“I’m not sure I like this element,” my friend Tom said, chomping into his gigantic, onion-covered sausage, grease dripping down his chin and onto his napkin. “They’re fellow British people. I know these people. Something bad is going to happen.” He took another sip of his beer to wash the onion-sausage mix down.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, look at these people,” he nodded towards those people. “They’re a bad element. I’m not really comfortable here.”
“Maybe after a few more beers,” I said.
“No, it will be even worse.”
We were at the Prague Beer Festival, sitting outside at a picnic table, soaking up the sun while sipping on the suds. “I think I know what you mean, actually,” I said. I looked at the crowd again. Mostly they were fat, shirtless Englishmen, their own fingers as big as the sausages Tom was eating. They were talking loudly, shouting across the tent, they looked like they belonged more at a football game than anywhere else.
probably the best place to eat there
I remember the Prague Beer Festival being better than this last year. It felt more organized. This time, we came to the gate and they gave us a card. On the card the different vendors would write down the price of the beer or food that you had ordered, and then you had to pay the sum upon leaving the festival. “What if you lose this card?”