I touched down on the landing strip with a song of triumph playing over the plane’s loudspeakers. It was the type of tune you hear when the lead character of a movie is finishing a race in slow motion or some such bullshit. It went something like: dun dun dun dun duun dun…dun dun dun duun dun…dun dun Dun DUn DUN. Maybe you read me, maybe you don't, if not it’s not important. Basically I felt like a champion for having made it to the land of delicious beer and even more delicious women, and my esteemed flight personnel put my thoughts into tangibility with that delightful melody. Driving through the countryside and enteringPrague from the northwest was like a cultural slap to the face. A good friend of mine hit the nail on the head when she saidPrague is the kind of place where lady culture walks the streets barefoot in her nightgown. It’s so classy in a very silken, sexy way. The goth in me began panting as I cruised black cobbled streets and looked up at magnanimous spires piercing the sky with stunning elongation.
For a good part of the day I walked the city streets absorbing like an ocular sponge, stopping every now and again to catch my breath through a cigarette and compose myself. I felt as though I’d been pooped into a fairy tale land, and any second I was gonna witness an epic battle between swordsman and mythic beast. Fighting to the scaly death beneath one of the gargantuan, black stone arches.
As night rolled around a contact of mine texted, filling me in on the night’s plans. They consisted of watching her boyfriend’s band play at a local pub entitled “Tulip.” I hot footed my way over to a predetermined tram stop and was graciously led to the drinkery. Whilst there, I consumed many a cheap beer in the company of a veritable international cornucopia. As I sat at the table listening to Radiohead cover songs, beer loosely clenched between my semicircled fingers, I conversed with a Frenchie, a German, a Russian, a Swede, and several Czechs. The beauty was that the entirety of the cultural dogpile was speaking my native English. Lucky/lazy for Americans, Brits and Ozzies. Everyone who’s anyone speaks the language of the Engles.
Laughter and alcohol consumption persisted throughout the night. As it neared closing time the crew and I saddled up and commenced ejaculation. A problem arose as I closed in on my relatively nearby hostel…I didn’t have my backpack.
“Fuckin’ shit,” I sighed to my left shoulder.
Thinking quickly I dialed up my local friend. “Geraldine, I think I left my backpack in that bar,” I said after swallowing a brick.
“Ok. Where are you right now?” she interrogated.
“I don’t know…I can’t see any street signs from here.” I lowered the phone and awkwardly sprinted to the nearest street corner. “Alright…I’m at…Sookenika and Revolucni,” I adequately mispronounced.
“Hmmm, ok. Look for the nearest tram stop. See if the 24 passes that way,” she offered.
“Ewww. I have no idea where that might be, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know which direction to take it,” I said, displaying my touristic ignorance with pride.
“Just take it to Oikjlkdya.,” she “said.” It sounded more like she was hawking a loogy into the phone than giving me directions.
“See the problem with that is, even if I did understand you, I wouldn’t be able to translate the word you just said into written text.”
“Ya…shit. Well, I’m almost home. When I get there I’ll give [Tulip] a call, then call you back.”
“Awesome, thanks a lot Geraldine.”
“No problem, čau.”
“Bye.”
In my inebriated state, I stood, slightly swaying, in the middle of the street as I tried to get my bearings. When I finally convinced myself of where I was, I made a mad dash for the vector of town I thought my kidnapped backpack to be. As I passed the same gothic cathedral I’d seen at least a baker’s dozen times before, Geraldine called.
“Hello,” I panted/cracked/squealed excitedly.
“Hey, I called the bar. They have your backpack and they’ll hold it for you, but you have to get there within half an hour, that’s when the barkeepers are going home,” she explained.
“Good lord yes,” I exclaimed. “So I thought I knew where this place was, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. What’s the streetname again?”
“Skarkyaposh,” she slobbered.
“Riiiight…” I groaned.
“Do you think you can find it?” she questioned.
“Ya, I guess. If I can’t I’ll call you back. Is that cool?”
“Sure, if you do get there alright I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. Thank you kindly madame,” I said, tipping my nonexistent hat.
“Čau.”
“See ya.”
For the next half an hour I tracked, backtracked, and retracked my way through the labyrinth that isPrague. Twisting curves and back alleys became old hunting buddies by the time I made it to the locale in subject. I staggered through the doors, leaning on walls and holding a backhand to my forehead.
“I…think…I…left…my…backpack…here,” I managed to squeeze out of my lungs.
Without saying a word the bartender reached behind the counter and catapulted my prized possession to me. I gave it a quick cursory check. Satisfied, I flipped the barkeep a 50 koruny piece and addled out the door. An hour and a half, a half dozen cigarettes, and a set of achy knees later, I was being crooned to sleep by the soothing sounds of a couple Italian bred snore sequences. It was an interesting day to say the least.