll see after the new year. The company guy though, Jan, seemed like a pretty good guy. Lived up in Oregon for a while. We talked about Crater Lake, salmon, Eugene, the North Coast. Said I might be able to pick up a few classes. His firm requires a zivnostensky but I told him I've got a visa. Said he'd check it with the legal department. Either way, I'm not worried. Going to Paris just after New Year's. Told him, after Paris. Not making any decisions til then.
Cau, Night --
James

Posted by James Tressler at 12:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

‘So when you meet her, just remember -‘ Gordon looked up from the joint he was rolling.
‘What?’
‘Just remember - we’ve known each other for three years and this place doesn’t exist.’
Gordon made a gesture toward the dark, smoky interior of the bar. The place was what we call Pavel's, a kinokavarne in Versovice. It has another name, but we just call it Pavel's. The owner's name is Pavel.
That evening Pavel had opened the big window over the bar to clear the smoke, which hung in a heavy mist, and now cold November air was making its way in.

‘OK,’ I said, in review. ‘We’ve known each other three years and this place doesn’t exist.’
‘Right,’ Gordon said. He went back to rolling the joint, taking a cigarette from my pack, he broke off the end to mix in tobacco.
‘This place doesn’t exist?’ I asked.
‘Hell, no!’ Gordon said, with a start. ‘If Kristina caught me in here -‘ his Australian baritone drawled the ‘here’ out.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I guess we all need our secrets.’
‘Absolutely.’
Pavel came by. He took our empty pint glasses and returned with fresh drafts. On the TV a Coen brothers film was playing, O Brother Where Art Thou. It was the third night in a row Pavel had shown the film. I watched the film until Gordon passed the joint.
‘I thought I’d find you two here!’
We looked up. John, a short, stocky Englishman had just come in. ‘Do you mind?’ He sat down.
‘What’s this I hear about this place doesn’t exist?’
‘I was just telling our man when he meets my girlfriend that we’ve known each other three years and this place doesn’t exist.’
‘Right, why three years though?’
‘Otherwise she’ll wonder where I met him.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘I’m meeting my partners tomorrow,’ Gordon went on. ‘They’ve already put up half a million, and maybe more soon. Kristina would be furious if she saw I was here smoking. Oh, another thing, Jack -‘ he looked at me. ‘And we don’t smoke.’
‘So when will I meet her?’
‘Oh, you’ll meet her.’
‘It’s a lot to remember.’
‘I’ll remind you when the time comes.’
‘So you’re all set with the business?’ I asked a little later. We were still sitting and smoking.
‘Yeah, now we’re registering the company and Tomas is working on the website. Hope to have it up before Christmas, for the rush.’
‘Lots of tourists in Prague then.’
‘Yeah, exactly. So,’ Gordon handed me the joint, but it was dust. ‘This will probably be my last night for a while. Gotta keep my head clear, know what I mean?’
‘Have you ever done jury duty?’ John interrupted, apropos of seemingly nothing.
Gordon and I shook our heads.
‘In England,’ John continued, leaning forward. ‘There was a girl - eighteen, nineteen - she had a boyfriend who was in prison serving time for armed robbery. When they searched her on the way in for a visit they found an eighth of weed on her. They suspected her of trying to smuggle it in for her boyfriend and so they arrested her.’
‘Did you convict her?’ I asked.
‘Well, the question we had to decide,’ he went on, ignoring the interruption. ‘Or what we felt we had to decide … You see, she claimed it was hers, for her personal use and she just forgot it was in her pocket. So we had to decide was she telling the truth, that she just forgot, or was she lying. We asked the court to provide us with a sample of the evidence -‘
‘Right.’ Gordon and I exchanged grins.
‘I see where this is going,’ Gordon said. ‘Let me guess, you shut the doors, rolled a fatty. Case dismissed. Lack of evidence.’
‘Not quite,’ John said, swallowing his own smile. ‘What we did was, we got the sample, passed it around … and it was very good stuff. The bud thick as your thumb, green and sticky. We asked ourselves - if you had weed of this quality hanging about, could you possibly forget about it?’
‘No,’ Gordon said.
‘Right,’ John said. ‘That’s what we decided. There was just no way she could have forgotten about it.’
‘So you convicted her?’ I asked.
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘What was the vote?’
‘Oh, unanimous.’
Gordon and I nodded.
‘Poor girl though,’ I said. ‘What was the sentence?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember now.’
‘In a way it’s too bad,’ I said. ‘I guess it’s pretty harmless, to bring some pot to your boyfriend in jail.’
‘Right,’ John said. ‘But we weren’t there to decide that. And the girl got caught after all.’
‘Go for a shot of rum?’ Gordon asked.
Gordon went to the bar, and came back with three little glasses of the amber-colored Czech rum. We drank them quickly. Then John produced his own small bag, put a small bud on the table, took the broken cigarette and broke off another piece to add to the pile.
‘By the way Jack,’ John looked over at me. ‘Gordon and I have been talking. We want to know the reason that you insist on never buying any weed yourself.’
‘Like I told Gordon, I never ask for it.’
‘Right, but still -‘
‘Look, if you need a beer, I’ll buy you one. If you need money, I’ll lend you some. I just don’t pay for pot.’
‘But isn’t that rather strange, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Maybe. But also, this is the only place I ever smoke it. People just pass it around. If you pass it to me I’ll smoke it. But I don’t ask for it.’
‘It’s fine with me,’ Gordon said mildly. ‘I brought it up that one time, that’s all. I respect what you’re saying.’
‘Yes, but still it’s nice,’ John continued. ‘I mean, for form’s sake, you know, to pick one up now and again. Otherwise -‘
‘Otherwise I’m a sponger.’
‘Well,’ he made a wry face. ‘I wouldn’t use those particular words, but yes, I suppose in a way.’
‘So how much is a bag?’
‘250 crowns.’
‘If it makes you happy, I’ll buy one,’ I said. ‘After all, for form’s sake.’
‘I would appreciate it.’ John went back to rolling the joint.
‘Not today though.’
‘Not today?’
‘I’m already fucked up,’ I said. ‘I’d probably buy it, then forget I had, if you know what I mean.’
‘Touche.’
‘I agree with Jack,’ Gordon said. ‘Don’t buy it. Besides we never smoke any of your stuff anyway.’
‘What? Never smoke any of my stuff?’
‘No.’
‘That’s rubbish!’
‘Hey, I’m only kidding man.’ Gordon smiled. Presently he checked his mobile, then rose and put on his coat.
‘What? You’re not leaving, are you?’ John protested. He’d just finished rolling the joint and was reaching over to use my lighter.
‘Sorry,’ Gordon said. ‘But I’ve got to get home. Kristina will be getting off work by now. If she walks by and looks in here -‘
‘This place doesn’t exist,’ I said.
‘Right. This place doesn’t exist.’
‘Well, at least stay and smoke this with us,’ John insisted.
‘No, I gotta get going. See you guys maybe in a few days.’
‘Give Kristina my regards,’ I said.

Posted by James Tressler at 08:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

'All politics are local.' That's what former Hoopa Valley Tribe Chairman Duane Sherman told me once, after he lost the leadership position to Clifford Lyle Marshall.
Halfway around the world and half a decade later, that admonition still rings true. And you thought it was only Americans who don't give a damn about politics. This past week European Union leaders in Lisbon signed what the BBC called a 'landmark treaty.' EU leaders themselves have called the treaty, which is supposed to be a replacement for last year's failed EU draft constitution, the dawn of 'a new Europe.'

Well, ... I ran the story by a group of students at an international shipping firm this week.
Response? They didn't know anything about it.
'Was it reported much in the Czech media?' I asked.
Heads shake. Eyes nervously check watches. Nope, we've still got another fifty minutes of class.
'I think the media here is only interested in tabloid news,' says Jana, who is in her early twenties.
Hard to argue with that. Most Czechs probably know the name of Prime Minister Mirek Topolanek's mistress better than they know the name of the current European Commission president (Jose Manuel Barroso, of Spain, the presidency rotates every six months).
Essentially, the treaty creates for the 27-nation bloc a long-term president and streamlines its decision-making process. It also changes the way the bloc is run, with member states surrendering more powers to centralized rule in Brussels after years of resisting encroachment on their sovereign powers. The intention is to enable a swifter response to global issues.
The EU itself is a sticky subject with incumbent Czech President Vaclav Klaus, member of the conservative Civic Democrat Party (ODS) and notedly outspoken 'euro-skeptic.' Last year he made a tour of the United States, making speeches about how the union infringes upon personal and economic freedom. In September Klaus also made a speech at the U.N. in which he reiterated his belief that man-made global warming, as Al Gore sees it, is a 'myth' that also aims to curb freedom (I have a feeling Klaus and Roger Rodoni would get along well).
Czechs, who joined the EU in 2004, have historic reasons for being wary about trusting foreign sovereigns. The country spent the past few hundred years under outside rule(first the Austria-Hungary Empire until the first World War; then the Nazis from 1938-1945, and the Communists until the 1989 revolution).
However, recent developments in Russia have some conceding it might be time to at least consider the idea of a stronger, united Europe. With Vladamir Putin and his United Russia Party scoring big victories in the recent elections, combined with the country's vast energy resources, Russia is definitely back on the big stage. Russia also is the major energy supplier to Europe. Some fear that the newly empowered Russia will use its energy as a weapon to force its agenda, and is relying on Europe to remain split, since it's easier to deal with 27 independent states than a single, united force.
For other Czechs, however, it's an uncomfortable subject -- difficult to get your arms around, and the long-term ramifications too uncertain to ponder.
'I don't like talking about Russia,' says Helena, who also works at the shipping company. 'Every time I see Putin in the news I --' she shudders.
'James, Russia is Russia,' says her colleague Ondrej. 'They will always do what they want.'
'But see how this all ties in to the EU treaty?' I said, to keep it going. 'With Czechs, you are only 10 million people. With Europe, it's several hundred million. A much stronger negotiating position.'
'Maybe.'
All 27 states must ratify the treaty. Ireland is set to vote on it soon. According to news reports, the Irish are either undecided or indifferent. Same with Czechs, or so my students tell me.
Why? A big part of it is distrust -- the United States of Europe, if you will, doesn't go down easy, especially with those down on Bush and the War, on McWorld, the Empire, etc. But a bigger part I would say is, well, lack of awareness. My guess is five out of every 10 Czechs (and Europeans in general) are busy, like Americans, with work, holidays, relationships. They don't know, and could care less, about the 'big deals' in Lisbon, or Brussels.
Say it again, Duane. Or I'll say it for you. All politics are local.
The troubling, or enlightening thing though, is that the world is getting more and more local every day.

Posted by James Tressler at 04:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The following story is a work of fiction, but it was based on a real person I encountered here in Prague shortly after my arrival three years ago. I wanted to write about him because he struck me as a fascinating person -- maybe I read too much into him, maybe not. He called himself Paquito Montana. That isn't his real name, but I won't give his real name here because he doesn't know I wrote the story. It's a bit long, but I hope readers who can make it through will find, as I did, something of what Cervantes called 'enchantment.' As the great Czech-German writer Kafka once observed, 'Don Quixote's problem isn't his madness; his problem is Sancho Panza.' Something about this quote struck me, for it said something about the man called Paquito Montana. --JT

The Man Called Paquito Montana


These relics I preserve with care,
My comfort in disastrous fate;
For, steel’d and whetted by despair,
My love, and new force acquires from hate.
Unhappy those! who darkling, sail
Where stars and ports and pilots fail.
-- ‘Don Quixote’

“That’s beautiful, man! You want to make a movie?’
The man called Paquito Montana just appeared out of nowhere with this fabulous pronouncement. It was an afternoon in June, and I’d just set down my coin cup and started playing my guitar in an archway near the Tyn Church.
It’s an action movie, but with spirituality, too,’ he continued, shaking hands with a certain flourish. ‘ I am the director, writer and star. Systema! Situation interesanche! Come, my friend. We get and drink and talk business.’
I took him in at a glance, and was taken aback. He stood just over six feet, but seemed taller, his chest and shoulders thrown backward and up in a cavalier pose.. His face was dark, haggard and remotely handsome, a broad perpetual grin covered by a scraggly goatee and shiny black hair fell over his shoulders and over the great long black coat he wore. The coat resembled an old-fashioned military jacket, perhaps a French officer’s coat, with shining gold buttons, one of which was missing. He wore knee-length black boots, the tips a shining gold metal. Most astounding of all was the rapier, complete with a curved, ornamented scabbard, that hung at his waist.The overall effect was startling - so incongruous was he with the mass of tourists who streamed by in Prague’s Old Town.
He called me ‘El Gabacho.’
‘What does it mean?’ I asked him once. He tried to explain something about a long black coat like gaberdine but we were at a loss for a perfect translation. In the end he just patted me on the shoulder and said reassuringly. ‘It just means, you know, American, no offense homey.’
I followed him to Valentynos, where he’d already run up a sizeable tab that afternoon. That’s how I met Gino and Dana. There were other people - a young Czech couple, Milos and Zuzanna sitting out on the patio under tables with green umbrellas. Milos spoke very little English, and had a cross-eye that was disconcerting because you could never tell if he was looking at you or not. Zuzanna was dressed all in black, with a pierced tongue and two-toned spiky hair. She spoke good English and was quite pleasant. Paquito Montana, his hands in a flouirsh, introduced us.
‘This man is a great artist,’ he said, meaning me. ‘You might have heard his recordings. He is quite famous in America .’
Homey, you want a beer?’ I said yes, and the rapier swinging at his side Paquito Montana disappeared into the café.
‘Can you play Nirvana?’ Milos asked.
I played ‘Come as you are,’ the only Nirvana tune I could play. It went over well, Milos quietly sung along. There was a burst of polite applause, from some middle-aged English tourists at the next table and from Paquito Montana and a beefy Italian man in white short sleeves who were coming outside.
‘I told you!’ Paquito Montana exclaimed, his dark eyes shining. ‘What did I say? Muy famoso! Situacion interesanche!’ he proclaimed full of an inquisitive bravado.
‘My friend! My friend!’ This was the beefy Italian man who introduced himself warmly as Gino. He was the owner. Gino also proclaimed me a great artist, and insisted my beer was on the house. ‘Anything you want,’ he added. ‘But one thing - ‘Let it Be.’ You know this song. ‘Let it Be?’ Please, my artist friend, ‘Let it Be - for me. Please.’
I felt embarrassed, but also glorious in a way. It was hard to imagine that just a few minutes before I’d been busking under the archway not fifty meters away.
I think by then Paquito Montana had already shown me a few of the pictures, as he did again later that afternoon with the English tourists, as well as Zuzanna and Milos, who were very curious and asked lots of questions. Gino was proud of the pictures. He even presented them to other customers who came in, enthusiastically waved Paquito Montana over to the tables and perhaps sit for a drink.
Occasionally Paquito Montana disappeared out into the street. Once it was with Milos and Zuzanna on a pot errand. They came back after a half hour and a joint was rolled, lit and passed. More beers were brought. I gathered from Gino not to worry about my drinks. The tables were littered with empty pint glasses by then and near dusk dinner was served. It was a wonderful fettucini with fresh spicy vegetables and a chocolate mousse pudding for dessert brought out by Gino and a pretty, silent young woman who I soon learned was his wife.
‘This is my mother,’ Gino said, introducing me to Dana. ‘My mama she is a great cook!’
It was funny, hearing Gino introduce Dana as his mama, but it fit strangely enough. I called her Dana. They insisted I take a break and everyone sat down to dinner, this assemblage of Paquito Montana , Milos , Zuzanna and Gino and Dana. Gino put up a closed sign outside so we could eat in peace. He came back to the table brandishing a cane that for a handle made out of ivory. Gino waved the cane, strutted proudly. ‘I am a man!’ he cried, his thick Italian voice booming. ‘Homey, how about it?’ Paquito Montana looked at me. He’d hardly touched his food. He was too busy talking.
‘It’s great,’ I said.
‘The best, homey! Me and you. Partners, bro. Systema! Systema! We make the movie. I am the star, you the composer.’ He turned to the table. ‘We’re going to have it all in this movie. Action. Drama. Suspence. Emocion. Comprende?’
‘Bene,’ Gino said, cupping his hand in a gesture of praise.
They spoke a strange language, Gino and Paquito Montana . It wasn’t quite Italian and not quite Spanish, but something unique to them, born of their rapport.
‘I too am a man,’ Gino said.
‘Hermano,’ Paquito Montana said.
‘I am a man!’ Gino said, adding an ornament I didn’t quite catch.. ‘Like Al Pacino. You are like Antonio Banderas, and I am Al Pacino.’
Paquito Montana suddenly leaped back from the table, brandishing the rapier. His knee-high black boots made a big thud as he leaped again, into an action pose, the gold buckles on the sides of the boots shining.
Gino also leaped from the table. He turned the cane upside down and waved the big white cane threateningly. With shouts and curses the two men clashed swords, scattering across the small courtyard patio. Gino made a bold thrust, which was blocked magnificently by the man called Paquito Montana , who in turn spun, rolled sideways and turned a somersault.
‘Bravo!’ Gino said.
We all clapped enthusiastically. It was impressive, the agility and grace and strength, all of it coming so suddenly.
The two men embraced, shook hands and returned to the table. I was happy now, not just because of the food and beer, but because I felt some kind of gratitude for the way the day had turned out. Later they broke into loud disputes again, and Paquito Montana disappeared again. When he returned, with his usual flourish presented Gino with a crisp bill. I couldn't see how much it was, but judging by the broad grins they exchanged it must have been enough. They patted each other warmly and sat again.
As it grew dark, cigars were brought out and a nice red wine. Dana didn’t talk much; but I could tell she liked and approved of the evening . The talk went round, with Paquito Montana keeping it going most of the time. He took out the photos again, discussing fine points of different situations in the pictures. ‘Here we were filming in Caracas ,’ he explained. ‘This one? Oh, we were in Gibraltar . Three years ago?’ ‘You see that girl? Que bonita, eh? She is a model from Mexico . She comes from my village, we’ve been in love for twenty years.’
‘Are you getting married?’ Dana asked, one of the few questions I remember her asking.
‘I was in Miami this winter (I have a winter house there,' Paquito Montana went on, not hearing the question. '- Elton John - you know, he is my neighbor. On the other side? David and Victoria Beckham.’--
‘I thought they lived in England ,’ Zuzanna said.
‘Systema. They do - but they like to spend a few weeks in Miami . But listen, I was there last week and Elton, he says to me - interesanche - ‘My friend, you are too great for love!’
I think he’d forgotten me by then, because when Paquito scanned the room and saw me, he burst into a grin.
‘What do you say, homie? How about some music?’
Everyone turned to me nodding.
‘My friend, my friend,’ Gino said. ‘Let it Be - for me.’
‘Whatever you want,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Systema.’
‘Let it be,’ Gino said, looking around. ‘But at the right moment. Everything at the right moment.’
Sometime after midnight (I think I passed out for a while), I left, feeling disoriented. The café was closing. Paquito Montana wasn’t there. Gino and Dana shook hands with me warmly, and told me to come back. Outside near the square I ran into Paquito Montana .
‘Where you going, homey?’
‘Home.’ I smiled.
‘Well, come here tomorrow. We talk more business.’
‘Not tomorrow. I have to look for work.’
‘Saturday morning then. You’re free, yes?
A little hesitantly, I agreed to meet him at the Jan Hus statue.

That Saturday Paquito Montana was already there when I arrived. It was very early and the square was virtually empty.
He was still wearing the same ragged glorious outfit from the first night, and was literally standing up on the statue of the 13th Century martyr, the rapier drawn. He rested his weight on it in a grandiose pose. ‘My lord!’ he called, by way of greeting, but then continued with his mediation. I smoked a cigarette and regarded the square. Presently, he rose and with an energetic leap, landed on the ground. I asked what he was doing up on the statue.
‘It’s like a tower, El Gabacho,’ he said. ‘You must have the perspective. Systema!’
‘I see. Where are we going?’
‘To scout locations. For the movie, homey.’
We set out, crossing the quiet square and down to the river. All the while Paquito Montana gave forth to his musings, murmuring ‘Situacion interesanche,’ now and again, or ‘this is no movie, I’m the real thing. Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie all rolled into one … you hear me, El Gabacho? Must remember El Gabacho.’
I couldn’t piece together the meaning of what he was saying. Instead I detected a certain rhythm, a pulse to his fancies, a meter. He had a distinct voice, characterized I’d say by a ringing, inquiring tone, as though every word were being addressed directly to the heavens. I was content to follow along - what else had I to do? I’d brought my guitar along in case there was a chance to busk.
We arrived at a restaurant near the Charles Bridge . Inside it was a dark, swanky tourist trap. Paquito led the way. He returned the rapier to his hip and walked in tall and full of purpose. He ran his fingers admiringly over the polished wood surfaces and encouraged me to do the same, then turned his head upward and inspected a chandelier, which was truly impressive. “We can film one of the assasination atttempts here,’ he said. ‘Paquito Montana arrives here for the meeting with the head of the Columbian cartel, but he is betrayed…’
‘By who?’ I asked.
‘The Columbians, homey. Systema.’ He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Ah homey, action, suspence, drama, spirituality, emocion. The movie’s going to have it all. And Paquito Montana , like Tony Montana, he’s there to fight the people trying to take his money and power. You fuck with me, you fuck with the best!’
‘I thought he was done in by greed,’ I interposed. ‘You know, don’t get high off your own supply and all that.’
‘Listen to El Gabacho,’ Paquito Montana murmured. ‘Maybe on a certain level. But you see, El Gabacho, guys like Tony and Paquito Montana , they -‘ He struggled with his words as we walked. ‘To you, El Gabacho, maybe Tony is ‘done in’ as you say by greed. Systema. But -‘
Suddenly he broke off and veered into the dining area. It was almost empty. A beautiful young woman was sitting alone at a table. We sat down, or rather Paquito Montana did and I followed. The woman looked up and Paquito Montana leaned over and kissed her. ‘This is Lenka,’ he said, introducing us. Two plates of breakfast, scarcely touched, languished on the table.
‘Where did you go?’ Lenka asked.
‘I told you I would be back. I had to meet El Gabacho here for business.’
‘But you were gone nearly one hour.’
‘Sorry baby. Systema.’
They talked for awhile and Paquito Montana offered me the breakfast, which looked good - biscuits and gravy. While I picked at it the waiter came and I ordered coffee. The waiter brought it, made a scratch on the bill, and disappeared.
Lenka didn’t look too pleased - I can imagine we looked pretty devilish - but after a few minutes she relaxed under Paquito Montana ’s insistent soothing voice and endless supply of words.
‘She’s beautiful, eh homey?’ he said to me. ‘You like her? Only the best, homey.’
He produced the pictures again, from the album in his coat. You’ll have noticed by now his tendency to produce the photos often. By then I’d begun to notice too, and too look at them more carefully than I had before at Valentynos. Nearly all showed handsome incarnations of our strange friend. There was undoubtable starshine in some of the pictures, especially in the ones that looked like authentic movie sets. Privately I tried to reconcile the handsome person in the photos with its present incarnation. He later told me he was close to fifty, and the person in the photos was youthful and attractive. His features, though striking, were now puffy and haggard and a slight paunch poked out from between the layers of his long, black coat.
Presently he produced a photo I hadn’t seen before, a white yacht floating in an azure sea under a cloudless Carribbean sky. Upon closer inspection I noticed the photo was a carefully clipped magazine ad for Absolute vodka.
‘I had one just like it, homey,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Down in Mexico .’
‘I thought you lived in Miami .’
‘Yes but I also have a villa in Oaxaca .’
‘What happened to the boat?’
He laughed.
‘Had to pay the government. Systema.’
After a while Paquito Montana rose, planted a kiss on Lenka’s cheek, then with a stream of courtesies he was off. I started to follow but he stopped me. ‘Stay here with Lenka, homey. I be back. Thirty minutes. I told her you are a great famous American composer. Relax, homey. I will return.’
I went back in, feeling uncertain, and sat with Lenka. She was sending a text message. The waiter came and asked if I wanted anything. I ordered a small beer. The waiter said something to Lenka in Czech and they both laughed.
‘Sileni!’ the waiter waved in Paquito Montana ’s direction. ‘Crazy.’
‘He says he is crazy,’ Lenka said.
I laughed.
‘Everyone is crazy,’ Lenka said faintly.
We talked for a while. She was 23, originally from a village in Moravia , and was studying economics at university.
‘And you?’ she asked. ‘You are from America ?’
‘ California .’
‘ California ? And why you come to Czech Republic ?’
‘To see the world.’
She laughed.
‘That is what all Americans say. I never understand why they come to Czech Republic .’
‘You don’t like it.’
She shook her head.
‘I would like to live maybe in New Zealand - or California . And what are you doing in Czech Republic?’
‘Teaching.’
‘English?’
‘Yes.’
‘Another English teacher.’ Lenka laughed. And how long are you here?’
‘It’s my first year.’
‘And you want to stay?
‘I don’t know.’
‘And will you go back to America ?’
‘Someday. How do you know Paquito Montana ?’
She laughed again, and I saw she had nice even white teeth that set off her rich gold-toned skin.
‘I was just walking near Narodni Trida and he just started talking to me. Ah, you are so beautiful, he said, come have dinner with me.’
I laughed this time.
‘It was the same with me. He just started talking to me out of nowhere.’
We ended up waiting nearly another hour before our friend finally returned, his face glowing as though from some fresh triumph. With his usual flourish he whipped out a thousand-crown note and stuffed it into the waiter’s pocket. The bill had totalled only about 400 crowns.
I decided to get going. It was a good day for tourists to be out and I hoped to make some money busking near the castle. Paquito Montana protested.
‘Come El Gabacho - we go with Lenka. Talk more business.’ I looked at Lenka, then shook my head.
‘It’s OK, I have some things to do.’
‘Well, call me tomorrow. We will scout more locations’
‘How will I reach you?’
‘You can call Lenka.’
I got her number, and they waved and disappeared around the corner.

We passed many evenings at Valentynos. I gathered it was a home base for my strange new friend. Each night was the same, with variations. Paquito Montana blazed back and forth, disappeared for long intervals, came back and gave demonstrations with the rapier and even a pair of nunchucks, and whatever other customers there were were shown the pictures and sometimes he and Gino got in loud disputes about the bill.
Gino was always extremely polite to me for some reason. He would insist on ‘Let it Be - at the right moment,’ and at the right moment I complied. He was fond of displaying to us the wall inside the bar, which was decorated with currencies from all the countries he and Dana had traveled and lived in: Chinese yuan, Japanese yen, American dollars, British pounds, French francs, Canadian dollars, even Russian rubles and some Indonesian currencies I’d never seen before.
It was never really busy at Valentynos, maybe because it was tucked away in one of those narrow streets behind Tyn Church . It wasn’t the kind of place you noticed. One night a couple of teen-age Czech girls wandered in. They were both naked except for bra and panties, and both had various markings drawn on their bodies. They said it was all part of some joke they were playing. Another evening actors from a traveling theater company passed through, all of them dressed as hobos, their faces painted in white greasepaint, and Paquito Montana traded a small Bowie knife for a black cowboy hat, which he then wore the rest of the evening.
There are perhaps little pockets, cabinets of the world which you fall upon without expecting. I felt tucked away into one of these corners. True, I was broke most of the time. My busking adventures during the day were slim, and I spent most of the time evading police, who’d ask me to show a permit or move on, or else finding a spot where the homeless guys or other buskers hadn’t already claimed. I’d also answered a couple of ads on the expats websites from Czechs looking for English lessons, but hadn’t received any replies. It was dead of summer, not the best time to look for work. So in a way, I felt tied to this strange new adventure. It was the only thing I had going. There was the occasional email from a colleague or two back in the States, an anxious note from the parents, but on the whole I felt disembodied. The romantic adventure I’d set forth in search of appeared always to be just around the corner.

‘You were with Paquito today?’ Dana asked. It was a warm evening in June, about a week after my first meeting with Paquito Montana.
‘He’s staying here now,’ she said. She pointed to a spare room next to the garden which was usually rented out to tourists.
It was a splendid room. Gino had showed it to me that first evening. The interior, which they’d redone themselves, was a plush rose color with a king-size bed, pastel paintings on the walls and there was also a private kitchen and bath.
‘How long?’ I asked.
Dana shrugged. I admired her self-possession. Usually she stayed in the bar while Gino engaged the customers with his garrulous courtesy, and only came out when her husband wanted to show her off, or else to bring drinks or food. She seldom spoke, but like many quiet people she communicated something of herself, a shade or a tone of ambience, that could be pleasing or unsettling, depending on her mood. If she approved of you, she just let you be, but regarded you with the same level of attention as she might a picture hanging on the wall. Through snatches of conversation here and there, I learned she and Gino had met when she was only 16 and living as an au pair in Rome . Gino was nearly 40 then,and had just come back from America . Since there marriage ten years before they’d lived in dozens of countries, the proof of which hung on the wall in bar.
‘Who was Lenka?’ Dana asked.
‘Somebody. She's nice.'
Dana nodded and sipped her tea.
Then we heard the shouts and glorious curses that announced the arrival of our friend. He came into the garden with his usual ceremony. Gino came bustling out of the bar and for the next few minutes the two engaged in their intense mano a mano conversation. It seemed the only way they could communicate. ‘I am a man!’ Gino said. ‘No stress! Everything at the right moment!’ to which Paquito Montana replied, ‘Yes, hermano. Systema, systema. Situacione interesanche.’
After a few minutes of this heated discussion, Paquito Montana turned and left, but first insisted I wait until his return.
There were no other customers. Gino sat with me while Dana disappeared inside and presently came out with dinner, a pasta dish with cucumber salad, white wine and chocolate ice cream for dessert. It was dusk and we ate quietly in the fading light. Then Gino encouraged me to play, ‘something soft.’ ‘It’s good for my heart, my artist friend.’ I knew a traditional Italian song, ‘A Como Buen’ and just strummed it. For a while Gino hummed the melody and Dana took the plates inside. Then the two of them sat and stared into space until I stopped playing. Gino clapped. ‘Precioso,’ he said. ‘Ah, you are a nice young man, my artist friend.’ He insisted I have a beer and relax. ‘More later,’ he said, gesturing toward the guitar. ‘At the right moment. Everything at the right moment! Did I tell you when I was in America ?’ Gino said, as we sipped our drinks and it was getting dark. ‘Many years ago. I was a young man, like you. I wanted to make my fortune. So I went to California - Los Angeles !’
‘What did you do?’ I asked, but he waved the question away.
‘At the right moment, my friend … I was a young man, 20 years old. In California ! I had a motorcycle, big and beautiful, a Harley Davidson. And then one day I had a terrible accident. I was in hospital five weeks. You see?’ He stretched out his legs and pulled up his shorts and revealed a network of cruel dark lines. ‘Scars,’ he said. ‘That is why I move so slow.’
‘So later I came back to Italy and there I meet my Dana.’ He looked at his wife, who hadn’t said anything during the reverie, and then back at me. ‘And now I am old man, you see? But I am a man.’
I lit a cigarette.
‘I mean,’ he went on. ‘I have learned the priorities. You must learn the priorities. Everything at the right moment. No stress. You see?’
‘I think so.’
‘You are American,’ he tapped his head. ‘You understand. You see, I don’t forget. Someone wrongs me. I do nothing. I wait. But I no forget. Maybe ten years, twenty years, fifty years, but I wait and - at the right moment -‘ he pounded his fist on the table. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes.’
Gino laughed.
‘Ah, my artist friend, you must be careful in this city. There are many dishonest people. Many strange people. People here, they will take advantage of you. But I am a man. I know the priorities. At the right moment. Everything at the right moment.’

‘Come again tomorrow,’ Gino said. ‘At the right moment we will have some more music.’
I left, wishing them both good evening. A few minutes later I was crossing the square when I heard my name called. It was Paquito Montana .
‘Where you going, El Gabacho?’ he cried.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come, we talk business. I want to show you a bar I’m thinking about buying.’
‘A bar?’
‘Systema. Why not. It’s going to be lovely homey. I buy the place, you perform, I bring the girls and we make some money, then we make the movie. Situacione interesanche. This is no movie. I’m for real. Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Elton John all rolled into one.’
The bar was a pleasant hole not far from the astronomical clock. It was crowded with tourists, mostly young people. We sat at a table in back. There was an old upright piano, with several keys missing, in a dark corner. Pacquito Montana , with his usual flourish, sat down at the piano, raised the cover and launched into a classical piece which I recognized as Chopin’s Polonaise. The opening notes floated high above the room, blending with many puffs of cigarette smoke. He played passably, though a bit jerky and heavy-handed. His image, especially with the long black coat and rapier, was if not ridiculous eminently dashing. People turned from their conversations and eyed him curiously, exchanged bemused glances. At the end of the piece there was scattered applause and Paquito Montana performed a short bow over the shoulder.
‘El Gabacho, bring the woman.’ I picked up the guitar and joined him at the piano. Just play something, he said.
I strummed chords, which he overlaid with sprinkles off the high keys. I doubt very much he heard or cared what I played, so focused was he with intense life on the trickles of sounds his fingers produced. The effect of our efforts was disjointed but not without moments of melodic overlap. I found myself listening more to what he played, those florid, improbable snippets, oddly composed by his kaleidescopic thoughts. It was here I detected the feverish pitch, the almost desperate tone, of his imaginings. We must have struck a strange chord with the audience, two raggamuffin pilgrims washed up on the old continent, as though survivors from some wholesale El Dorado .
I found myself feeling disoriented, off track. On some level I reflected on my old life back in Calfifornia, the romantic images from books that had led me to give up my life there, and felt a melancholy and emptiness - but why? Shouldn’t I have felt a debt of gratitude to my strange friend, to the great city and nhigh night, to the images themselves? I’d arrived spilling over with all these notions and ideas, and set out to find romantic destiny and write about it - in the same cocktail-scented prose of my ancestors.
I laugh sometimes now when I look back at how I was that first summer. Prague that first summer appeared to me as a vast stone square filled with round café tables, a waiter as nimble as a matador, red-checkered tablecloth in hand. I spent the better part of those first few months time idling. I went for long picturesque walks by the Vltava, tried to read into it qualities I admired in the great 1920s writers. I reflected on Mozart and Einstein and Smetana and other great geniuses who’d spent time there. I read books, the classics of my youth as well as Czech authors, and spent innumerable hours in cafes and pubs, scribbling in notebooks and observing people in the manner of my heroes. I can’t read most of the stuff I wrote then - collections of observations and fancies, rough outlines for stories. Not too long ago I threw most of it into the garbage, and didn’t lose a night’s sleep.
The one story I haven’t been able to let go of is the one about Paquito Montana. Nights like that one, where he held forth at the piano, stand out and rebel against my my supposed hard-won greater worldliness. I come back to him and that wild, enchanted first summer and he right in the middle of it, the great rapier of his hanging at his side, the black steel-toed boots, the long coat and bristling goatee. Above all, the great cry of, ‘Systema, Systema!’ And the movie, of course. Always the movie.

Lenka arrived, wearing a light summer dress, her gold-colored hair hanging over one shoulder. She sat at our table, ordered a Mattoni and listened. At length some British guys, apparently on holiday, came over and tried to chat with Lenka but she just nodded politely and tuned them out. The guys were drunk and one of them, a beefy, cream-faced fellow led a chorus of ‘Eng-land! Eng-land!’ The chant competed with the music to the point where it became intolerable. Suddenly Paquito Montana stopped playing, turned and faced the sloshed ensemble.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but as you can see we are giving a concert.’
‘Ah, piss off, Zorro,’ the big English guy said. ‘You call that shite music?’
‘It is a spontaneous free composition, with much drama and spirituality and emocion,’ my friend said, with dignity.
‘Rubbish!’
‘Throw him out!’
‘Ah, come on, Matthew, let’s take it easy.’
Paquito Montana rose.
‘He’s got a bloody sword, for fuck’s sake,’ the big man, Matthew, roared derisively. The others laughed. ‘Hey, Zorro - do us a favor, eh? Let’s see you wipe that bleedin’ sword with your ass!’
In a flash, Paquito Montana unsheathed the rapier, whirled and lunged, then delivered a series of sharp raps upon the skulls of his drunken abusers, who drew back, more stunned than actually hurt. Then there was a scramble, curses thrown and I thought we were done for when suddenly the bartender, a big fellow himself, came over and told the Brits to leave.
‘What, us?’ Matthew protested. ‘He fuckin’ started it!’
‘You go,’ the bartender said. ‘This is not fucking stag party.’
They left, after first cursing the whole establishment, the Czech people in general and Czech ‘cunts’ in particular, Yank ‘tits’ and David Beckham, several Italian league players, and the indifferent god that had the ingratitude to let the sun set on the Empire.
‘Systema,’ Paquito Montana said, after things had settled down. ‘Situacione interesanche.’
‘Systema,’ the barman echoed., and went back to the bar.

It was nearly midnight. We were still at the bar, Paquito and I nursing beer and Lenka with her water. Paquito had the photos out again (he’d showed them to the bartender, whose name was Zdenek, who was particularly impressed with the yacht photo).
‘This is from ‘Savage Nights,’ Paquito Montana said, pointing at a photo that showed the younger Paquito Montana standing on a sunny, tropical set.
‘Where is it?’ Lenka asked.
‘ Miami . We were shooting there four weeks.’
‘ Miami ?’ Lenka looked impressed.
‘Sure baby. You want I’ll take you there sometime. I show you my house. You know Lionel Richie? A close personal friend. He lives next door.’
I thought he’d said Elton John lived next door, but didn’t contradict him. He went on to another photo showing an Alaskan wolf reposing in a backyard.
‘My baby!’ Paquito Montana cried. ‘Margarita. The picture was taken in Hawaii , when I was there making ‘Tropical Heat.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘With my aunt in Mexico .’
‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’ Lenka asked.
‘I have black belts in several of the martial arts disciplines,’ Paquito Montana replied. ‘You know Jackie Chan - a close personal friend - I studied with him in LA. You know Jean Claude Van Damme?’ He produced a photo. ‘That’s me fighting him in ‘Lionheart.’
I was surprised to see that I recognized the famous French action star, in full combat, with none other than the younger version of Paquito Montana .
‘I remember Lionheart,’ I said.
‘Yeah, homey. And you and me, we make the new movie. It will be the ultimate. I am expecting Al Pacino, a close personal friend, to come see us soon to discuss story ideas.
‘Wow! When?’
‘Next week. Systema.’
‘You’re really serious, Al Pacino?’
‘Systema! Of course I am always serious, El Gabacho.’
Zdenek came back several times, and I had a feeling he was a little worried. Fortunately I still had the money from earlier and this time resolutely thrust two hundred crowns on the table.
‘You can get it?’ Paquito Montana asked. ‘Well, well. What do you know? Saved by El Gabacho. Sitacione interesanche. Thanks, homey. Tomorrow my agent is sending some money by Western Union . We’ll have a nice party.’
‘ Western Union ?’ This surprised me. ‘Why don’t you just use a credit card?’
He waved off my words.
‘No credit cards, no bank accounts, El Gabacho. Systema. Only Western Union .’

The following day was Sunday. I dropped by Valentynos and it hadn’t opened yet. I went over to the room where Paquito Montana was staying and knocked on the door. He answered, looking even more ragged and weary than usual, and his hands trembled slightly. ‘The DTs, homey,’ he said shortly, and invited me in.
The room was a mess. The bed was unmade, the floor littered with the photos and in the kitchen dirty plates lay everywhere and a pot was black, as though left to cook too long and had burned itself out. For some reason, he’d taken one of the green garden umbrellas from the courtyard and set it up over the bed.
‘You hungry, homey?’ Paquito Montana handed me a half-finished plate of eggs and bacon. I shook my head. ‘You should eat it,’ I said. I had already noticed he ate very seldom - so busy as he was with his plans and musings. He told me to relax and then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the shower go on and over the noise I could also hear Paquito Montana muttering to himself as he showered. Later he came out, dressed in his usual glorious attire and we prepared to head out. The shower was still running, and I asked about it.
‘No, leave it, homey.’
‘But why?
‘It’s like a fountain - for chi, of course.’
We headed through Old Town , which had a quiet, hung-over atmosphere, and then Paquito Montana went into a small shop. Behind the counter sat a short man of Arabic complexion.
‘Systema!’ the man said familiarly.
‘Systema!’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Situacione interesanche!’
‘Interanche!’ the man echoed.
‘Relaxacion!’
‘Relaxacion!’
While Paquito Montana purchased a couple small bottles of absinth (and a pack of cigarettes for me) I quietly marveled at the spontaneous effect he seemed to have over people. We passed a café, where a big Russian guy stood at the door. ‘Systema!’ he called, grinning broadly. Several more shouts greeted us as we passed more shops and cafes on our way toward the river. A couple Nigerian guys, who passed out fliers to the nightclubs, came up and exchanged soul handshakes and whispers. I was introduced as El Gabacho.
Prague has a certain off-brand magic that surfaces at unexpected moments. In that rushing heady atmosphere everything took on a dreamy aspect. So instead of feeling bad, I felt quite the oppposite, perfectly marvelous. It was all so off-kilter, cinematic, unaccountable. My friend Paquito Montana, his gold-tipped boots sparkling, that ridiculous rapier hanging at his side, trailing behind him, seemd the embodiment of a new folk hero, arising from the streets and flashing crowds.
I’ve tried recapturing his speeches, but confess it’s not easy. I apologize to the reader for just offering the same snippets and slogans and mutterings. He talked a lot of ‘the movie,’ of course, famous people he knew, the past, as well as his present plans. As for exact content, I’ll admit much of it went right by me - I was too absorbed in the moment, watching the city, distracted by interesting-looking people, caught up in my own romantic images. I wonder even now how much it mattered to Paquito Montana . Sometimes I felt as though he hardly noticed I was there.
The absinth seemed to revive him. At length he began discussing the movie.
‘I thought of the title last night,’ Paquito Montana said. ‘Are you ready, homey? Scarface II: The Revenge of Tony Montana.’
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘But Tony was killed in the first one. How can he get revenge?’
‘Systema. I told you, El Gabacho. I will play his son. I will take the revenge. Al Pacino will play an uncle who is carrying on the business.’
‘Is that why Al Pacino’s coming?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got to discuss some possible script changes.’
‘I’d like to read it.’
‘Yes, of course, homey. But it’s in LA right now, where the writers are working on it.’ He became enthusiastic. ‘It’s going to be the ultimate! Action, suspense, spirituality! Situacione interesanche.’
‘I never really thought of Scarface as a spiritual film,’ I said.
‘Listen to El Gabacho!’ Paquito Montana covered his eyes, and shook his head. ‘I mean, the spirit, you know? Systema. Heart. Conviction. Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Generation masturabation!’
He repeated the phrase like a trumpet blast, prompting sleepy breakfasters in the cafes to look up and watch us as we passed. We were getting near the Charles Bridge , and since it was now mid-morning the crowds were beginning to fill the streets. Still full of spirit, Paquito Montana made overtures to a group of girls, who giggled but turned away. Then we entered a café. With his usual flourish, rapier at his side, the man called Paquito Montana seated himself at a table occupied by a middle-aged couple who’d just sat down for crepes.
‘Making a movie?’ said the man, who introduced himself as Jerry Sloan from Pontiac , Michigan . His wife, a plump graying woman, smiled. ‘Call me Claire!’ she said, flashing a smile behind red sunglasses.
‘Wow!’ Claire gushed. ‘Sounds like it will have everything. Will there be a love story?’
‘Madam,’ my friend said. ‘It will be the last word on love, I assure you. Julia Roberts, a close, personal friend, has agreed as a favor to me to play the love interest.’
‘Wasn’t Tony Montana in love with his sister?’ Jerry asked mildly.
‘No in love,’ Paquito Montana said, with patience. ‘It was love of the family. Familia!’ He indicated me. ‘My partner (a very famous composer and good friend, he did ‘Titanic, you know?) is writing the score.’
The Sloans looked at me with polite interest.
‘Titanic?’ Claire said. ‘I just loved that movie. Have it at home.’
‘He’s lying,’ I said, after a moment. ‘I