Prague according to Hemingway

The following post will be written in the style of Ernest Hemingway. I found this appropriate for two reasons. Number one, I was finishing up “The Sun Also Rises” on the way to Prague. Number two, Hemingway’s most recurrent themes – drinking, women, Existentialism and ragging on Jews – seemed perfect for this segment of our journey. So without further ado…

They took a bus from Berlin to Prague. They ran to the back and claimed the last row. A foul smelling man sat in front of them.

“Can women get B.O.?” Futbol asked.

“Hmm,” said Chotchsky. “That’s a good question. I guess so.”

“I’ve never smelled one, personally,” Futbol said.

The German countryside was lined with enormous windmills. Two Brazilian backpackers near the back fell asleep almost immediately to the hum of the bus engine. Someone in the front lit a cigarette.

“I guess I don’t see any no-smoking signs,” Chotchsky said.

Futbol read Hemingway and chewed on gummi bears. Chotchsky passed out face down across the back row of seats. He had his headphones on and his sunglasses in his left hand. The sun filtered in through the red window curtains.

They stopped for a smoke break. There was a truck selling food out the back. Chotchsky bought a Mars bar and a piece of bread. He paid one euro.

The bus went through Dresden. The crumbling buildings and monuments looked like they were covered in soot. Church tops and metallic crosses were polished and gleaming.

The rows of trees out the window turned into barren fields. The windmills kept turning. The bus entered a long tunnel lit by yellow lamps. The sun had set by the time they emerged on the other side.

“What does the word ‘spry’ mean?” asked Chotchsky, now awake, from the seat behind.

“I’m not completely sure but I think it’s something like sprightly, filled with energy,” Futbol said. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you writing about me?”

“You are the opposite of sprightly,” Chotchsky said.

“Ten minutes,” said the driver, announcing a pit stop.

In the gas station bathroom, Chotchsky looked at the signs and announced that they must have reached the Czech Republic.

Futbol bought iced tea and a chicken nugget sandwich. He wasn’t carrying any Czech Crowns and was not familiar with the exchange rate. He handed over his credit card and attempted to communicate with the attendant, who spoke only Czech.

“They have high-definition security cameras!” yelled Chotchsky from the other end of the gas station.

“Will you stop distracting me?” Futbol screamed back. “I’m trying to conduct a complicated transaction here!”

They got back on. The bus weaved past dark factories, rivers and blocky apartment complexes.

“I’ll have you know that I wrote eight postcards on this trip,” Chotchsky said.

“So that’s like a postcard every half hour,” Futbol said.

“A good average,” Chotchsky replied.

They pulled into the deserted Prague bus station at midnight. They haggled with a cab driver. When they arrived at the Hostel Rosemary, everyone was already asleep.

In the morning they were homeless again. They found a streetside table at a cafe. Chotchsky searched the city for aspirin to calm his fever. He found none. After paying the waiter they went into the first hostel they saw and asked to take a look at the rooms. The receptionist led them upstairs. She kicked aside a pile of plastic bottles that were blocking the hallway. The room walls were a pale lime green. The mattresses were thin and worn. They took the room anyway.

Chotchsky drank aloe vera juice by the bottle. They took a nap. Outside, the Czech traffic roared.

At night they ate with two Americans, Andrew and Natalie. The restaurant was brimming with locals. There was a tuba player and an accordionist. The older Czechs clapped, sang and lifted their beaded mugs of pilsner in celebration.

After dinner, they all walked to a small jazz club at the bottom of a stone staircase. Chotchsky and Andrew ordered shots of absinthe. Natalie got wine with Coke. Futbol stayed loyal to the Gambrinus. Three aging musicians played old-timey Gershwin and Louis Armstrong tunes.

“What did you call those places where people gathered to drink during, like, the Prohibition?” Chotchsky asked.

“You mean a speakeasy?” Futbol said.

“Exactly,” Chotchsky said. “I feel like I’m in a speakeasy.”

The next day they took the tram up to Prague Castle. They listened to the atonal cathedral bells. They watched a string quintet in a concert hall. Prague was inundated with people. Tourists filled cafe tables, drinking beer all day. Beer was cheap and plentiful.

Chotchsky’s fever started to let up after 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Futbol scoured Prague’s bookstores for Murakami books. Tourists whizzed by on Segways near the old Jewish town.

“I think the wars of the future will be fought on Segways,” Futbol said.

“The wars of the future will be fought in space,” Chotchsky said. “On Segways.”

Futbol bought a limited-edition T-shirt at a local clothing store.

“I like the idea that I’ll be the only person in Argentina wearing this shirt,” Futbol said.

“I know you do,” Chotchsky replied sarcastically.

A pile of pamphlets had accumulated on a wooden table at the end of their eight-bed hostel room.

They said things like “Would you like 2 dance or just have drink? Come to Ultramarin music club and try some cocktail of our drink list.”

And “We offer many dishes of International cousine.”

That night, they sat at the hostel bar and ordered a pitcher of Gambrinus. They rolled dice with two American girls.

On their last day, they went to Vysehrad castle. Futbol sat on a brick ledge overlooking the city and the Moldau river. Church bells went off, playing the main theme of Smetana’s “The Moldau”. A light breeze blew inside the castle walls. They walked past the ancient graveyard to the gardens. They sprawled out on the lawn, arms crossed behind their heads, in the shadow of giant stone statues.

In the late afternoon, Futbol dozed off on a park bench while thinking about Toru Okada’s missing cat. That night they played asshole with three Canadians and a Swede. They drank their combined weight in beer.

The final morning brought fresh pineapple and scrambled eggs. They took the tram, then the subway, then the bus to the airport.

“I feel like dook,” Chotchsky said.

“Duke Ellington?” Futbol asked.