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A Taste of Prague in Photos

Meat me at Bukowski's

I am living like a king. The Czech Republic is not yet on the Euro; they use the Czech crown. Consequently, things are affordable for Americans. Beer is dirt cheap and food is comparable to or slightly less expensive than in America. The beer is incredible and the food is, wait for it, delicious. They even season it, like with spices and stuff. I feel like I am on a different planet. Every meal consists of sausage, ham, bacon, beer, potatoes, etc., set to the backdrop of gorgeous buildings and a seedy edge that you don't find in Holland.

On Friday night, Jon and I watched a U2 cover band at a semi-famous bar called, Vagon. Czech Bono couldn't sing but was adept at channeling the tool in real Bono, complete with hand gestures and dancing with a member of the audience during "With or Without You". We were both exhausted after the show. Getting up early and walking the town had taken its toll. We met his friends for a drink and went home shortly thereafter. The second bar had a mini Kentucky vanity plate that said, "rn4roses". Pretty cool.

Saturday started with a breakfast of eggs, a bagel, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, bacon, and sausage. I was in heaven. With bulging bellies we rode the tram to a hill called, Vysehrad. The hill overlooks the Vltava river. The views are breathtaking. We settled in a beer garden for an hour or so, taking in Prague and drinking Pilsner Urquell. Do the aforementioned act before you die.

Jon's friend, Kelly (from Jacksonville, Florida) met us at an expat bar near the town's main thoroughfare where we watched them Gator boys beat up on South Carolina. Dare I say Florida is the best team in the country? Go Gators.

After the game, we went to a place called, Bukowski's, named after legendary author, Charles Bukowski. Bukowski was known for his decadence. He live much of his life homeless and broke so I expected a dive bar with a cloud of smoke. I was mistaken. The bar was really nice and the bartender was an American from California. She let us buy beers and cocktails to go at the end of the night, after last call. She even gave us what can only be described as a Mason jar to carry the ill advised Long Island Iced Tea that Kelly ordered. I love this place.

Today is a nasty one. I was spoiled by a crisp, blue-skied day yesterday. I think we're going to grab another huge meal (I still need to gain two pounds in order to meet my goal for the trip) and drink a couple of the delicious beers.

Pictures are forthcoming.

Be good.

Jon Praha

Jon Mann agrees. There are three stages to expat life. It begins with euphoria. This lasted about a month in my case, five days for Jon. The second stage is frustration. You grow sick of not having decent food, bored by the culture, and annoyed with the lack of access to American football. The second stage lasted about three weeks for me, considerably longer for Jon who is enjoying his first trip abroad. The third stage is acceptance. I can't get enough of Dutch idiosyncrasies. I no longer gorge myself on frites but I have found my niche, finally hit my stride. Jon concurs. Based on two test cases, this is a universal expat condition.

Prague is gorgeous. It looks like Candyland, the boardgame. I keep expecting to turn the corner and climb gumdrop mountain. Jon took me to some of the main sites today and we sampled the local beer. The Czechs are the supposed kings of beer. The verdict is still out but I'll say that the beers are damn good. The original Budweiser was Czech. Our Bud could learn a lot from the Czechs.

Cheers

Sea Dogs Part II

In order to understand the story of the Giant Dutchman (real name, Bernhard), you need some base knowledge of Dutch holiday culture. The Dutch have a Santa Claus. His name is Sinter Klaus. He is not fat and does not live at the North Pole. He is skinny and lives in Spain. The Dutch Santa is obviously way more intelligent than our Santa. Every November, Sinter Klaus makes his trek from warm, beautiful Spain to freezing cold, rainy Holland…by boat. He arrives in Amsterdam around the second week of November and parades through the town on a white horse with his Black Peters.

Black Peters were slaves from Turkey who helped Sinter Klaus travel throughout Holland until December 5th when he doled out either punishment (a kick to the butt) or reward (candy in your shoes and presents). Today Black Peters are white Dutchmen dressed in black face. Sinter Klaus no longer doles out kicks, he just acts like he is going to kick you but stops short of committing a battery.

The whole story seems strange to American ears but, as you can imagine, our story is equally strange to the freaky Dutch. Both traditions pale in strangeness to that of the Frisian Islanders. The Frisian Islands was an independent state until about 200 years ago (this according to Giant Dutchman, in fact, everything that follows is according to Giant Dutchman). They have a distinct language and unique customs.

Frisian Sinter Klaus day is actually a two day affair. The first day is a party where the kids get presents and the whole town drinks and dances. The second day is a bit more involved. All twelve of the town’s men get dressed in black robes with black gloves and shoes and black masks that allow you to see only their eyes. Women are not allowed to leave the house. All boys who are on the cusp of manhood, seventeenish years old, are brought into a dark room with the town’s men. The men are in a line, kind of like a receiving line at a funeral. The boys must shake the hand of each man. Just before the handshake, each man blows an African horn in the boy’s face. If any man senses fear in the boys’ grip he will remain a boy and must wait until the following Sinter Klaus celebration before he gets another stab at manhood, thus delaying his right to shoot a gun, take a bride, etc.

The reason for the African horn is not clear because Giant Dutchman spoke with a heavy accent and I was sitting three seats away from him. Regardless, the whole story left me speechless. He delivered it matter-of-factly and with a sense of pride. The Frisians are not going to raise no sissy boys. If you want to survive on an island in the middle of the North Sea, you have to have some cajones.

Sea Dogs Part I

Northern Holland is surprisingly different from Southern Holland. A huge majority of the population resides in the Southwest of the country. I imagine this population density contributes to the overall lack of courtesy I have experienced in Den Haag and elsewhere in the Randstad (the name for Holland's most densely populated area including Amsterdam, the Hague, and Rotterdam). The Northern Dutch are friendly and helpful. We ended up on the wrong train at one point because Dutch trains have this peculiar habit of occasionally splitting and going in different directions. The front half of the train will go to one city while the back half travels to a completely different destination. We did not know this. Chris, Jon, and I ended up in Groningen when we should have been in Leuwardden (or something like that). When the friendly Dutch lady in front of me caught wind of our mistake she slapped my knee and apologized as if it were her fault. It wasn't a simple, "sorry about that." She felt guilty about leaving me to brave Northern Holland by myself. "I should have told you", she said.

"No ma'am, you couldn't have known."

"Oh, but I should have asked to where you were traveling."

"It's ok, really, we'll just take the train to Leuwardden."

"Oh, I feel so bad."

Her reaction was refreshing, especially since, when I first sat down, she took about ten minutes to move her feet from my personal space. European trains (and maybe American trains I just haven't seen one like this) often have a group of four or more seats that face one another. I chalked her initial lack of consideration up to typical Dutch behavior; but in hindsight I think she was just completely engrossed in her book and didn't notice me.

The Frisian Island of, Ameland, is only accessible by ferry. The weather was nearly ideal although the wind blew pretty hard all weekend. Our first order of business was to rent bikes and then find a place to sleep for the night. The tourist office gave us some suggestions and we set about finding them. Ameland consists of three (maybe four) little villages. They aren't even towns. We found a bed and breakfast in Buren for 22 Euro per person per night. You would pay this for just about any hostel in Europe but you wouldn't receive a fraction of the amenities anywhere else. Our home for the night was the everyday home of, Bernadette Metz. Bernadette was like some sort of benevolent apparition who gave us a clean sheets, a spotless bathroom, and a typical Dutch breakfast in the morning then disappeared to her room or the mainland or wherever it is that she goes when she's not smiling and serving us food. It was one of my favorite European lodging experiences.

There is not much to do on Ameland which is exactly why we chose it. The small villages are bordered by farmland and natural dunes. We explored the island for two days, stopping only to eat, sleep, or look around on foot. After a lackluster dinner the first night we walked into the pub across the street from Frau Metz's. Our entrance was like the scene in Animal House where a bunch of white fraternity guys walk into a black bar, the music stops, and everyone stares at them. I'm sure I've told you this but the Dutch stare. They do it all the time. You just get used to it after a while. There's a difference between a Dutchman staring you down as he passes on his bike and a bar full of Dutchmen ceasing their conversations to stare at you. We ordered up a round and talked amongst ourselves before the giant Dutchman in the corner started a conversation. I will reserve the contents of this conversation for a separate post because it requires some background about the Dutch holiday season in order to fully grasp the story. The bar was cozy. I would guess there were about twelve patrons including us. We asked Giant Dutchman what time the bar closed. At this point it was about 7:30. The whole town was closed except for this bar and the hotel bar next door. Giant Dutchman debunked our assumption of early last call by telling us that the bar would be open until 4:00 but if we wanted more booze, we could go next door and if that was closed he had more back at his place. This was an enticing offer but it was completely contrary to our weekend goals. We wanted to detox and enjoy the outdoors, not drink all night with Dutchmen. I know what you're thinking. You think we drank ten more beers and then went to this guy's house and learned all kinds of crazy things about Frisian culture. If I had made the decision that night, your assumption would be correct. Chris and Jon were not up for a late night so we went home early. They would later confess that they did not understand what he was asking and, if they had, we probably would be out in the dunes hearing tales of Viking battles and the Frisian independence movement. It worked out for the best because I am now fully relaxed from the weekend and dude could have been some weirdo who wanted to pray on tourists.

Contest

I need some encouragement. I am looking for someone to cheer me up about Premier Obama. You don't have to convince me that he's going to be a good President, just provide a coherent argument outlining how he is not going to drive us into a second Great Depression followed by dictatorship followed by the apocalypse. That's all. First prize is a pack of peanut M & M's. Second prize, a pat on the butt. Third prize, a high five.