Pavlos and
I found a hostel near the main street of Prague, a highway that ran from the north
end, over the train station and down to the south end, mounting a bridge over a
vast valley that was filled with buildings, streets and trams. I knew the location since it was near where I
was staying with Jitka and I had passed a sign several times that said “City
Hostel”. We had to go up to a gate to
get there and hit the buzzer. The door
opened and we walked into the courtyard, following the signs to get to the
place. We walked down a few steps and
found a man behind the desk. “You have
no reservations?” he asked. “Correct, no
reservations,” we told him.
“We are all booked right now,” he told us. “There’s one last couple coming in at 8:00. Maybe if they don’t come, you can have their room.”
“Do you know any other nearby hostels that we can try?”
“No,” he said.
“None whatsoever? You don’t know any?”
“No,” he said.
We walked out and through the gate a second. Pavlos stopped me, “Wait, what is this?” He pointed to a sign that was right underneath the City Hostel sign. The sign read, “ArtHarmony Hostel.” “Another hostel?” We followed the signs back to the buzzer and pressed on the ArtHarmony button. A voice from the speaker asked, “Do you have reservations?”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “Do you have –“
“Come on up!” the voice said and the door opened.
We followed the signs to ArtHarmony, to a door that was right next to the City Hostel door. “And the other guy said he didn’t know any other hostels!” I exclaimed. We made it to the top of the stairs and finally into the hostel. There was a cheery, long brown haired guy and a middle aged hippy looking woman named Jitka. “Jitka must be a common name here,” I told her.
“No, it is not,” she said, smiling.
“You’re the third Jitka I’ve met, though.”
The man was training the woman on how to use the computers and the card readers and all the details of the check in and check out process. Meanwhile, he was making jokes to us. We told him about the next door hostel and how the guy didn’t tell us about this place. “He is Arabian you know. Arabs don’t like their competitors too much!” and he laughed. I looked over at the refrigerator next to the desk. “And I’ll take two beers.” I grabbed two out.
“But not those two, those are crap. Take the Gambrinus, it is good at least.”
“Okay,” I told him. “We’ll take the Gambrinus.”
“But really, Pilsner Urquell is the best. I should know, I am an expert,” he said. While he spoke, he grabbed a bottle of Pilsner Urquell from the shelf and drank it with his pinky up. He spoke in such a manner that he thought no other person could know beers as well as he. The Oktoberfest shirt underneath my button-up began to itch. I felt an urge to tear it off and show it, like Clark Kent ripping off his clothes to showcase his tight blue outfit and giant S. Except, in my case, it was a loose brown shirt with a giant OKTOBERFEST written across it. Any man who makes the pilgrimage to the real Oktoberfest, I feel, must know a great deal about drinking beer.
The place was one of the cleanest hostels I’ve been to. Each of the rooms were individually organized and decorated, bamboo and shaved tree trunks and walls with painted flowers and animals being the overlying theme. Most rooms only had four to six beds and other rooms could be rented out as apartments. There was a small, common kitchen and multiple common bathrooms. The only thing that made this a little less than my experience at Wombat’s in Munich was that the common area was so small that it wasn’t a very easy place to meet fellow travelers. But I was already with Pavlos and I had plans to meet with the other Jitka, the one with dreadlocks, that night.
We went across town to the Devjicka district to find the bar where Jitka and her friends were. They were students studying architecture and they were going to a series of sustainable development seminars. The bar was a local place, operated by an older, tall bald guy who was very quick with the orders. “What do you want? No, something else. No, I close kitchen now, I no make you food. Order something else. What do you want? What is it?” All his sentences short, direct and with the intonation that he’d rather not be dealing with work at the moment.
“You were in Peru?” I asked Jitka.
“Yeah, I was doing a project down there. I was trying to design a house from bamboo. But one of the engineers pointed out that it wasn’t a good design because the materials wouldn’t hold during an earthquake.”
“Did you change the design?”
“I changed the materials. We made it so that first there would be a wall of dirt, then around that, thin bamboo sticks and then on the corners, thicker ones.”
When Pavlos heard that she had gone to Peru, he had perked up into motion. “You know,” he said, putting down his beer, adjusting his glasses, smiling and turning on his charm, “my goal in life is to find a Greek Orthodox Latina Rastafarian with dreadlocks.” He wasn’t lying, he had expressed this desire to me before. I assumed that, when he had worked in a medicinal marijuana facility in Canada, he probably smoked a bit too much of his own product to imagine the existence of such a woman. Though whenever I make fun of his choice of aspects, he just counters with the Law of Averages refutation, “There has to be one eventually.”
“I’m not Greek Orthodox,” she replied.
“But we can always work on that. It’s not necessary she starts as a Greek Orthodox.”
“I’m not a Latina,” she said.
“But if you’re Rastafarian, then that’s four out of five. And that’s not bad.”
“But I’m not Rastafarian.”
“Three out of five is still above half.” You had to give it to Pavlos, at least he was flexible.
All of us talked on a variety of subjects, since all the students knew English fluently, or if they didn’t, they at least pretended well. After many laughs and drinks, everyone left the bar on their way home. Pavlos and I decided to stop by the KFC near our hostel and try a taste of it. It’s not hard to find a KFC in the Czech Republic, their almost as common as Asians in China. I hadn’t eaten quality, American style fried chicken for nearly three years and KFC for maybe ten. The explosive flavor of KFC’s spicy chicken left my mouth near burning. Not only was it deliciously spicy, it was also physically hot. But I couldn’t keep myself back from devouring the unnaturally large pieces of chicken. After eating chicken in Georgia, and living next to a whole pen of them, I came to realize the difference between natural chickens and growth hormone injected chickens. Those were not natural chickens. The hormone enhancements might go to explain the Tea Party and Occupy movements. Too many KFC customers in those crowds, I imagine.
After the chicken, I developed another yearning for beer, so we walked down to a bar right next to our hostel. Inside the bar, there was torn up carpet, broken lights, mirror holders without mirrors, foosball tables without poles, two drunk girls dancing to Paula Abdul and a few tables of what appeared to be high school girls. The place had two signs written all over it: Czech dive bar and jail bait. After we sat down at the bar to order our drinks, two young girls came up to talk to us.
“How are you?” I asked the girl named Vichka, a skinny brown haired girl with a mole on her cheek.
“I’m 17,” she said. I thought she had looked young, but I didn’t think that young. But as I didn’t plan to do anything with her, or even buy her a drink, I didn’t care.
“No, no, I said, how are you?”
“I’m 17,” she said again.
“Yeah, I know, you’re 17. But how are you? Not how old are you. How are you?”
“I’m 17,” we both said at the same time. She giggled. I perceived that numbers were perhaps the depth of her knowledge of English.
“We are all booked right now,” he told us. “There’s one last couple coming in at 8:00. Maybe if they don’t come, you can have their room.”
“Do you know any other nearby hostels that we can try?”
“No,” he said.
“None whatsoever? You don’t know any?”
“No,” he said.
We walked out and through the gate a second. Pavlos stopped me, “Wait, what is this?” He pointed to a sign that was right underneath the City Hostel sign. The sign read, “ArtHarmony Hostel.” “Another hostel?” We followed the signs back to the buzzer and pressed on the ArtHarmony button. A voice from the speaker asked, “Do you have reservations?”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “Do you have –“
“Come on up!” the voice said and the door opened.
We followed the signs to ArtHarmony, to a door that was right next to the City Hostel door. “And the other guy said he didn’t know any other hostels!” I exclaimed. We made it to the top of the stairs and finally into the hostel. There was a cheery, long brown haired guy and a middle aged hippy looking woman named Jitka. “Jitka must be a common name here,” I told her.
“No, it is not,” she said, smiling.
“You’re the third Jitka I’ve met, though.”
The man was training the woman on how to use the computers and the card readers and all the details of the check in and check out process. Meanwhile, he was making jokes to us. We told him about the next door hostel and how the guy didn’t tell us about this place. “He is Arabian you know. Arabs don’t like their competitors too much!” and he laughed. I looked over at the refrigerator next to the desk. “And I’ll take two beers.” I grabbed two out.
“But not those two, those are crap. Take the Gambrinus, it is good at least.”
“Okay,” I told him. “We’ll take the Gambrinus.”
“But really, Pilsner Urquell is the best. I should know, I am an expert,” he said. While he spoke, he grabbed a bottle of Pilsner Urquell from the shelf and drank it with his pinky up. He spoke in such a manner that he thought no other person could know beers as well as he. The Oktoberfest shirt underneath my button-up began to itch. I felt an urge to tear it off and show it, like Clark Kent ripping off his clothes to showcase his tight blue outfit and giant S. Except, in my case, it was a loose brown shirt with a giant OKTOBERFEST written across it. Any man who makes the pilgrimage to the real Oktoberfest, I feel, must know a great deal about drinking beer.
The place was one of the cleanest hostels I’ve been to. Each of the rooms were individually organized and decorated, bamboo and shaved tree trunks and walls with painted flowers and animals being the overlying theme. Most rooms only had four to six beds and other rooms could be rented out as apartments. There was a small, common kitchen and multiple common bathrooms. The only thing that made this a little less than my experience at Wombat’s in Munich was that the common area was so small that it wasn’t a very easy place to meet fellow travelers. But I was already with Pavlos and I had plans to meet with the other Jitka, the one with dreadlocks, that night.
We went across town to the Devjicka district to find the bar where Jitka and her friends were. They were students studying architecture and they were going to a series of sustainable development seminars. The bar was a local place, operated by an older, tall bald guy who was very quick with the orders. “What do you want? No, something else. No, I close kitchen now, I no make you food. Order something else. What do you want? What is it?” All his sentences short, direct and with the intonation that he’d rather not be dealing with work at the moment.
“You were in Peru?” I asked Jitka.
“Yeah, I was doing a project down there. I was trying to design a house from bamboo. But one of the engineers pointed out that it wasn’t a good design because the materials wouldn’t hold during an earthquake.”
“Did you change the design?”
“I changed the materials. We made it so that first there would be a wall of dirt, then around that, thin bamboo sticks and then on the corners, thicker ones.”
When Pavlos heard that she had gone to Peru, he had perked up into motion. “You know,” he said, putting down his beer, adjusting his glasses, smiling and turning on his charm, “my goal in life is to find a Greek Orthodox Latina Rastafarian with dreadlocks.” He wasn’t lying, he had expressed this desire to me before. I assumed that, when he had worked in a medicinal marijuana facility in Canada, he probably smoked a bit too much of his own product to imagine the existence of such a woman. Though whenever I make fun of his choice of aspects, he just counters with the Law of Averages refutation, “There has to be one eventually.”
“I’m not Greek Orthodox,” she replied.
“But we can always work on that. It’s not necessary she starts as a Greek Orthodox.”
“I’m not a Latina,” she said.
“But if you’re Rastafarian, then that’s four out of five. And that’s not bad.”
“But I’m not Rastafarian.”
“Three out of five is still above half.” You had to give it to Pavlos, at least he was flexible.
All of us talked on a variety of subjects, since all the students knew English fluently, or if they didn’t, they at least pretended well. After many laughs and drinks, everyone left the bar on their way home. Pavlos and I decided to stop by the KFC near our hostel and try a taste of it. It’s not hard to find a KFC in the Czech Republic, their almost as common as Asians in China. I hadn’t eaten quality, American style fried chicken for nearly three years and KFC for maybe ten. The explosive flavor of KFC’s spicy chicken left my mouth near burning. Not only was it deliciously spicy, it was also physically hot. But I couldn’t keep myself back from devouring the unnaturally large pieces of chicken. After eating chicken in Georgia, and living next to a whole pen of them, I came to realize the difference between natural chickens and growth hormone injected chickens. Those were not natural chickens. The hormone enhancements might go to explain the Tea Party and Occupy movements. Too many KFC customers in those crowds, I imagine.
After the chicken, I developed another yearning for beer, so we walked down to a bar right next to our hostel. Inside the bar, there was torn up carpet, broken lights, mirror holders without mirrors, foosball tables without poles, two drunk girls dancing to Paula Abdul and a few tables of what appeared to be high school girls. The place had two signs written all over it: Czech dive bar and jail bait. After we sat down at the bar to order our drinks, two young girls came up to talk to us.
“How are you?” I asked the girl named Vichka, a skinny brown haired girl with a mole on her cheek.
“I’m 17,” she said. I thought she had looked young, but I didn’t think that young. But as I didn’t plan to do anything with her, or even buy her a drink, I didn’t care.
“No, no, I said, how are you?”
“I’m 17,” she said again.
“Yeah, I know, you’re 17. But how are you? Not how old are you. How are you?”
“I’m 17,” we both said at the same time. She giggled. I perceived that numbers were perhaps the depth of her knowledge of English.
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