And I blushed with recognition at every word it said:

I know, I know. Michael Ondaatje, from an old favorite of mine, his memoir Running in the Family:

The thalagoya [a giant Ceylonese monitor] has a rasping tongue that "catches" and hooks objects. There is a myth that if a child is given thalagoya tongue to eat he will become brilliantly articulate, will always speak beautifully, and in his speech be able to "catch" and collect wonderful, humorous information.
...
My father, who was well aware of the legend, suggested we eat some when we were in the Ambalantota resthouse. One had just been killed there, having fallen through the roof. All the children hid screaming in the bathroom until it was time to leave.

It's funny to think about language like this, all hooks & catches, as though we're all to be nabbed like so many sea turtle hatchlings (reading lately is of Sri Lanka and Costa Rica, see); but we are, I suppose, or anyway it is pretty to think so. Pretty or vital, maybe, for me.

And so I think of this song from John's Daytrotter session, think of letters I have sent & have not sent. Is this the only reason we use words? for hooking & catching? It would be nice to believe that no, it is not - but I do not rightly know. If there were a thalagoya before me now, I would pay a tremendous price for that gift. These are maddening days, & I find myself increasingly unable to explain just what has gone on in the past twenty-odd years of my life.

So why am I writing this here? After I swore I was done? That other person who I spent this whole blog quoting remembers this - "Saint Thomas [says] we may pray for all those things we are not forbidden to want." If this has not been the tongue of a thalagoya, perhaps I can convince you that at the very least it has been some kind of prayer wheel, both a tool of wanting & an idol to all the silly desires that make up our short, crazed lives. Our eyes dim at the altar of such riotous, uncounted beauty.

"I mean, it broke what wasn't broken in there already:"

You know, I thought that last entry was a good place to quit, but all ya'll keep clicking, which I guess is the Internet 2.0 equivalent of an encore, hey? So anyway. Sort of a strange day. America tomorrow, job interview next week, a story of questionable quality being published in a respected literary journal sometime this summer. None of that is much worth talking about. Instead I will post the last section of the paper for my mountain class. I hope that it will make sense to you, as much as these past three and a half months can make sense, as much as anything we can find to tell ourselves in this short cycle of seasons we call our lives will make sense before, in our last lighted days, we find some comfort in concluding that that which we called "sense" is as much a construct of language as those things we sought to attribute to it. This was, more or less, the subject of my essay:

In May I come again and find Petřin Hill utterly changed. Everywhere the low ferns and flowering trees are exploding into blossom, and those once-uninterrupted views of the castle and of the two towns below it are now observed by the green of leaves, the blues and reds and yellows of budding flowers and the rushes of color from the flying birds, titmice and blackbirds lured by the scent of all this new weather, chased by the dogs whose winter dominance over the hill is again being challenged. Standing on the footbridge above the funicular track, heavy branches lean into my field of vision; I do not know if it is the leaves that have bent the branch, some sudden snowfall arrived before I had, or if this yearning is all on the part of the branch – if it, too, is stretching forward in search of a better view of this season-tugged beauty.

These things are not a surprise, not to anyone who has been paying attention, but to know a thing is there is not the same as to see it. Walking along a tree-tunneled Petřin path, I noticed a small green leaf floating down from the sky. I passed it by. A few meters later I came upon the same sight. This time I moved up next to it – no leaf at all, a green caterpillar was writhing there in mid-air, dancing to some arrhythmic, unknowable song; perhaps the same song hidden from me at Mácha’s Lake weeks before. I knew, I knew I knew, that it was hanging from a bit of silk, that it had come down from one of those overhanging trees shading the mid-morning sun from the path. But I could not see it, not for the life of me, not for all the molting, dancing caterpillars on all of Prague’s hills. Dillard spends an entire chapter of her narrative on “seeing.” No wonder: I saw five more caterpillars hanging from that same dangerous height just that morning, on just that path. What do you suppose we have eyes for, then?
*
In a letter to a friend, Thoreau wrote:

If you have been to the top of Mt. Washington, let me ask, what did you find
there?…Going up there and being blown on is nothing. We never do much climbing
while we are there, but we eat our luncheon very much as at home. It is after we
get home that we really go over the mountain, if ever. What did the mountain
say? What did the mountain do?

And I cannot help but think of my own travels in the Czech Republic this way. Is it enough that I went? I suppose that no, it is not enough. But I do not know how it is that I should come to climb this mountain, if I should even be so lucky as to find it.

But let’s say I do find it, that I climb it and come back to find my life changed, having climbed this spiritual mountain to match the physical one. What words will I use to describe this journey? Should I be describing it at all?

Thoreau wants to know what the mountain said, what it did; or at least, he claims he does. But I do not believe him. No, I think the real trick comes before, to come down from that mountain, physical or spiritual, and ask those questions. Whether you answer in your own words or those of someone else does not matter so much; indeed, it doesn’t matter if you answer at all. The thing is to ask.

And we need words for that. We can climb all the mountains we want, until we are blue in the face and bone-thin from exhaustion, but unless there is a way for us to articulate that mountain to ourselves, all we will really have succeeded in doing is getting ourselves blown on. Landscape can exist without humans, and language cannot – but man cannot exist in landscape without language. This is the first mountain we climb, the first journey we make; it is the one that allows all others.

"There's no light anywhere, and nothing left to burn:"

These past few days I have been thinking a lot about ephemerality and this experience. With apologies to Mr. Brodsky there on the right, I am not so convinced that memories can be all that is left to me from these days. I lost my camera on Friday (with some 200 un-uploaded photos) and of course this is sad in its own way, but it is sadder to think that in time everything I have done here will be similarly obliterated. Already, the some 150 journal pages I've entered in the past three months are separating from the binding. Though a boy here named Eric (not to be confused with real Eric) was kind enough to point out that it just looks like I had used the journal a lot (hey), whatever positive connotations this has are nevertheless balanced out by the physical reality, the real landscape to the imagined; Marilynne Robinson: "It is better to have nothing, for at last even our bones will fall."

Nothing new, nothing new. "It's familiar, but not too familiar (and not too not-familiar)," says a songwriter I do not quote so often, for fear of drawing funny looks on the street, but he is singing about me, you know? It is all but decided that I will not be returning to Pittsburgh for any kind of living in any kind of future, and it is better this way, better to go somewhere where I can lie and lie and lie about my time in Europe, where I can use this steady deterioration of evidence to my advantage (I have had some success with this kind of dishonesty in the recent past, as some of you may know). And where there are jobs and pretty girls worth my trouble, obviously, but that must be everywhere but Pittsburgh, say?

So let's say there is nothing left to burn, then. Let's call this the last blog entry (no Prague pictures left, anyway!) and start this slow and pleasant process of forgetting. I am not one for forgetting, myself, but maybe this will be one thing left to learn here, in this city so sure of its ability to always remember.

So I got this email from the director of my program, ostensibly about "culture shock" on returning to America. Bitch please, I got all this from Leslie Pitt Abroad before I left. But there was this one part that made me laugh. Can you even imagine why?:

Family and friends may show less interest in your stories and experiences than
you expect. This may make you feel lonely, misunderstood, or unappreciated.

Less interest in my stories? Gasp! You guys are all still interested in my stories, right? I mean, you like to hear me talk about the snow-white pigeon I saw today, or how the sun reflecting off the bust of Franz Kafka in the square the bears his name actually made it look, just for a moment, a little bit like Kafka, or the boys I saw in the same square sitting on the ground drawing fantastic palaces and castles in sketchbooks...right?

i know we don't talk much, but you're such a good talker:

This morning on the tram I noticed an attractive young lady studying what appeared to be a workbook in the Czech language. "How interesting," I said to myself, "perhaps I will peek over her shoulder a bit more." Upon doing so, I found that only half of the workbook was in Czech. The other half, it turns out, was in Swedish. That's right, friends, she was teaching herself Swedish. Goodness, I don't even know what I could say to someone in that situation. "Kanske ar jag kar I dig," I suppose. Thanks, Jens.

don't mention lost coastlines, where nothing actually seen has been mapped or outlined:

Oh, I actually do have a cute little blog here, don't I? Well, not for much longer; three weeks left on the Continent. How shall I celebrate? Today I celebrated by making a pretend syllabus for a class I want to teach when I grow up. Earlier this week I made a list of all the things in life I "like" (you were all lumped into the category of "pretty girls." Yeah, even the boys.) in the hopes of, gosh let's say "mapping" them to potential jobs. My suitemate suggested this means I should be a party-planner, then asked me how my breakdown was going:

"Oh yeah, I am breaking down these interests!"
"..."
"You didn't mean that kind of breakdown, did you?"

I hope do some kind of meet & greet with the Pitt Study Abroad folks when I get back so I can explain all of these things to them. I am really good at explaining things; I left that off my list. Be right back!

"Contemplating suicide or a graduate degree:"

In my never-ending search for cheap English books in this little town, I bought myself a copy of Camus's Myth of Sisyphus. Clearly, this is exactly the kind of book I need to be reading these days. Ummm:

The important thing...is to live with one's ailments [that is, the madness stemming from the absurdity of modern life.] Kierkegaard wants to be cured. To be cured is his frenzied wish and it runs throughout his whole journal. The entire effort of his intelligence is to escape the antinomy of the human condition. An all the more desperate effort since he intermittently perceives its vanity when he speaks of himself, as if neither fear of God nor piety were capable of bringing him to peace.

And here, you thought talking about Kierkegaard was only good for getting into grad school and getting laid! Shows what you know, reader. Anyhoo, though the ostensible purpose of Camus here is to examine why suicide is not a logical reaction to K's (and everyone else who has ever thought about life, ever) dilemma, I have found it more useful for introducing me to phenomenology, the school of philosophy that I have been inadvertently practicing in this blog all semester. Imagine that - I was just going to call it "field-guiding." Now if I could only find the essential works of Edmund Husserl for less than 150 crowns, I'd be set.

Well, that and a job.

we drank champagne & danced all night under electric candlelight

Building:

Not too impressive looking, I know. So why do you suppose I would even take a picture of it? Well, as it turns out, it houses most of the National Gallery's collection of 19th & 20th century art. Oh. Wouldn't it be better to put it in this building?

For some reason, I wasn't consulted. Anyhow, I wouldn't even be bringing this up unless I wanted to talk about what's inside the building. The art? Well, not quite:

I am not 100% certain what purpose this building served in the past, but if I had to guess I suppose it would either be Ikea warehouse or Martian Embassy. The main focus of both of these pictures, by the way, is a giant glass elevator (hi, Roald Dahl!) that takes you from the ground floor all the way up to the tippy top. Most of the art I liked was somewhere in between. I had actually hoped to link you to a few of my favorites, but incredibly I could find none of them on the internet. This has made me frustrated and grumpy, resulting in this not being the ideal entry I had hoped. I can see why a lot of the paintings I liked aren't available in tiny picture form (popular = bad, duh &c) but why, for instance, can I find none of František Kupka's early paintings anywhere? He's, like, famous n'at. Goodness.

Anyway, here's a peacock:

Fun with the Czech language: I have been trying to convince my Czech teacher (hearts out to you, Lenka) of the importance of teaching my class more idioms. She has been largely compliant. "Mám opice!" translates literally as "I have a monkey," but is rather used to denote the possession of a hangover or a polite tipsy-ness (perhaps ala "I'm a little tight after this second highball," yes?). Along the same lines, we were also taught "Jsem za skolou dnes." This is literally "I'm behind school today," but actually means you are cutting class. You might be wondering about Lenka at this point. Yesterday we went for a walk and she showed us the street where one would go to (sorry!) solicit a prostitute. If it makes you feel better, we also learned the word for panda. It's "panda." But the fun part about that is that the plural is thus "pandy." Pandy, pandy, pandy. Mám rad pandy, duh.

In a related story, you won't believe what I read in Walden last night. So Thoreau is standing within a rod (hah) of an owl, right? He doesn't want to get the owl's attention, but: "[The owl] could hear me when I moved and cronched the snow with my feet..." !!!!!!! What next? Edgar Allen Poe describing his encounter with a "ridiculously prosh bun?" I cannot even take it.

Today, everything is different. Love is not that shy as it used to be. It's less reluctant and more impatient. One must come to peace with this. I wouldn't want somebody to think that I want to be praising the bygone days but I still must say that in our times, love used to be more beautiful because of something beautiful.
Still, I cannot claim this for sure and wouldn't want to bet my life on it.
Today, it's all quiet and empty here. Not a bird. No lovers anywhere. And yet...all of a sudden, a bit of snow fell at my feet and right after that I could hear some quiet and shy chirping in the branches. And I did meet lovers, in the end. They were walking next to each other, cuddling and silent, shrouded in the veil of their breath. Soon, they too disappeared in the enormous white silence.
I saw them again in the steamy atmosphere of one café on the Malostranské Square, where the smell of coffee mixes with cigarette smoke and the smell of wet coats. It must have been them, the two from Petřín. I recognized them well. They walked in and were blowing warm breath on their fingers. The cold is bitter.
But is it possible to hold hands with gloves on?

From "Macha's Bouquet" by Jaroslav Seifert. Not much to say about this, except that the café in question is now a Starbucks. Tak. "More beautiful because of something beautiful" is right!

Scene: Last week in my film class, we had some technical difficulties, lasting about twenty minutes. This was a good opportunity for eavesdropping, of course. A group of students were sitting around, trying to figure out just who Phillip Seymour Hoffman is. One boy knows him, and does a nice job of going through his IMDB profile:

Boy #1: He was in Capote! Have you seen that?
Boy #2: Never heard of it.
Girl #1: You guys are naming all guy movies.
Boy #1: It won an Oscar.
Boy #2: Nope, don't remember it.
Boy #1: Well, whatever. He was pretty good in it.
[Long pause]
Girl #1: What's a "capote," anyway?

Fin.

Your letters say that you're beside me now:

This weekend I went hiking in the almost-inexplicably named Czech Switzerland; in truth, it really does for look like Switzerland, or at least the pictures of cute Swiss towns I have seen. Unfortunately, you'll have to just take my word for this, as the battery on my camera (typed: "camera on my battery" - now wouldn't that be a thing?) died after the first night there, meaning I was unable to take pictures of any of the adorable towns we visited on Sunday, including the one where my mountain professor (oh yeah, and Karel Hynek Macha) is from and another centered around a cookie factory with pastel houses populated by Vietnemese emigrants lining the streets. Oh my. Also was unable to take any pictures of the whore house where we stayed Saturday night (Okay, okay, yes I know, you're all saying "Goodness, haven't we heard this story from you? For someone who claims to have never paid someone for sexovating, you sure do know a lot of hookers!" Well, that is fair, but in this case I am fairly certain I did not run into any of Decin's working laides. Only their madam. And the place where they work.).

It is springtime today, and though I am sick I am really beginning to enjoy all of the small pleasures of my nervous breakdown (I mean semester in Europe!): almost getting off the train in a horrifying chemical factory in Northern Bohemia, the smell of the aforementioned baking Orion cookies in Lovosice, finding juice boxes in the hypermarket, a nice girl falling asleep on my shoulder somewhere near Prague last night, all this sunshine so late in the evening - daylight savings time is finally here, "So Long, Marianne" showing up on the radio station in the laundromat &c &c. Tak.

Finally, the goats are okay:



Well, almost all of them. Get well soon, John!

Someone found this blog by googling "trees and flowers in prague." They may well be the first reader of any writing of mine to not come away at least a little disappointed - trees and flowers? Yeah, I got that.

Last night I dreamt I was a farmer. The field was neat and orderly and not too large, maybe thirty rows by thirty or something like that. Though I did not think it explicitly, I suppose it was meant to be modeled after Thoreau´s bean field at Walden Pond, though there was no pond here, no forest - rather, it was in the midst of a great grassy plain, huge blue skies something like what I have found here in these past two months. I do not remember a temperature, but it must have been spring: the field was budding here and there, though it was still far too early to know what I was growing. How can anyone dream of anything but spring these days?

"You are a starling. I've seen you fly through a longleaf pine without missing a beat."

"Revelation" -

Suppose the past could not be recalled
any more than we can foretell
the future, that in order to remember
we'd have to visit an oracle,
or a storefront gypsy reading Tarot,
or consult astrologers
who could, so to speak, forecast history
by the alightment of the stars.

There'd be no photographs,
but foreign grandmothers could recapture
our childhoods by reading the wrinkles
in tea bags. At a singles bar,
some after-work seeress might take our hands
and trace the lines of our palms
back to our first love affairs.

At such moments, the past
would suddenly boom into consciousness
with a shock like clairvoyance.
What had happened would seem to loom
with the mystery of what will happen,
and stunned by this unwanted gift, we'd pray
for the revelation to be lifted.

For such visions become blinding.
Citizens of the shattered, ordinary order
would find themselves struggling to survive,
strung out somewhere between amnesia
and a paralyzing nostalgia, while those
most gifted with the second sight of memory
would wander honored, feared, and reviled,
as prophets wander through our present world.

- Stuart Dybek

"And if he finds out you miss him, he'll tear you apart:"

Happy Easter, journal. This morning I walked to Old Town Square because it was snowing & someone told me there were baby goats at the Easter Market. Who doesn't love baby goats? I found the place where they once must have been and several fires ominously nearby. They never had a chance! But I was reconciled with the holiday by the ringing of bells from Tyn Church as services let out; I walked with the stream of worshippers through that snow & sound down Celetna Street in a daze until, passing one of those endless inlets of fast-food shopping in Old Town, a couple interrupted their quiet stream of Czech to say, "Subway: Eat Fresh!" with those ever-creepy perfect American accents. I have a special way of designating moments such as these, stolen from The Waves, wherein Rhoda hears a bell and remarks that she's been "called back to [her] body." That's more or less today, only the bell was the luller, not the awakener. So to speak.


In other news, yesterday I went to a "wild game preserve" & saw white deer. They were super adorable, of course. Look!:














Later we saw less adorable wild boars & pheasants. Then the gameskeeper took us inside to view the bones of "murdered" deer. Um. Mostly I just petted his dog during this part. What would you have done???


Recently Eric has referred to this blog as "a field guide" & wondered if these things should be taken as a sign. Well, of course they are a sign! - after all, isn't that what I just spent four years in Pittsburgh doing, learning how to say one thing when I really mean to say another? Some of you may remember one year not so long ago when I took a dreadful poetry class with a highly respected woman who I don't think I need to name at this point (nor use her oh-so-hilarious "nickname," but thanks for remember); amidst our many aesthetic battles (me: "Write about what you want!" her: "Write about being black!") was the time I wrote something after Anne Carson on war & caterpillars, to which she commented that I would be better off writing about something I found in my pocket, instead. I was incensed at the time, but it is funny to think that my life has really turned out to be something like that. Good lookin' out, Toi. (Whoops!)

"I head out onto the earth, its cold heart is melting:"

(For those of you curious to know what my real journal entries are like, you may be pleased to know this is adapted from such a document. Don't get used to it.)

Today the weather was nice enough for me to travel over to dear old Letna Park where, despite the occasionally frigid temperatures the past few days, spring has finally arrived. What better way to celebrate than to go catch the blooming trees and flowers, right? And so I did, and though many are still bare, it was enough for me to see the truth of one of my favorite parts from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, where Annie discusses her love for winter: though everything is dead and bare, she reasons, there is still value to be had in this - places that in spring become a labyrinth of life & low movements are in the cold season unlocked doors, place to peer through. This was the case with Letna last month, but suddenly, these things are obscured by colors:





















(It has been snowing these past few days, & though the flowers have been resilient in the face of this, you'll have to excuse them these raindrops; we can't all be at our best all the time, right?)

Even better, as I was walking through the park, there were an unsuual number of birds along my path. "What could they be doing?" I wondered, until I saw one with a stick in its beak fly up into a tree. Nesting! Baby birds! Springtime!:





Later, I was about to snap the picture of the cutest bird when two mean-spirited dogs scared it off, then had the nerve to bark at me. Can you imagine, after ruining my fine nature moment like that, barking? If anything, I should have barked at them.

Distance helps me only so much:

Yeah, yeah. Nice enough weekend in Poland, lots of pretty churches, pretty markets, pretty girls &c . What have I ever described?

Big news is I came back to color! - splashes of yellow and red from the flowering bushes along the 22/23 tram line back to my dorm made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and the trees on Kampa Island are already budding, though I fear the heavy wind and potential snow of the coming week may do some of this early progress in. Nonetheless, things are on the up and up, more or less; today I got wistful over silly things like a lollipop in the Old Town Square Easter Market that said "I [heart] you" and rereading the story I was working on before I left America (remember America? where I was a writer? And there were Cheez-its? Me neither). Every time I saw a mountain on the way to Krakow I wanted to stop and climb it; I don't know what to say about these things anymore!

How can you have everything, and nothing to lose?

Briefly noted: working out my weekend schedule for the rest of the semester, I find I will only really be leaving the country for once more after my trip to Poland tomorrow (for a sojourn to Budapest sometime in April, I reckon). What will I be doing with the rest of my time in Čechy, you ask? Why, visting mountains, of course! (At some later date I will, perhaps, give you all a rundown of actually where these mountains are and what exactly makes them so fab. Maybe I´ll warn you in advance. Or I would if anyone was still reading this!)

In other news, I went hunting for Balloon Tower Defense 3 and discovered it does not yet exist. How can this be so? Here I am in Europe going through all kinds of live-changing experiences, and these nerds cannot even come up with fifty more levels of balloon-popping monkey wackery for my enjoyment? Too busy? Není pravda!

You reminded me of all the things I´d given up forever:

This weekend I went to two lovely places. You will find many pictures of them on my Flickr page. For those who find clicking that link too much effort (or still have faith in this blog´s future), here are some highlights. First, from the forest preserve Český ráj (literally, "Czech paradise"):

(I slept in that last castle.) Today I went to the aforementioned botanical gardens for the aforementioned orchid exposition. Here are some:

I bought a baby orchid of my own to grow as I was leaving; should this blog continue, I expect it will mostly take the form of me updating you about how my orchid is doing. Well, that and pictures of birds. Big plans, big plans.

Have been reading a collection of essays called Hidden History by Otokar Březina. Here is a bit of it (emphasis mine):

No one can grasp the beauty of that which he does not love. Between the subject and the creator there must be a spiritual relationship, if a work is to come about which will last; a spiritual relationship, a radiant force field, in which sparks fly from one heart to another when they drawn near to each other. Thus in the works of the great masters, whose love extended to everything that lives on earth, there is so much goodness, justice, and in all its tragic lot, so much tenderness...Obsession with the features one loves creates the style of a work of art. It reveals the hidden characteristics of the creator's being to all, since we love only where we are mysteriously reflected. Love establishes our kind and our place in the hierarchy of spirits...

There is no artistic work into whose whirlpool the waves of another, invisible world could not be carried along. Every creative work is a work of mystical obedience.

To which Thoreau, writing some fifty years earlier, says:

A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; - not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.

And finally John, writing scant months ago:

And flaming swords may guard the Garden of Eden
but we've consulted maps from earlier days;
dead languages on our tongues
holding on to our last hope

I'm sure you're all terribly curious what this means for *me,* but I am sick to death of writing about myself.

The internet claims that the band I mentioned yesterday is actually from Germany. The internet lies. The number 25 tramvaj that escorted me from the Hradčanska metro station to my happy (temporary) home tells the truth.

Nothing else to report today. Speaking of telling the truth, here is more from Cary:

Why does no one sing praises of the blessed hangover? Maybe it is taboo, the secret enjoyment of a few. But I remember early on liking certain things about the next day: the quiet, the serenity, the feeling of having purged the poison from my soul, having ranted and raved and made inappropriate passes at inappropriate moments in inappropriate places and survived to chuckle gingerly at the memory -- in the early days, anyway, when such things were remembered.

What a wonderful and romantic time that was, to laugh it off and go eat an omelet.

"I saw a note from her explaining her needs; I'd write her back, but we know she can't read:"

Sigh, I had just typed up the loveliest entry here, but then this terrible fake computer deleted it. As I'm apt to do whenever this happens, here are the highlights of what the entry would have contained (me, tell? Imagine!):

1. Czech girls are tall, I'm not, how sad.
2. Prague Botanical Gardens have something called "the succulent section." Steak joke; I'll be there next week for orchids.
3. Popular Danish band The Notwist is playing in Prague in April, I can't wait. I loved them when I was sixteen, along with another terrible Danish band called dEUS. You can laugh at me for whatever reason those facts amuse you (it's one of those puzzles where you can see the stare paní and the hezka hulka, you know?)

Actually, this is sort of better than the first one. Metaphor, metaphor. There is a lot less Czech in it, anyway. Have ya'll bought those dictionaries like I asked, yet?

I would be remiss in my blogging duties if I didn't point ya'll to this article, written by Mr. Master-of-timing-in-my-life himself, Cary Tennis. Longtime fans of my online work will kindly recall that Mr. Tennis has come in handy in my life in the past, and I very much appreciated this little article, though it is perhaps a week or two late.

"You are [in Europe] to learn how to respond to adversity disguised as good fortune," he says, and for those of us not too afraid to allow a little introspection into their lives, this couldn't be any more true!

You said you were a poet, but man, your poetry wasn't obvious to me:

I know you all are just dying to hear what I did on my birthday here on the Continent. Would you be satisfied to know I did something as patently European as shots of absinthe? Oh, it would? Great. Tak. (I'm sure everyone is also very excited for me to return to the United States and find all my favorite catch-phrases translated into Czech. You should be, though I have to confess I am not 100% certain how "That's what she said" translates at the moment; I haven't gotten to past tenses yet!)

This morning on the bus to the horribly sad village of Lidice (you can Wikipedia this place at your leisure) there was a flash thunderstorm. Nice to know spring is on the way, but also nice to know there are flash thunderstorms here, too. The littlest things. I am taking a break from "[books] no one has heard of" to read
Walden. This is one of those things I should have done ten years ago, apparently. On writing:

I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one's while to buy them. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men's while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them. The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?

Guess who wants to build his own house in the forest now?

How much do I love my Eastern European cinema class? Tonight we watched TWO Slovak films I've been dying to see for ages (& somehow not available on DVD, way to go Criterion Collection), The Sun in the Net (Hi, Dan!) & Birds, Orphans & Fools. Though I know the popular stereotype of me is that I would naturally enjoy the former, it being hyper-depressing (that being greater than super, for those not well-versed in the secrets of Sonic the Hedgehog 3) & carefully crafted & beautiful, in truth the second one really did it for me. I could quote it forever - "Here comes the new wave!" the protagonists say, pissing. Later one of them lies in bed with the female love interest (though they both do at various points - Jules & Jim, anyone?): "Miluješ mě," he says. "Ne, nedelam," she replies, but nobody is fooling the audience; we've lived enough to never believe the woman in this situation. Wait, what was this entry about?

Oh, anyway, I would be remiss in my painting of "Prague Pictures" if I didn't mention this city's obsession with their new Oscar winner, the chick from Once. Though I recognize that this film was more or less aimed wholly in my direction ("Oh, gee, I suppose it would be nice to have an adorable Czech girl play music with me and maybe ride buses with in an expensive European Union city!"), I wasn't a huge fan. I guess the song was fine, though I thought the reaction of another program girl to the award news was funnier: "Oh, she wrote that song with the guy from The Frames. I LOVE The Frames!" I mean, I guess I would feel this way if it had been, I don't know, John Darnielle, but then John isn't the lead singer of a band whose name means it can easily be confused with "The Bravery" or any number of other terrible British modern rock acts touted by the NME (& anyway, is the Academy really going to reward someone for "There's a monkey in the basement; where did the monkey come from, where did the monkey come from?" Maybe in some kind of fantasy land, the kind where this entry is wholly unnecessary.)

"Yes, & such small portions!" -

I realize that my last post, made in some haste, may make it appear as though I am again disenchanted with things here. This is not the case - I have thoroughly enjoyed this wonderful spring-like weather, enjoyed making some steady progress in the playfully obtuse Czech language, enjoyed my favorite brand of Tesco "American-style" cookies (Chocolate chip hazlenut, fy information), & enjoyed most of all taking all manner of photographs of statues for an upcoming blog entry that can only be described as "monumental." Thanks, I'll be here all night!

And really, though that may be the case, I am accepting some of the realities of this situation, & that has been helpful. Though I mock the program kids mercilessly for their seemingly (or not so seemingly) arbitrary decision to study abroad here, it must have been nice to come to a town with no prior knowledge of the culture, no goals to accomplish (other than "raging" and "balling"), & no expectations. So for me here talking to myself on the internet, painting this disjointed picture of a place I still barely know, it has been helpful to realize that this picture won't match up with the one I had imagined over a year ago (& how could it, when I am hardly the same person now I was then?). "So I suppose it's good to know," and so it is, even if you think this in a language that has THREE VERBS FOR THE ACTION OF KNOWING WTF.

(In writin' class, we call that last bit "an unexpected change in tone." Girl on bus from Vienna - "I prefer getting emails from my boyfriend to talking to him on the phone; he's a writer." Oof.)

Or write a letter that says we feel so alone sometimes with each other:

Well, I suppose I should write something here, shouldn´t I? Spent the weekend in Vienna; I would post pictures, but we´re trying to be literal with the title of this blog nowadays, right? It was very nice, anyway, though I regret having such a short time there. Yesterday, in my continuing tour of Prague makeout spots, I visited Šárka meadow, a mountain ravine outside of town. It also had a McDonald´s next door.

Ummm. I guess I should talk about it more? I really don´t feel like it! Mostly these days I am anxious for spring, as happens this time of year; while the program kids here scatter throughout (Western) Europe in the coming weeks, I will wait for this city to bloom. Already there are birds returning - I saw a hawk in another park this morning, and there was that swan I mentioned last time. But soon there will be leaves on trees again, caterpillars and butterflies again. Someone somewhere once said "I´ll fight off the spring, I don´t want lovely things, I don´t want the Earth new," but of course he wasn´t serious and you can´t be serious if you don´t believe I don´t need these things in my life right now.

And if you can't get here fast enough, I will swim to you:

Though today I watched a terribly gruesome (terrible?) film in my film class tonight (a film in your film class? Get out!), I shall perhaps leave that discussion for another day. In the meantime, I'd like to do some pictures, if that's okay with ya'll. These may be in poor taste considering recent events in my life, but you know, who does poor taste better than me? No one I know! So yes, let's begin. Here is a church:












Looks nice and normal enough, hey? Other than the saint wagging his finger, but we've all had that day; sometimes the heretics just get you down, and you gotta give them the ol' Dikembe Mutumbo. Anyway, let's look inside:











Say, that's a nice enough statue of Jesu....are those BONES? Is that Our Lord and Savior surrounded by a necklace of skulls??

Well as it turns out, it is. This little church is located near the old mining town of Kutna Hora, and last week we had a chance to visit it. Apparently, Kutna Hora was hit pretty hard by a plague of one kind or another, and there were all these bones lying around. Being the ingenious Czechs they are, the church elders decided to make decorations out of them. Of course they did:





























Now aren't you glad you didn't give up on this blog? My birthday is the 28th, by the by, in case any of you want to reward me for this expert bit of blogging.

"I could make you smile, if you stayed awhile..."

"Oh, hello 2004! Nice to see you, again. Are you studying in Prague this semester also?"

A bit tipsy tonight. Some of you have been clamoring for my address, given that my first non-eventful birthday is approaching. Now don't send me gifts all at once, okay?:

[My name]
Kolej Komenskeho
Parlerova 6
169 00 Praha 6
Czech Republic

You are welcomed to further Czech-icize that address at your leisure. Including my name, though you'll find precious few options in that department - better to just call me Jan or Petr, I think.

Speaking of Czech, the first day of my second language class of the year featured a substitute teacher (glad to see someone is getting a spring break, lollies, not) who, and I know I say this a lot but I really mean it this time, was so, so pretty. And she brought her dog. I would definitely not be able to take this class if she were not my substitute. I accidentally propositioned her when conjugating verbs. "Accidentally." "Conjugating." "Quotation marks." I love to pretend, perhaps you've heard.

Second second day of classes brought my much-anticipated mountain class, where we sit around at a small table all day and talk about mountains (in English, Dan. Good grief.) Clearly this is the greatest thing that could ever happen to my academic career, especially when my professor is so quotable: "Chaos and confusion are part of local charm," she says, referring to the inability of Charles University to have any clue where to place their foreign students. Chaos and confusion and adorable Czech girls, anyway. For Thursday's class we will discuss mountains in Native American creation myths and the Hebrew Bible. Later our professor will tell us about wonderful mountains in Cechy for us to visit. I am going to all of them.

Last night I went to a Czech Wal-Mart. While technically it was a branch of popular European department store Tesco, in truth it was a Wal-Mart - even the color scheme was the same. I kept my head up, aware of the danger of falling prices. I bought a coffee press, finally. It was cheap; the premium Kenyan coffee I bought afterwards was not.

What is everyone's fondest memory of the Fidel Castro era? I think I will miss his military fatigues most of all.

nations rise and nations fall (and ours will be no different):

Well, now that I have scared off all of the readership here, I suppose I can continue updating this blog. Today I had my second first day of school of the semester; it was more relaxing than the first first day of school, I think, mostly because it ended so quickly. As though seeking to find an immediate and permanent place in my heart, the professor for this class (History of the Czech Lands and Central Europe) brought his own map(s) to class, unfurling them at random points throughout his lecture. Good on him.

What else? I am reading The Castle, and I greatly enjoyed this little bit, wherein the chariman is explaining to K. the reason why despite his summoning no land surveyor is needed at the Castle:

"It amuses me," said K., "only because it gives me some insight into the
ridiculous tangle that may under certain circumstances determine a person´s
life."

I think we all know a thing or two about that these days. It is chilly here, but not so cold as it has been. I saw a swan yesterday, and seeing it framed on the Vltava in all that sunlight made me glad.

This hasn't a thing to do with Prague, but it is a fitting postscript to my last entry. If you've come for funny stories & pretty pictures, turn away now; this is an obituary -

It is a peculiar kind of wisdom my family showed in not telling me my grandfather was in the hospital. For one thing, he was ninety years old, & Lord knows he had been and out of there plenty of times. And for another, they knew my propensity to worry over every little thing (see also: this blog). So though he passed away this morning, it is a strange fact that there are pictures on my camera I took at a castle (#4) yesterday specifically for him. Amidst all the lovely antiques in this place were a number of ancient, achingly beautiful clocks.

When people ask me about my grandfather (& when I've written about him before) the thing that I say is that he made clocks. This is a funny thing, though - to my knowledge, he never made a whole lot of money doing it; it was certainly wasn't, you know, his job. But he did, up until only a few years ago; so many clocks, clocks lining the wood-dusty staircase I would ascend when we visited the house where my grandparents once lived, clocks like the one that now sit in the house my mother is renting, disheveled & unticking.

Though I know he lived a life before I knew him, these things I've seen, I remember, are how I know him. When I was a child he made me a model steam engine - it was a strange thing, all wood & metal that would burn too hot when the water went in, scalding my fingers. I was never a train type of kid, but I kept it all the same. It was some kind of talisman, I think, & when I finally got rid of it the last time I moved out of [Boulderton]...well, let's leave that stuff to Rudolf II of Hapsburg, okay?

I still have the bowls, though. This is funny, too: Eric & Kelly will no doubt vouch for the large number of these odd, lovingly crafted but seemingly useless artifacts that inevitably clutter any living space I call my own, but though he gave these to all of us, Christmas after Christmas, I kept them all. I found uses for some, sure, but in time they came to be just some kind of personal embodiment, an art exhibit, a living museum. The last time I saw him he had just built a ramp for rolling marbles, & he watched as (without irony) I rolled marbles for minutes at a time, rapt in that simple moment. He sold these things at craft fairs to children like I was once, will never be again.

So anyway, before I get all weepy, let me mention once last thing: at that Jan Who?-s/Czech mafia lecture the other day, the professor told us an interesting little fact: asked to name their role models, Czech boys picked, in order, their fathers, Jaromir Jagr, & their grandfathers. Nothing against my father & maybe a thing or two against Jagr (who I imagine is a world class d-bag IRL), but my grandfather lived a life that I cannot help but love. Perhaps it is wrong to parallel his interests with my own, but I think there is something to be said for following one's passions to their logical conclusion; good luck finding that kind of drive in the average American, to live for ninety years the way my grandfather did, still walking and biking through his own Pennsylvania countryside town every day to the end.

I should be so lucky. And this is why it is so sad, so sad that I am here & he is gone, far away physically & otherwise, so sad to see him go with only his new shoes on.

And if you wait another day, I will wait a day:

Sort of a somber day today in my Czech Republic - the clouds have returned, taking the colors right out of the city and making daylight as impossible to find as a cup of coffee (as you'll see, I have a reason for bringing that up!) I broke a second pair of headphones in my time here on the metro (I'm not putting this in scene, just take my word for it, k?) and I still haven't started classes. Oy.

I feel like I would be failing in my duties as a blogger (ha) if I didn't discuss these things. Long-time readers may wish to respond to this, but I happen to think this has been one of my most optimistic blogs, all things considered. There has been relatively little moping and gnashing of teeth, though perhaps that is just because there really isn´t any reason for me to mope or gnash my teeth. Maybe. But truly, it is a little sad here! - though I have come to terms with so much of what makes this place not America - the language, the immensely valuable coins, the early setting sun, and the fact that I truly seem to be the only one here OK with walking around by his or her self (what is tomorrow, again?)

But the thing that I cannot deal with, as ridiculous as it sounds, is this coffee thing. It's not just the coffee itself, but the lack of those big-windowed American coffee shops yinz are so used to stopping in whenever you've got an hour to kill. Well, I have some hours to kill, too, and haven't the faintest clue how to do them in. These are the kinds of things that don't even occur to you (or at least, didn't occur to me) when you hear about "culture shock" - though I had spent more time at the 61c and its less impressive competitors during the past four years of my life than probably any place lacking four floors of books, the thought that I would somehow miss drinking coffee, reading, and listening to people's conversations wasn't on my mind in the week it took to get here. But now when I hear someone speaking in English on the bus, it's like some engine goes off in my body: "Yes," I say, "I can listen to this person. There is a story here."

There is a Zelda Fitzgerald quote I was trying desperately to find, but somehow Google is only in Czech on this computer. Hi, symbol. Anway, the quote was the epigraph to one of Lorrie's book (Like Life, I think) and it is something like this: "It's so sad to see you go like that, with only your new shoes on." But it must have been strange for Scott too, himself going with those same new shoes. I have wrapped myself in all this adventure, sure, but there is something to be said for old shoes, for finding the comfort of routine and the known in these strange days. If only I could find these things!

we stayed up all night in the kitchen doing my dishes on & on

Today I felt a bit better and attended a long series of lectures on "Czech history and culture." Great, I was totally wondering who that Jan Hus guy was! Anyway, there was one amazing part. Allow me to tell you, readers.

Perhaps you've been in this situation: you're walking down the streets of Prague (okay, perhaps you haven't) and you come across this restaurant. Looks nice enough, eh? So you go in, it being lunchtime and you being hungry and all. As there are no other patrons in the establishment, you imagine that it will be with joy that you are greeted by the waitstaff. Instead, when they arrive minutes later to hand you a menu (don't worry if they don't give you water, nobody in Europe gives you water, just deal you cheapass American) it is with the greatest disdain. When you ask them about the specials, or about really anything on the menu, they'll tell you the chef is on his lunch break and you'll have to wait to ask him.

No doubt you would get up, disgusted, and take your business elsewhere. But as you leave, you'll wonder why it is that such a nice restaurant can afford to stay open while offering such poor service. Perhaps you'll wonder the same about the "Bohemian crystal" shop across the street, which never seems to sell a damned thing, or any of the horrible tourist-trappy storefronts that line Celetna or Vodickova Street.

You want to know why? Because they're money-laundering fronts for the fucking mafia.

Cool story, huh?

Uh, hi. Brno is kind of a dump. I am uploading a bunch of pictures, but I don't have the heart to put them in here. Basically I am sort of ill (no, not from drinking but thanks for asking) and sort of don't want to think about life right now. Hey, look, here is the kind of blog entry I'm used to writing.

the sun tried to warn me, "kid, those wings are made of wax"

Tonight I depart for what promises to be an entertaining weekend in and around the Morvanian capital of Brno. There will apparently be underground caves and wine-tasting, the latter more exciting for me because I´ve lately discovered that many kids in my program are unaware of its basic conceit: "I'm going to get soooo wasted," they say. Oh?

In anticipation of the long bus ride through the Czech lands, I purchased an odd little book of essays by Bohumil Hrabel (of Too Loud a Solitude and Closely Watched Trains fame) called Total Fears. In it, he recounts some of the turmoil surrounded the Velvet Revolution, especially in the weeks prior as police stood guard throughout the center of the city, waiting day in and out for the outbreak of violence they'd been trained to expect.

This is so strange to me! How am I, in 21st century Prague, supposed to picture people in the metro stations "weeping, not with emotion, but with tear-gas" or the sight of cannons of water "gushing, sweeping pedestrians under cars" on Kaprová street, a place I walk every day? Never mind trying to imagine the Prague of Kafka and Milena, of Rudolf II...I can't even imagine the Prague of twenty years ago!

I honestly thought about beginning a long tangent on Marshall McLuhan, "the global village" and my goals as a writer here, but then I remembered the thesis of this blog. And anyway, it's beautiful out today. I'm going for a walk.

"Abe said to God, 'Man, you must be puttin' me on!'"

Oh my gosh, Denmark just reminded me that I totally need to say a few words about the coffee situation here in, as my father would have it, "the former Soviet Union." Which is about the best way to sum it up, actually.

Before I left, I used what remained of a large Macy's gift card I received to buy a coat (but instead used to buy smaller things that all contributed to making me look pretty-like in the hopes of turning some Czech girl's head on the aforementioned metro) to buy a coffee press, fearing the situation here would be abysmal. Then one of your fellow readers mocked me mercilessly for this (Do you want a nickname for this blog, too?) and I left it at home.

Lo and behold, I come to Cechy and find that no one here has the faintest idea what "filter coffee" (as I've come to know it!) is, let alone any kind that would actually taste like, you know, coffee. The only places I've been able to drink it are with the free breakfast that comes with my dorm (this needs its own post; suffice it to say this coffee is not the greatest) and at an Einstein's type place called, no shitting, "Bohemia Bagel." Oof.

So what have I been drinking instead, friends? So much espresso. It makes my head hurt and it tastes so terrible I have to put cream and sugar in it (!) but it's all I've got. I'd like to see you make it through five hours a day of classes in a Slavic language without caffeine.

Okay, so over the weekend I took a little trip to the number one makeout spot in Prague, Petřin Hill. Needless to say, this was not the purpose of my visit. It looks like this:

Though there is a funicular (Pittsburgh!) that will ascend you all the way to that Eiffel Tower-looking thing (I believe "that Eiffel Tower-looking thing" is the official name, in case you were wondering), I chose to walk up the hill under my own power. I stopped halfway up. This was okay, though! I still got some nice piccies of the Prazky hrad (more on this in a second) and beloved Mala strana:

As I was taking this last picture, it started snowing. This was nice; I always have nice moments with snow (in small amounts), and this was the first time it had snowed for me on the Continent. I couldn't have asked for a better place, really. That said, the most amazing part of my little adventure was seeing this building:

How much do I love that America got to put its embassy in the like primo real estate location of town? Gee, lots. And how much time did I later spend daydreaming about the possibility of working in this building (better study that Czech!)? Gee, lots.

In other news, uploading pictures is still a chore, so those of Prazky hrad (that's Prague Castle to all ya'll) and the dreamily titled Vyšehrad will have to come at a later date. Though she won't acknowledge it, Denmark and I are competing to see who can visit the most castles. But really, any excuse is a good excuse when it comes to visiting castles. You think Mario didn't know which castle the Princess was in from the very start?

I have to tempt you with tales of wonderful pictures I haven't uploaded yet, journal. Possibly later today, or tomorrow. It is wonderfully sunny and warm here (thanks, global warming) so I don't want to spend a ton of time on this computer anyhow.

That said, I think it's important that I let ya'll know how my time at the Czech Philharmonic went on Friday night; I know this is very important to all my readers. Here's how it went down: so I got all nice and dressed up, right, thinking that there would be lots of attractive young Czech girls for me to mingle with. You would think! Instead, the Czech Philharmonic mostly attracts people who obviously contributed monetarily to building the place at the end of the 19th century. Which is to say, not a lot of mingling occured.

But that's okay, because I had a front row seat, right? Well, right, sort of. As it turns out, there are two front rows in the Rudolfinum! Mine happened to be the front row that hangs directly above the orchestra. What? Did I really need to feel like I was in my high school trumpet section? Apparently, I did. I know, my ticket cost three dollars, but still. A little compassion.

Since I was sitting in the wrong front row for awhile, by the time I got to my actual seat it was being occupied by what I took to be some mouthy Czech girls. I know, I know; but the thing is, they just glared at me when I gesticulated (in Czech, even!) that they were in my seat. Given my experiences with the kindness of Western Slavs earlier this week (see previous entry, please) I was confused by this. That is, until the intermission, when I noticed that these young ladies were not speaking Czech at all! And what language do you suppose they were speaking instead, journal? Why, that language would be French. Sorry, Dan. As though anyone needed confirmation that French people are the worst.

Hello all. Lots of things today. Let's start with pictures. Yesterday I awoke to find something resembling a sunrise. This was strange. It looked a bit like this:

Some have been asking about where I take classes. This is not where I am learning presently, but I will be learning there shortly. I also eat questionable food in its cafeteria. Today was greyer, but I took this picture when buying concert tickets this morning:

I've probably told many of you this story before, but it is one of my favorites. These statues atop the Rudolfinum depict all sorts of famous composers in the Western canon. When the Nazis came, they naturally wanted to take down the statue of that scurrilous Jew, Felix Mendelson. Being not the most cultured of Germans, however, they didn't know what he looked like. Thinking back to their eugenics classes, though, they said "Gee, he must be the one with the biggest nose!" So down goes the statue with the biggest nose. Unfortunately for these particular Hitler Youths, that statue turned out to be of Third Reich favorite Wagner. Today all the statues are on this building, as far as I know. I'm anxiously awaiting the installation of the John Cage one.

Well, what else? Here's a thing: Earlier the aforementioned cell phone I procured was not working; no text messages going out. Uh oh! So I head on over to the cell phone store. After explaining to the only available employee my issue in a hurried and severe manner, he responds, with a perfect American accent, "I only speak Czech." So there I was flustering about when the customer waiting behind me asks, "Shall I translate for you?" No really, he did! It was really one of the sweetest things that's happened to me in forever, and exactly the kind of thing that would never, ever happen in America.

Though I try to decide to be good when I'm lonely, oh I can't:

Say, this is the moment all ya'll have been waiting for. Pictures! Many more of them to come when, uh, I take them. Should I ever have a reliable internet connection, they will be better integrated into this blog for your surfing enjoyment. That day is not today. Tough cookies, my darling readers.

I have had too much caffeine today and things are not going terribly well sanity-wise, but this is to be expected (especially when I've had so little reading time). These are things that will change, some day. It is all so beautiful here, anyway. But gloomy; perhaps this is seasonal affection disorder! Perhaps. Or perhaps I am always like this in January? Someone say "San Diego," watch my head turn.

The titles for these past two blog entries have been from a wonderful little song called "Anticlimax" by a girl named Kat Flint. Her forthcoming (you know, officially) album Dirty Birds has been the non-John Darnielle soundtrack to my time on the Continent thus far. I cannot recommend it enough, unless you don't like walking around the city alone being heartbroken, all the time (& if you don't like that, what are you even reading this for? Go, like, have fun or something. Loser.)

I could disappoint you slowly, but surely:

Still no reliable internet. I'm going to have to change this blog's name, aren't I?

Just wanted to check in to tell you two things:

1. If any of you would care to send me a text message, you can do that at this number: 00420 773258392. Please only send one until I know how much it costs for you to do that. Unless you're in Europe (ahem, cough) in which case I think it's super cheap-like.

2. Today I went to the most darling church imaginable in Mala strana (of Jan Neruda's Prague Tales fame). It features all of these little dressed up Baby Jesuses from different eras of Prague's history, and huge tapestries of Biblical scenes. To put it another way, it was the most scrunched together church I've ever been in; all the pews had to be tightened to make room for all the sweet shit they crammed inside. Which actually epitomizes Mala strana quite well. Anyway, when I grow up and get married and pop out babies, I am going to bring them here to Mala strana to grow up, and they will go to that church with me every Sunday and grow up good Catholics and God willing emerge as mostly non-American super hot Czech women. Or, you know, men. I don't know much about Czech men; I don't spend hours on the metro staring at them.

More some day. In the meantime, when you've had a long day at your reference librarian desk/stacks department/city paper gig/law internship/or university terribly scenic or all concrete and R5 posters, and all you want to do is go to the local pub and drink from the juice of the barley, grab your closest friend and say, "Friend, na pivo!" Let's have a beer! Because truly, what the hell else are you going to do with your time left on this Earth?

Say I died in a barrel of wine when I get to the border:

No pictures again. Tomorrow, really.

Now in Prague. I apologized for blogging drunk earlier - I've only had one beer today, so I should be okay! Things are wonderful here. It is a wonderful town. Yes, yes, this is why I came. A few last thoughts on my trip here:

-On the flight from DC to London, there was one of those little screens in the seat for movies n'at, right? Well in addition to that, mine had a function to display a MAP of our travels. Can you even believe that? I couldn't; I was afraid to press it. But of course I did, and there will be a picture when there are pictures.

-Actually, that's all I needed to say in here today. If I was going to complain, I would complain of the street signs here, which are attached to buildings when they exist at all. Frustrating. But otherwise, good times here. I can leave the country now (thanks, EU!) but I will be oh so busy. You know how it is, friends.

but, we've still got light!

Hi from Munich, all. For those of you not in the loop, I had some severe travel issues getting here. These will continue indefinitely, most likely confining me to Cechy for my time there. Which is sort of a bummer, but sort of fine, too. There is no USB drive on this computer, so no pictures yet. Soon, I promise! I have some wonderful ones.

Though this has not been all I'd dreamed of, I adored London, particularly riding the Underground for several hours on end (mostly I just stopped at all the places that appear in songs I like) and the Tate Gallery, though it was fairly exhausting (didn't even finish it!) That I've managed to type so neatly so intoxicated, on such a strange keyboard, & ever so sad should be enough for yinz to know I love you tonight. Perhaps more tomorrow.

See? I got gone, when I got wise:

Some housekeeping:

First (& most importantly) I will be departing for parts unknown tomorrow. If you find this to be a great relief, imagine how I must feel.

Secondly, it has come to my attention that I had left commenting to registered users only, which must be the reason so many of you have decided not to comment on the fascinating topics tackled by this blog thus far. I have fixed this, so feel free to comment anonymously to your hearts' content.

Finally, it has also come to my attention that, incredibly, this blog appears on the Google when one searches for "Prague pictures." This will be fun down the line, but right now I feel a bit guilty there are no Prague pictures here at the moment. Perhaps this wintery Vltava scene will tide you over until I deliver some decidedly less touristy images in a few days:

"He lives in a small country of hope, which is his heart. Like Socrates he fails to understand why travel should be such a challenge to the muscles of the heart, for other people. Around every bend of the road is a city of gold, isn't it?
I am the kind of person who thinks no, probably not. And we walk, side by side, in different countries."

These last days in suburban Pennsylvania, a case study:

Today I built my day around a movie called Winter Passing appearing on basic cable; though I figured this would be the work of some Ingmar Bergman-wannabe "auteur," I was nonetheless interested in watching at least some of it, if only because it starred Zooey Deschanel, which I think is a fine enough reason to watch anything, especially in my present situation. It was even worse than I expected - "OMG, I am a struggling actress in New York City, my life is a shambles. Watch as I sit on this rooftop and moodily contemplate things. Watch as I sleep with random men and inflict physical pain on myself to drown out the veritable wasteland that is my life." OK, that is not an exact quote, but you get the gist. Still highlighted by Zooey in her undies doing coke, "Nude as the News" playing over the opening credits (this film had so much going for it!), and the inexplicable casting of Will Ferrell as the romantic interest. I think once I had a blog where I rated things like this on a numeric scale. Let's give Winter Passing a four! (Insert a pun about "passing" on it at your leisure.)

When I wasn't watching bad TV, I ate too many cookies and spilled coffee, then felt anxious about spilling said coffee. Read from Anne Carson's Plainwater, found a great quote for when I leave Europe, but that I will surely forget by then. Oh, there was some writing in there too.

I know this has nothing to do with Prague, but I swear I'm trying to leave as quickly as I can. Just bear with me, everyone.

I know that we don't think along the same lines:

If you're looking for a birthday present for me (& I know you all are!), this map will be perfect, thanks. Plus it's a steal at 1200 pounds, or at least will be as much a steal as it's going to get. I'm fairly certain I'll be using US currency to line my coat in London.

(& you'd better believe that I'm going to spend basically all of my free time there at this "Map House." I mean, "map house?" Hello? HELLO? zomg, not America!)

Hello all -

Hope you had a charming holiday season. There was a poll on CNN.com a few days ago where 80% of readers voted they were pleased by the prospect of their lives returning to normalcy. There is no such normalcy for my life to return to (as this blog will chart!); my season was distractingly odd but titillating, thanks.

In other news, I will be leaving for merry old England on the evening of January 22nd. I do not know if I will be using the internet during my stay there; as it is me, I suspect I will. Once I reach the Continent proper, though, there will be all sorts of updates in here. More than you can shake a fist at, more than grains of sand on the world's beaches, etc etc

Since this is my blog, that will mostly mean quotes from books. Here's one to hold you over (Annie, from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and something that seems important when dealing with the notion of "travel writing," which I suppose is what this blog will be doing, in a fashion):

"This is our life, these are our lighted seasons, and then we die. In the meantime, in between time, we can see. The scales are fallen from our eyes, the cataracts are cut away, and we can work at making sense of the color-patches we see in an effort to discover where we incontrovertibly are. It's common sense: when you move in, you try to learn the neighborhood."