Via Prague

Last Tuesday afternoon, my last class canceled, I wandered over to the Globe, a cafe and bookstore in Prague's New Town that caters to an English and American clientele. I'd noticed on my last visit that the cafe would have the Obama inauguration broadcast in full on its big screen and I looked forward to tuning in over a pint of Pilsner and a heaping plate of nachos.
But it was not to be. The owner, an generally affable American guy, received me curtly.
'Sorry we're all booked,' he said. It was still a good two hours before the start (the inauguration was to start at five o'clock Czech time), and at the moment the tables were generally still empty.
'But can't I just sit for a while?' He waved me off.
'I've got to be tough about this,' he insisted, as though playing back a pre-rehearsed speech. 'If I let you sit, or anybody sit, then when the people who've reserved seats show up -- and this has been advertised the past two weeks -- there could be problems. I don't need it. Sorry.'
I left, feeling the chagrin of a regular customer but nevertheless understanding.
Where else to go? Well, there was another American cafe near Wenceslas Square, Jama, which had also advertised an inauguration party. But something told me that place was probably booked too.
Ah, wait! Of course, the Czech Inn. This establishment, a hostel run by a British expat, happens to be right in my own neighborhood of Vrsovice, It also happens to have a bar with a big-screen TV that usually is played without sound because the girl bartenders would rather hear music than listen to Manchester United and their loutish fans. But something told me I should give the place a try.
The manager, as it turned out, was not only cool with the idea, he even offered to -- turn up the volume!
'Shall we have it in sound?' he asked affably.
(Amen, brother) 'Sure, why not?' is what I really said.
Of course by then it was three, and I had two hours to wait. The manager suggested a beer to help cool this long interval, and I grudgingly accepted. By the time the inauguration started in earnest, I was well into my fourth, and feeling it, but the excitement was such that it didn't matter. Gradually the cafe filled up with travelers, some of whom were just returning from an afternoon of sightseeing and others perhaps just waking up from reveling in the center's bars and discos the night (and morning) before.
It wasn't a big crowd, hardly; about twenty people, but just enough to give the necessary touch of 'moment.' Laptops were set aside, mp3 players temporarily turned off; travelers in faded jeans, laden with backpacks, they forgot their itinerary, brushed off fatigue, ordered pints and tuned in with bright, alert faces. It should be noted the majority were Americans, or at least seemed to be.
Not that it mattered. I've watched other presidential inaugurations; I remember watching Clinton's inauguration while a 21-year-old seaman recruit at the former Naval Facility in Ferndale, California, and Bush's address while covering the local Republicans' reaction while at the Times-Standard. But this time, as it was for everyone else, there was something special, and I was glad to be in this small cafe in Prague, surrounded by a few fellow stranded countrymen. (Just think: In twenty years, people will ask you, so where were you?)
Anyway, when it wrapped up, I'll confess I was a bit unsteady from the excitement, the moment of history, and my sixth pint of Bohemian milk. Unsteady? I was horsed, trollied, three sheets. I was on a certain planet where visions of Obama swam and fluttered, and people chanted and frolicked, and purple ponies nay-ed and kicked up their happy little heels.
I probably should have tuned in more closely to Obama's admonition for a 'new era of responsibility.' I should have just went home, called it a night. Instead, I tottered and swayed, like a senile hippopotamus, over the ice-covered cobblestone street (a bad idea: one slip on the ice can mean one broken arm one broken head)
Still, I decided, for Obama, that one more was in order. So I settled on Rozjety Zaby, which in Czech means, 'The Squashed Frog.'
The 'Frog,' as the locals call it, was comparatively quiet, a rather dour Tuesday crowd. Most of the faces were familiar. On the computer, YouTube was up (we use it as a jukebox) and a friend was playing hip hop videos. Rather boorishly (in retrospect), I greeted everyone with 'Obama' jibberish and hoots and nonsense, and even asked (and was granted permission) to bring up the inauguration, which was already on YouTube. As Obama's speech started, I ordered a beer and prepared to share my 'moment' with everyone. The response was noticeably lukewarm.
'James, all right, all right. We don't care, OK?'
'James, who in America cares about the Czech president? Don't you see?'
Beerfully, I became defensive. Beerfully, aggressively, I proclaimed Obama's greatness. I uttered beer-soaked oaths and curses. I called one guy, a good friend, a Communist. It became less clear and more offensive after that. I vaguely recall several shouting matches. A friend, this one British, happened to come in. 'James! Calm down, man!' Another friend, this one Czech, reminded me of a promise I'd made him give that if I ever got too belligerent to knock me out. He didn't, but the promise was repeated.
Somehow, eventually, I got out and wandered down to -- incredibly -- another bar, where I had another beer and had a few other minor mishaps before finally going home.
The next day, sober, chastened, I returned to the Frog.
The friend who I had accused of Communist tendencies was there. "Don't talk to me right now, OK?' he said as I offered a hand.
Others came in. They'd heard about it. Others at the bar remarked on it.
'Byl jsem novy planet,' I said to some who offered curious ears. In Czech that means: I was on a new planet.'
Later, a girl who'd received some of the benefits of my planetary excursions came in. I offered an apology.
'It was just the beer and too much excitement,' I said. 'Like when your team wins the championship.'
She nodded.
'But James, be careful. Obama-- I understand. But he is only a man. Uvidime.' In Czech, that means: 'We'll see,' a phrase Czechs often use.
'Uvidime,' I said.

'