Arrived in Praha last night and headed
straight for my apartment, a small furnished top
floor studio in a 6-storey building in the
residential Vrsovice neighborhood. At least, it
was furnished when I left it last year around this
time, but one or two mystery sublettors later and
everything that had been there--chairs, bureau,
medicine chest, shelves, curtains, and blinds--was
gone. The place was completely bare but for desk,
typewriter, a bunch of English language books
(most of which I'd acquired at deep discount in 1994-95 when a friend
of mine worked at the now-defunct Big Ben
Bookshop), and a bare ratty mattress lying
directly on the floor. This did not come as a
complete surprise--Mirek had taken the stuff to
furnish the house in Jakub, but due to
miscommunication more had been removed than was
necessary. It was 11:30 pm, or, as most Europeans
would have it, 23:30, just enough time to catch
one last drink at Shakespeare and Sons, the
local English language bookstore and bar. The
joint was jumping and stayed open after hours and
one turned into three. Having no Czech crowns, I
opened a tab. Because I no longer needed it, I
tipped the bartender my last 5 Euro note. Victor
refused vehemently at first, then accepted it with
a hard-to-read expression. Had I offended him?
Over-tipping is tacky, but I had nothing else
appropriate on me and leaving nothing would have
been worse. Still, I was concerned until he came
over a bit later with "a present"--a post-lastcall
freebie beer. From this I concluded that people
like money. I went to bed around 2 am, expecting
to rise around 9 and head for the country in time
for lunch with Mirek. It was light when I woke. I
guessed it was 10 or 11 in the morning. Actually,
it was 4 pm; I'd slept 14 hours straight. Guess
I'd been tireder than I thought. It was still
light when I boarded the train. The countryside
looked strangely warm and familiar to me. Genetic
memory? My father's father had been a farmer here,
my family had come from this soil and the soil was
a part of me. Did it feel like home because I now
own a part of it, or does it own me? The book I
was reading (Hunting Mr. Heartbreak by Jonathan
Raban) happpened to parallel my journey. I read
about his travel from city to country and
felt like I was slipping into a green dream. |
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