Vezměte mě na štrůdl, prosím!

I like food. I like trying new things, experimenting – I’ll eat anything once, many times twice. I ascribe to the Anthony Bourdain/Andrew Zimmern doctrine – that one of the best ways to understand or appreciate a new culture is by eating its food. Which is why Prague has been a mecca for my religion.

I have had – undoubtedly – one of the best meals of my life in a tiny café looking onto the underside of Charles Bridge. The soft, red interior was warming – the paint pulsed a soothing glow in the afternoon light, and the pint of Pilsner Urquell – its amber muted in my palm – was light and refreshing. And I waited in anticipation until it arrived, carried by a congenial man in a shirt too-tight, steaming and diffusing its scent in a billowing cloud: roasted duck with dumplings on a bed of cranberries and cabbage.

I lost some of my innocence that afternoon.

If traditional Czech food is not your thing, and you prefer greasy heart-stopping street sausage, then come to Prague! For about $3 USD you can order up all the culinary pleasure one can appropriately enjoy in public. And the best part – the carts are open well past midnight.



If you want something a bit sweeter, Prague has – based on multiple reviews – the best strudel in all of Europe. It was a bit of a trek finding the place – we had to take several trams and metros into one of the residential districts, hike through a park and wind our way to the storefront, tucked in an alcove beneath an apartment complex. But the strudel – about half the length of my forearm and just as wide around – was a taste explosion, and for only $2.50 USD I’m surprised the man stays in business.

So děkuji, Prague! I leave you enlightened, full, and with a renewed faith in food.

here's why live music

You walk through double metal doors, plastered on all sides with old posters and advertisements thick and peeling like layers of caked-on makeup. The front room is dimly lit, cloaked in some kind of dark foreboding, musky with the smell of diffuse cigarette smoke seeping up from below. You buy your ticket and get your hand stamped by a large man on a stool who has stamped his own hand a dozen times, who looks at you wondering if music really is what gets you moving.

Your eyes turn down – narrow stairs lead to a small stage crowded with mics and amplifiers, a handful of guitars huddling around the maternal mass of a drum set. You take to the floor where fifty others – faceless forms gathered from all corners of the city – stand waiting to be moved, the smoke always drifting always shifting.

Out of the silence a lone drumbeat sounds – pounding and pulsing. Waiting. Calling for someone in the night, a beacon beating for the bruised. And then, an answer from somewhere deep, guttural: the bass guitar, smooth and confident – knowing his place, never wanting more never needing more. Then, as jealousy becomes the electric guitar she begins her lament – a single, fragile note tremulous and gossamer thin, but capable of turning without warning and cutting to the bone. And she cries now at the lights.

Through all of this you stand there, as the music builds – as the pieces fit together, as the voices flood from the microphones. You stand there, still at first – then slowly swaying as the music pulses through you, through the amps and the stage and the floor, up your legs and through your body until your own heartbeat is overpowered, overrun by this new rhythm. And you breathe, and bleed now to different time.

You stand there with fifty others – a brotherhood in the night, joined in this moment by the beat – moving together as one: one hundred hands, one hundred ears, two feet.

a city at night

I am now convinced that the population of Prague is – at any given time – composed of 30% tourists, 5% tour guides, 25% ordinary people, 10% pickpockets, and 30% professional models. And they all smoke. I think I smoked a pack by association in the past two days alone.

Prague is a marvelous city – a city with history, with evolving culture. It is a city that feels broken in, stretched until its leather has become soft and comfortable – it is a city that feels forever lived in. The past glares at you from all angles – old town, the Jewish quarter, Charles Bridge, Prague castle – imposing statues and figurines watching in cold silence as you walk by, daring you to be as permanent as they; daring you to see the things they’ve seen.

But there is also the new and adapting Prague. The residential areas, the bleak concrete decorated with the flair of misguided (or misunderstood) youth, the parks and commercial centers – the Prague you won’t find on postcards. And there is a thriving underground music scene – still stuck, in many ways, in the 80s – but clawing its way out through punk and grunge, with a hint of indie come-what-may. It’s young, and refreshing – and not something you’ll find in every city.

Prague turns into a completely different place at night – the streets empty, the Italian tourists retreat somewhere to discuss the importance of fluffy black vests, slick hair, and oversized sunglasses on modern fashion. You stand in the middle of Wenceslas Square and it’s just you and the lights and the falling rain, and you close your eyes and let it all surge through you.

And then you hop on the last tram before the night lines kick in, and you sit in silence next to a woman with drooping eyelids, weighed down – not by sleep – but by an almost serene acceptance of things, a sense that here – Prague – is her home, and here she is content to be.

april 2nd means...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUDREY JAYNE!!!!!

night train to Prague

You wake from sleep to the sound of wheel on track and the hushed blur of buildings passing by. You stretch the sleep from your jaws, shake it from your ears – it leaves slowly, reluctantly like a morning fog. Out of the corner of your eye you see a hazy reflection – a ghost of a glimmer, an illusion of the sun on the window, perhaps. But curiosity grabs you – and there, running beside the train: the Vltava River, her flowing black hair loosened in the sun.

She keeps by the train for some time – brushing near, reaching out a hand as if to feel, sweeping the side of the car but never touching. And so it goes, and so you grow accustomed to her presence, and find her ways exciting and full of possibility – trapped though you are behind your iron and glass. “One day the train will stop,” you think, “and the door will open. And then… and then.”

But until then she runs out of reach, and you sit – looking through glass but always wary of your own reflection. And then – when glass no longer seems too sharp to cut, or iron too strong to bend – she is gone. You strain your eyes for any glimmer between the trees, but there is none – so you sit, thinking on what has left what was never really there.

Then – a shimmer of black. She returns, and sidles up beside the train, as if to say. She stays for but a minute: seeing the smile on your face, she is gone again – into the woods. This continues – ducking and weaving through the trees like a child playing, or an animal eluding – until your eyes grow tired from straining, and drift to the horizon. And soon they stay fixed there.

Maybe this has struck a nerve. Her waters grow turbulent, heave and fume – around the dams and locks, at the step-offs. She shakes her hair violently; she whirls and twirls. But you have already moved on – to the city in the distance.

To Prague.

for emmitt, forever ago

Travel days are always a bit of a nightmare in anticipation, mostly because the possibility of something going wrong skyrockets exponentially. When you get to a new place, the first thing you typically do is throw down your 50lb backpack and kick it a couple of times, then release the zipper and watch as everything you managed to squeeze in explodes onto the floor. Which is a wonderful feeling when you’re just arriving because you sympathize completely.

But leaving means you have to squeeze everything in again, and lift that backpack again, and drag it from station to station again. You could forget something, or miss your train, or get off at the wrong station, or not validate your ticket, or fall onto the tracks. Or you could meet someone like Emmitt.

Now I don’t actually have a picture of Emmitt because I didn’t want one because he was barking mad drunk, but here’s a picture of a drawing I made of what I remember him looking like:

I met Emmitt at the Antwerp central station. He wanted to share his half-eaten hotdog with me, but I kindly declined. Emmitt, at 31 years of age, is THE BEST electrician in all of Rotterdam – I know because he told me so. And because some guy in a red shirt confirmed it. He’s been in Rotterdam way too long and has been trying to get out, but it’s hard being the best at something. I can’t even imagine the pressure of being the best at something – it must be agonizing. But Emmitt has been the best for twenty-some odd years, which the guy in the red shirt also confirmed. I learned a lot of things from Emmitt – like to stay away from crack and prostitutes. I also learned that the Irish can only be described using profanity. Didn’t know that.

Emmitt started getting a little loud, so I shook his ketchup stained hand and left – but not before he snapped a picture of us with his camera phone (I’m now in Emmitt’s five). Minutes later he boarded the train and came charging down the second class car singing and pointing at stowed luggage.

I smiled – but he didn’t remember me. I guess that’s the price you pay.

pardon, Bruges

Ok, so maybe I was in a bit of a pissy mood yesterday. I was cold and wet. Sorry. Turns out Bruges isn’t all that bad. After spending the night trying to think of appropriate ways for an atheist to pray for sun and coming up with “go to sleep, wake up, look outside,” I got my wish today – it was beautiful. Sunny, and in the 70s.

So we rented two bikes for 5€ apiece and rode out to the town of Damme. Only it was so beautiful we decided to ride through Damme, past Oostkerke and Hoeke, and into the town of Sluis in Holland. The ride was absolutely amazing. Lush, green countryside, endless rows of tall, sweeping trees beside an obsidian black river. Cool wind at your back. Ducks everywhere. Pristine.

Sluis was quaint and charming – a tiny town with a giant windmill at its center. We stopped and had lunch at a nice little café (this after entering a not-so-nice café where everyone stopped cutting their steaks, looked up, and stared when I walked in. so I walked out) where I continued my tour de Belgian brew by trying by far the best beer not-Guinness: Grimbergen. The lady even game me a frequent flyer card – nine more and I get one free! Almost worth the plane ticket.

Riding back was a bit tough – a vicious, unrelenting headwind made us an hour-and-a-half late in returning our bikes (although we stopped in Damme and rested for a good 30minutes…). The girl at the counter was nice, and didn’t charge us the full day’s price. We thanked her by panting. And maybe wheezing a bit.

We spent the rest of the afternoon footing through Bruges a bit more – and although the town did seem more charming in this different light, my impression didn’t change much: it still felt cold. But I think it’s a place worth seeing.

So come to Bruges if you are a fan of Belgian chocolate. Or of cute girls selling Belgian chocolate. Or if you are looking for a compact, manageable tourist destination with a lot of English speakers and abundant shopping. But I recommend spending most of your time here on a bike, exploring the countryside and visiting the surrounding towns. You will not regret the decision. Unless it’s raining. Then you might.

(And now that’s another thing off the list: cross an international border on a bicycle. Check.)