Pragrant.
My Poor Feet
-or-
Adding Insole To Injury
Espresso is so universal here that I suspect it is taking so long for them to prepare my Americanese drip coffee because they're not 100% sure how to work the machine. It turns out, ten minutes later, that I was underestimating the staff's knowledge and overestimating the memorable nature of my order.
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A statue, in a business area of town, of a dozen blades of grass, each between fifteen and twenty feet tall, ringed into a herd by outsize barbed wire.
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Giant portions of Prague seem nearly abandoned. Today is Saturday, so it's possible that in two days' time this red schoolhouse with cloudy, barred windows will be full of life. But many of the weeds are taller than a grade-school child, and there is no paint here fresher than the 1990's. So I prefer to believe it is abandoned.
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In the grasses of the hills of Prague, there are ferocious rattle noises every three feet or so. Too frequent and unprovoked to be snakes, I think (hope). And so I stand quietly and stare for a minute until I see an insect, much like a diminutive grasshopper, rubbing its legs together frantically and sporadically. Napoleonesque intimidation or Pepe-Le-Pew bravado? I have no insight on this point.
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So much American music. It is a disappointment and a source of pride. And hearing "In The Jungle" at restaurants will never become tiresome. (That is meant without irony. (As is that.))
Note: The above sentiment is undermined by the subsequent playing of "The Circle Of Life."
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Disconcerted by the fact that in the past two months, three people have told me that beer is "inefficient." One of them in French.
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One of the main landmarks of Old Prague (Stare Mesto) is an ancient and complex clock over the town square. It would appear to give the position of the astrological calendar as well as the day's time and, perhaps, the phase of the moon. Legend is that the regents of the time were so pleased with the clockmaker's work that they put out his eyes, lest he reproduce it in another town.
On the north end of central Prague stands a more recent construction. A giant red metronome squats over the town, swinging back and forth to a slow tempo. One imagines that the designer wanted to keep it basic, so as to avoid the jealous misfortune of his predecessor. But it is also comforting that, in contrast to all the eras and phases and subdivisions of time, there is this shepherd of an invention simply ensuring that time keeps moving forward in an orderly fashion.
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The rainfall in Prague is reliably sporadic. It seems you can count on showers of varying intensities at some point in the early afternoon, bookended by sunny weather. There's a disorientingly patchwork quality to it, though, that left me bone-dry in the northeastern corner of the city while a friend in central Prague was being soaked to the bone by persistent storming that seems to have passed me by entirely.
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I didn't want to be mean, but everyone seemed to appreciate his joke and I just didn't see what about it was funny. I asked him to explain. He repeated it: "What do you call a year without Christmas? An abortion." My blank look persisted. I like abortion jokes as much or more than the next guy, but I just plain didn't get it. "See, because of Christ. You know, Christ's birthday is on December 25th?" Though I understood the logic of that statement, I explained, I didn't really understand how it functioned as, you know, a joke. It was like in grade school, when one kid went around telling a nonsensical joke to see who would laugh, so he could then mock them for trying to act like they understood something they didn't. Only this was a joke he actually thought was a joke.
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So these things represent the previous two days of my life. In the past 24 hours I have fulfilled my two highest Prague priorities - theater and bones. Hopefully I'll have time to post about those soon. I have recently realized that I still have over two weeks left in Prague, and dwindling resources. Dinner tonight was ramen with an egg. Internet is expensive.
-or-
Adding Insole To Injury
Espresso is so universal here that I suspect it is taking so long for them to prepare my Americanese drip coffee because they're not 100% sure how to work the machine. It turns out, ten minutes later, that I was underestimating the staff's knowledge and overestimating the memorable nature of my order.
----------
A statue, in a business area of town, of a dozen blades of grass, each between fifteen and twenty feet tall, ringed into a herd by outsize barbed wire.
----------
Giant portions of Prague seem nearly abandoned. Today is Saturday, so it's possible that in two days' time this red schoolhouse with cloudy, barred windows will be full of life. But many of the weeds are taller than a grade-school child, and there is no paint here fresher than the 1990's. So I prefer to believe it is abandoned.
----------
In the grasses of the hills of Prague, there are ferocious rattle noises every three feet or so. Too frequent and unprovoked to be snakes, I think (hope). And so I stand quietly and stare for a minute until I see an insect, much like a diminutive grasshopper, rubbing its legs together frantically and sporadically. Napoleonesque intimidation or Pepe-Le-Pew bravado? I have no insight on this point.
----------
So much American music. It is a disappointment and a source of pride. And hearing "In The Jungle" at restaurants will never become tiresome. (That is meant without irony. (As is that.))
Note: The above sentiment is undermined by the subsequent playing of "The Circle Of Life."
----------
Disconcerted by the fact that in the past two months, three people have told me that beer is "inefficient." One of them in French.
----------
One of the main landmarks of Old Prague (Stare Mesto) is an ancient and complex clock over the town square. It would appear to give the position of the astrological calendar as well as the day's time and, perhaps, the phase of the moon. Legend is that the regents of the time were so pleased with the clockmaker's work that they put out his eyes, lest he reproduce it in another town.
On the north end of central Prague stands a more recent construction. A giant red metronome squats over the town, swinging back and forth to a slow tempo. One imagines that the designer wanted to keep it basic, so as to avoid the jealous misfortune of his predecessor. But it is also comforting that, in contrast to all the eras and phases and subdivisions of time, there is this shepherd of an invention simply ensuring that time keeps moving forward in an orderly fashion.
----------
The rainfall in Prague is reliably sporadic. It seems you can count on showers of varying intensities at some point in the early afternoon, bookended by sunny weather. There's a disorientingly patchwork quality to it, though, that left me bone-dry in the northeastern corner of the city while a friend in central Prague was being soaked to the bone by persistent storming that seems to have passed me by entirely.
----------
I didn't want to be mean, but everyone seemed to appreciate his joke and I just didn't see what about it was funny. I asked him to explain. He repeated it: "What do you call a year without Christmas? An abortion." My blank look persisted. I like abortion jokes as much or more than the next guy, but I just plain didn't get it. "See, because of Christ. You know, Christ's birthday is on December 25th?" Though I understood the logic of that statement, I explained, I didn't really understand how it functioned as, you know, a joke. It was like in grade school, when one kid went around telling a nonsensical joke to see who would laugh, so he could then mock them for trying to act like they understood something they didn't. Only this was a joke he actually thought was a joke.
----------
So these things represent the previous two days of my life. In the past 24 hours I have fulfilled my two highest Prague priorities - theater and bones. Hopefully I'll have time to post about those soon. I have recently realized that I still have over two weeks left in Prague, and dwindling resources. Dinner tonight was ramen with an egg. Internet is expensive.