Milan the Butcher...as Recommended by Lonely Planet

I just made it to London after sending my passport through the wash and talking out of my ass to various passport authorities...empty your pockets before laundry people.

And Now, on with the Praga Saga...

After mastering the Czech language, I had a shower and returned to the dormitory room to find a girl munching on a snack and staring out the window.

"Where you from?" I asked after putting on a shirt.

"Texas," she replied with a breathy laugh like she had just remembered something hilarious, long ago forgotten.  I was convinced she was stoned.

"What are you eating? I asked, eyeing the little plastic bag in her hand.

"It's like this weird thing they have in Spain.  It's like bread...well stale bread I guess."  Another breathy laugh.  I tried a piece.

"Yeah that tastes exactly how you described it."  Another breathy laugh followed by a long exhale and "whoo" sound.  After she recovered she informed me that she was also waiting for a friend who would arriving tonight.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and when I returned there was another American wearing a sweater and a knitted hat.  Naveem made me completely nervous by bopping around the hostel and probing everyone with questions.  Apparently he had graduated from MIT pre-med and was currently working on a masters of public health at Cambridge.  He made sure I understood Cambridge, England, not Massachusetts.  He carried a Lonely Planet: Prague around like a bible.

"The book was talking about the Charles Bridge and the castle and shit so I checked all that out today."

"Yeah the book recommends a lot of different pubs so I want to check those out."

"The book mentions microbrews, what do you think of microbrews."

"Noah I started circling all the places we need to go to night.  While I'm in the shower, find some more sick pubs and shit and circle them with this pen."  He placed the travel guide and writing utensil on a table, ripped off his shirt like he was allergic to it and then sprinted off toward the shower.  I left the book exactly where it was.

"You didn't look at the book did you?"  He asked after emerging from the bathroom.

"No sorry I-"

"What have you got against the book?"  He said like I had just insulted his pet cat.

"I don't know I'm just not really a travel guide kind of guy."

"Dude it says everything we need to know.  How else would you find out about this shit."

"You could walk around, or ask someone who lives here."

"Good point, the book does say they speak good English in Prague for the most part."

I headed with Naveem and Izor for a frantic bar hop.  The book would end up taking a beating from the relentless cold rain that poured down on us.  Despite my anti-travel guide attitude, the book did lead us to my favorite bar, so far, in all of Europe.

Vinárna U Sudu looks like a cramped bar for elderly people upon first glance.  Thin enough for only one lane of human traffic, a few old Czechers, wise beyond their years, sipped beer and smoked constantly.  The parasitic Lonely Planet through its host, Naveem, insisted that we make our way toward the door in the back and I reluctantly followed.

A set of narrow wooden stairs led us to a crowded basement bar.  Alternative artwork adorned the walls and students milled about with giant Pilsners with hats of foam on top (this is how beer is purposely poured in Prague).  We continued through a brick archway into a small hallway that led to another bar.  Through another brick archway and another small hallway, a third bar greeted us.  The fourth bar was in a room full of fooseball tables, the fifth was down another set of stairs and seemed to be reserved only for kissing couples, while frequenters to the sixth bar all brought their family dogs along.  The seventh bar smelled distinctly like Marijuana, and the  eighth played rock music so we settled there for a drink.

"Told you man," said Naveem, closing the book for the first time all night to clink his mug with mine.

We enjoyed a couple of cheap delicious Pilsners, and then switched to shots of Becherovka, a liquor native to the Czech Republic (Lonely Planet recommended of course), that can only be described as spicy.  Before long, Naveem became restless and moved us along.

"We gotta' find a place with microbrews."  I followed through the continuous rain into Prague's Old Town Square, a beautifully cobble-stoned piazza full of lit-up Christmas trees and empty market tents and stalls.  The skyline was dominated by the spired Gothic Church of Our Lady Before Tyn, an intricate and intimidating structure that looks like it belongs in Tolkein's Mordor.

I followed Naveem into a trendy bar where they asked for my I.D. before entering (first time occurance in Europe) and drinks cost as much as they might in the middle of Manhatten.  We met an overly-friendly Dutch girl who claimed she could not only guess where each one of us was from, but also where we were studying.  She pointed at Naveem,

"You.  You are from India."

"My parents are from India."

"I knew it."  She continued,

"You are studying in England."  Naveem tapped his nose with a finger.

"I knew it."  She moved toward me to study my face.

"You are from the United States." I touched my nose like Naveem.

"You are studying in Europe."

"How did you guess?" I asked.

"I am very good."  I excused myself from the Dutch psychic, who insisted I come to Amsterdam and stay in her apartment, to get a better look at the scene going on behind me.

A group of forty something Czech woman seemed to think it was a good idea to wear plaid miniskirts and dance erotically together.  Men circled around to watch without embarrassment.  Naveem urged me to talk to some Indian looking girls with him, but I declined as they looked neither attractive nor over the age of eighteen.

We returned to the hostel briefly to grab Izur's friend Shane from Missouri, also studying for a semester in Seville.  I followed Naveem and his printed master to a small bar advertising microbrews, which were dark and delicious and served by two enormous gentlemen with shaved heads and black butchers' aprons.  They made me uneasy to say the least.

"Becherovka?" asked Naveem to the group.  Izor was suffering from a bit of a cough (maybe from too much pot smoking) and had stopped drinking, but Shane and I nodded, and Naveem approached the bar.  We watched him begin a conversation with the older and more menacing looking bald Czech man, and then proceed to order five shots of Becherovka instead of the necessary three.

"Nastrovya," said the butchers in unison as we all downed our spicy shots.

"The guy told me he hadn't slept in three days, so I bought him a drink," explained Naveem, "plus they only cost sixteen Crowns, that's like less than a dollar."

We continued rounds of shots with the bartenders, including a special peach flavored vodka that may have been mixed in a bathtub behind the bar.  When the older butcher left to deliver a round to another group, the younger one pulled us in close for a huddle.

"My name is Milan.  You have been very nice to me.  When my boss is not watching, I will bring you free drinks."  We thanked Milan and agreed to play it cool, continuing to order more and more sixteen Crown shots until my head was spinning.

Naveem asked Milan when the free drinks would arrive as he wanted to hit one more, book-recommended bar down the street.  Milan assured us that the other place would be closed, but if we insisted, he told us that when we returned the endless free drinks would begin.  He handed Naveem the bill and I heard a loud F-word.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Sixty."

"What?"

"He was saying sixty.  Sixty Crown shots, not sixteen."  About three dollars per shot.  The bill was quite lofty and Naveem did not have enough Czech Crowns on him to pay for it. Unfortunately I did, and out of fear of being butchered, I paid Milan and we made our way to the other bar, which was in fact closed.

We returned to Milan's bar and inquired about the free drinks, the place appeared to be empty.  "The boss is watching," whispered the younger butcher as he stacked a barstool.  "Next time.  Come back tomorrow.  Free drinks."

It seemed Milan the Butcher had gotten the better of us.

Some Useful Phrases

I was given a Czech language pamphlet at the hostel, here it is verbatim, translated into phonetical English for my convenience I suppose.  The comments in parenthesis are some of my initial reactions.

...Some Useful Phrases...

Yes=No (good start)

Thanks= Dick-y (ha)

Sweetheart= Mill-A-tch-kuu (aw)

Pen and paper= Pero a Papear (but what if I want a pen and big papers?)

Just let it flow != Neck to plaavat (way ahead of you)

Twin tailed lion= Dvo ott-sas-see Lev (symbol of Prague)

Toe nail clippers= Klesch tay na necktey (useful indeed)

The next few are best presented in pairs and read one after the other:

Have you got any availible sisters/brothers? Mash nay-yakkay voll knee sestrey/bratay (yes)

I'll have one of those= Damn say yeden to ho led ens to (damn indeed)

You have beautiful eyes= Mash motcz p-yeah-K-nee ott she (aw)

Have you washed your hands?= U-mill says ru-tc-say (a bit rude)

How do you do Madam?= Nazdarr ek Hol tchitch kaa?

Help yourself please= Po-slush say Sam Pro-seam (there you go Simmy)

Life goes on= Ten dzz-ievot poke-ratch-U-yeah (good advice)

Fish and eggs= Ribby ay VaY-tchkey (better advice)

Big Papers= Da-may shh-pekkA voll-ay, nebbo so? (finally)

I'm having a heart attack= Ran-E-min-yey, Mert vit-Say (chances are in this case I'm not going to have the composure to let everyone know in Czech)

Another Pair:

Are those teeth false?= So Tea-hLay zub-bey prr-avvy?

Make me a nice price= Dyel-eye me lep-she-ho senna, neigh

Please may I fondle your buttocks?= Pro seam vass, mou who phlad eat vashe Prr-del-kuu?(sure, go ahead)

How much you want for him/her/it?= KoLick ktchesh pro hoo/yee/toe (I will take two hers please, make me a nice price...I also really like hoo/yee/toe)

Do you like soul music?= Lee-bey say tay Soulova hud-bitch-ka? (yes)

My name is Sue.  How do you do?= Ya sem SuZko, Yak tea-duppo Krraleet-say? (my name is Noah, how's it go-ah?  Why doesn't it rhyme in Czech?)

Wine Red/White= Venno chervenny/beelay

Good Bye= Chago Baggo she-len-say (Chago Baggo: great name for a puppy)

Help me= Po mou dzesh Min-nay

Transport ticket= Yizz den Kuuu

Rude Word= KuRRvaa Par-eck (I was told that this is actually the offensive expression, not literally  how to say "Rude Word")

Shoe string= Tkahnn itch kaa (useful)

Tea pot= Kon vitcz-ay (useful)

Shots= Pan A tch key (more useful)

Condoms= Pre-searve-a-tivvy (safe)

Back Scrubber= Kar-tat-shh na zadd-Ahh  (most useful)

Bread= Klebba

Beer= Pivo (like in Slovenia)

A trio:

Garlic= Chess e neck

Nurses= Sess tritch key

I'm lost = Ya sem mee mou

(I am reminded of Wayne's World, "Garth, that was a Haiku")

Horse shoe= Pot-ko-vaa

Cheers !!= Nass sDrravvee (like in Poland)

Meat= Masso

No=Nay (I was hoping for yes)

Numbers:

1= Yeah-denn

2= D-vee-yeah

3= Trree (my favorite)

4= Stear-reeh

5= P-yett

6= Sh-est

100= Kilo

1000= Leet-rrr

69= She-does-that deviant (what??)

A note from the author:

I feel quite high= ya ass'm seat-him horny (him horny indeed)

Prague Part One (I think it's worse for me)

I just returned from five days in Prague, and this is the first post that includes a disclaimer. I definitely had an R-rated weekend, and please, if anyone is interested in keeping a wholesome image of me, for your sake, don't read the Prague posts.  If you are under 18 years old you should not continue.

Now that we've weeded out the prudes, lets do this...

If I had a nickel for every time I've watched a nude and tattooed Czech stripper crawl across a table to whip some horny Irishmen...Well, I think I know where she would want me to put it. But we are getting a little ahead of ourselves.  How did I get to Prague you ask?   Good Question.

I began by taking a quick commuter train north to Udine to catch my direct thirteen-hour sleeper car to Prague. The thing was an hour and a half late because of thunderstorms.  A bad omen.

An Austrian conductor in a red suit with a face like a weasel sprinted around the train showing me various things and making me extremely nervous.  He put me in a compartment with Gaetano, a thirty year-old portly Southern Italian on his way to a wedding in Prague. We became fast friends and I am confident that his two giant suitcases contained only candy. I fell asleep during the early morning hours, somewhere along the Austrian border.

My compartment door flew open and the light flicked on.  The weasely conductor stood there with papers flying all over the place.  He spoke rapid German into a cell phone and I noticed that the train was not moving, yet I saw no lights that would indicate we were at a station.

Snow was delaying us.  I looked out the window into a white-out, the first time I had seen the fluffy stuff on this side of the world.  The frantic conductor paced around and informed me that we were running too late, this train would not be able to continue to Prague.  "My boss is quite angry, so I think it's worse for me," the weasel said as he sucked his teeth and scribbled timetables on scraps of paper for Gaetano and I.  Once the tracks were cleared we would have to change trains in Austria.

And change trains we did.  

For those of you keeping score at home, I jumped on my third train in some podunk Austrian border town, trudging through knee-high snow to get to the platform, I had to help Gaetano with his candy bags so that he would not be blown over by the wind.

On this train, I learned that there had only been four passengers on the direct overnight to Prague. A Czech student with a certain fondness for Grappa (Italian grape alcohol), and an enormous, dark-featured Moldovian guy, who spoke no English or Italian rounded out the quartet.

The Prague Four arrived in Salzburg and then switched again to head toward Linz.  Weasel told us track eleven which appeared empty upon arrival.  I turned around and spotted him leaning his head out the window of a train across the platform, waving like there was a fire inside.  The train had given it's all aboard whistle, and without time to cross underground, we illegally ran across the tracks.

A professional looking man, who I assumed was Weasel's boss, yelled at us in German for a while. Gaetano and I munched on candy and listened politely.

Between Salzburg and Linz, the Weasel sat across from me and continued to tell us why it was worse for him.

"You know I haven't slept in a while so I think it's worse for me." He handed me a map of Prague. "You know I was supposed to bring my wife many presents from Czech Republic, but I don't think I am allowed to go now because you ran across the tracks, so I think it's worse for me."

"Hey can I keep this map?" I asked.

"No."

In Linz we parted ways with Weasel who was on his way home for a hot shower, but I would imagine he wasn't crazy about the smell of his soap and therefore it was worse for him.   He assured us there was a direct train from Linz to Prague and we would be a few hours late, but our tickets would be honored.

My traveling companions and I drank Grappa with coffee and got to know each other a bit.  We spoke in Italian with the Czech photography student translating for the Moldovian guy, who became a lot less scary when he smiled.

At Summerau, the last Austrian town before the border, we were told that the train did not continue to Prague.  We switched onto a Czech clunker, most-likely built between the World Wars.  Every window had to remain open, despite the snow, to balance the ninety degree temperature inside.

The Czech photography student had his camera out now.  "Lets be like tourists!" He told me laughing, insisting that the rest of us pose for photos with every single Czech train conductor, as well as an elderly woman traveling with no luggage except for a neon yellow sled.

At a station I can't pronounce, we switched to the seventh and final train.  The Czech landscape is more than depressing.  The only place I can compare it to is the drive between the Vermont border and Montreal.  Long fields of brown grass and dirty patches of snow are only accentuated by rusty farm equipment, one tree every ten minutes or so, and groups of deer huddling together and saying to each other, "seriously what the fuck are we doing here?"

I counted eight men walking alone through eight different fields in trench coats.

I arrived in Prague around 5:30, a twenty hour trip in total. Hlavni Nadrazi station is the seediest place I have ever been to, and terrified, I got the fuck out of there and checked into my hostel.

Dvanáct Piva Prosím

The title is Czech for "12 beers please"...I think.  Either that or gibberish, I should have a better grasp on the language after my trip to Prague next week.  It might be touch and go coming back, since I bought my ticket one way and the TrenItalia emplyee assured me that it would be impossible to return to Italy after December 13th.  She seemed personally offended that I wanted to know why there were no more trains returning from Prague, and refused to give me a reason, but no matter, I will most likely return through lovely Slovenia and have a dragon beer on the way home.

Here are some conservative estimates about what will happen during my four days in Prague with my childhood friend Samuel.

161-  The number of Czech beers that Sam and I will consume between us.

19-  The number of Czech beers that will be partially or entirely spilled.

84-  The number of times Sam or I will utter the words "We are...two wild and crazy guys!" or otherwise imitate Steve Martin and Dan Aykroyd's depiction of the swinging Czech Festrunk brothers from Saturday Night Live. 

7-  The number of times I will try to convince Sam that we are walking in the wrong direction. 

14- The number of times Sam will give me shit about having a terrible sense of direction.

96- The number of times it will be undoubtedly clear that Sam is a better dance than I am.

1- The number of meals that I will not remember eating.

9-  The number of times we will be confused by the multiple incompatible district systems used simultaneously to label different parts of the city.

16- The number of trinkets I will buy at Christmas markets.

15- The number of trinkets that will either break or will not fit in my backpack and therefore will not make it back to Trieste.

4- The number of times one of us will be pushed into the middle of some dance circle when the song "American Boy" comes on at a club.

4- The number of times I will have to apologize to a hostel employee for one thing or another.

71- The number of times Sam and I will butcher the pronunciation of simple Czech expressions such as, "Máte tohle i v mé velikosti?" (Do you have this in my size) or "Potrebuji zubní pastu." (I need tooth paste).

Window Men

9:50 am: Two guys with rectangular heads who could be twins, burst into my room with a briefcase.

9:51:  It turns out the blockheads have brought tools of various kinds. Starting with hammers, they begin doctoring my window.  

9:52:  They are chirping back and forth to each other in some serious dialect and I can't understand a word of it.  They seem to be adding something important to the top of the frame.

9:54:  I can't go back to sleep as the window men have begun obnoxiously hammering different parts of the window arbitrarily like they are trying to find its knee so it will make a little reflexive kick. 

9:55:  The power drills are out now, they seem to be set on loud.

9:58: The preferred drill setting has been changed to really loud.

10:00: The window is open.  They are chasing a piece of paper around like a renegade butterfly, trying to prevent it from flying out into the street.

10:02:  One of them continues to drill while the other explains something to me, he keeps mentioning 17 like I don't know my room number...or maybe this is the amount of windows he has doctored this morning.

10:03:  The drills are finally returned to the briefcase, it seems the blockheads have replaced the metal rod-like thing that used to control my sci-fie movie window shade, with a dangly string apparatus.

10:05:  The Window Men demonstrate the dangly string apparatus.

10:11:  Still demonstrating.

10:14:  They take their leave, thanking me multiple times like I just allowed them to do something so important that now they can both die in peace.

Posted above is the only photo I could manage to discreetly snap with my computer.

10:16:  Unfortunately I can't fall back asleep...maybe I will go to class today.

I'm with Stupid

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi arrived in Trieste today, resulting in hundreds of policemen filling up Piazza Unitá d'Italia, buses being rerouted and making me late for class, as well as German and Italian flags flying everywhere. Berlusconi was here to attend the Italo-German summit, trying to forge a deal with Lufthansa to save Italy's debt-ridden, strike-prone disastrous airline AlIitalia.

My Italian friends kept complaining about him and I found myself asking questions like, "If nobody likes this guy, how come he keeps getting elected?"  "If he's so stupid and corrupt, how did he become Prime Minister?"  My friend Maria Laura reminded me of how short my memory has become, asking me, "Noah who still lives in the White House?" 

Fair point Maria.

Budapest...A Pest for the Rest of Us.

I just returned from four days in lovely Budapest, and unfortunately my Festivus joke hasn't really panned out the way I would like it to.  After a lot of champagne, imported Budweisers and chants with Spaniards of "Yes we can! Yes we can!" the eleven hour train ride left me trying to sleep next to a crazy old Bosnian man who rambled at me in his native language and broken Italian, mostly about his non-functioning bicycle, which was, in reality, nothing more than two spoked wheels wrapped in plastic. He would often wave the wheels in my face for emphasis, while baring his nine crooked teeth.  He told me I was a good amigo for listening, and presented me with a beer, an orange, and a kiss on the forehead before getting off the train in Zagreb...Don't worry, pictures will be on Facebook and Picasa shortly.

Budapest itself is quite the place.  My first departure from the Euro left me feeling like Bill Gates, walking around with 22,000 Hungarian Forints in my pocket, dropping two or three hundred on every beer (actually only about one or two dollars, Budapest is incredibly cheap).

We visited castles, churches, and synagogues, hiking up to the citadel to get the best view of both sides of the Danube.  The most moving thing I saw was the terror museum (www.terrorhaza.hu), located inside the old Nazi and then Soviet headquarters and prison.

Every young American should be forced to go to a place like this.  

Sure we learn about genocide and oppression in school, but I think it's difficult to relate until you find yourself inside a windowless prison cell, staring at real torture equipment that was actually used on everyone from political dissidents, to free-thinking journalists, to Catholic priests. It's remarkable how recent all these atrocities are, with the last Hungarian prisoner being returned from Siberia in the year 2000.  I used to think that America spreading democracy and being a beacon of hope for the world was sort of bullshit, but after seeing how much Hungarians love America and what our country represents, I'm not so sure anymore.

The highlight of the trip was of course the Sparty in the famous Rudas bath house (setting of a scene from 1988's Red Heat starring Governor Schwarzenegger and Jim Belushi, and featuring the fantastic tagline: Moscow's toughest detective.  Chicago's craziest cop.  There's only one thing more dangerous than making them mad: making them partners).  We waited in line outisde, receiving endless energy drinks from absurdly gorgeous Hungarian women.  Once we entered the party, which had a "dry disco" in the first room, we were handed sealable money pouches by yet more absurdly gorgeous Hungarian women.

The Sparty itself is where dreams come true.  Imagine a naturally hot pool filled with scantly clad Europeans dancing to techno music while surrounded by crazy lights and giant screens featuring trippy animation.  When water droplets splash into the air and mingle with the strobe lights, they seem to fall back down into the pool in slow motion.  The effect is amplified by the inflatable red balls dropping from the ceiling to be happily batted around by the spartiers.  It felt like a cross between an American pool party and a Flaming Lips concert...only with considerably more Spaniards.  They took over the place, many of them sporting Looney Tunes floaties and riding around on noodles, they led the entire place in rousing renditions of, "Yo soy Espanol, Espanol, Espanol! and "Campiones d'Europa, Campiones d'Europa!" the second song to the tune of Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes, allowing everyone to join in and help celebrate their Euro 2008 soccer championship.

Drinks were insanely cheap, and when my money floated away in the pool, I didn't care. When my friend Keith told me that our clothes were gone, I didn't care.  I was having the time of my life.  Somewhere around 2 am, a team of synchronized swimmers gracefully dove into the pool to entertain us while bearded Hungarian performers majestically spun and tossed flaming sticks around like toothpicks.  

At some point, the Sparty began to take a serious turn for the orgy, drunk boys and girls making out all over the pool, with pruny hands diving into the water to find genitals.  To top it all off, when the thing ended, well after four in the morning, they had sandwiches...fucking sandwiches! It was as if they knew we would be hungry while partying in Hungry.  It turns out, my friend Alberto somehow found my clothes, and I was able to stumble back to the hostel, thankfully, with a shirt on.  My only fear is that I have peaked and will never be able to enjoy myself again...although on December 12th it looks like Sam Simon and Noah Nielsen will be reunited in Prague,  so I can't exactly give up hope yet, especially with the time melting away until an Obama administration takes over in Washington...yeah I think I like the sound of that.