Okay, I promise not to do that again, with the “Czech” puns. Had to once, though.
I’m sitting in Gord’s beautiful, airy living room. Robert’s still asleep, but this is to be expected, because in the last couple of days he travelled from Trinidad to Canada then over here. He did well at keeping up last night, but there are limits to what a body can do.
Gord met us at the airport, which looked much like Toronto-Pearson or any other airport, except that the yellow signs were printed in narrow letters with little diacritical marks over them all. (I asked Gord to teach me how they all affect the pronounciation of the letters, but he told me he’s given up on the idea of learning Czech because it’s just too complex, and all the business he does here is conducted in English, though from time ot time he has a chance to speak German, which he does fluently.)
We took a bus into town, which passed through the usual stretch of nothingness, except for the odd garden full of tall grasses and flowers surrounded by a fence topped in razor wire. Once in town, we took the subway, which looked part-Toronto Transit Commission, part London Underground, especially the exit, an escalator passing through a 45-degree-angle tube much like the one at Waterloo Station, except this one kept going and going and going. Looking up toward the exit, I got a sinking vertiginous feeling that I was on my back heading straight up toward a flat roof.
We emerged into fresh eveninig air and walked the rest of the way to Gord’s. Lilacs bloomed in the square, giving off a sweet floral scent I’ve not smelled in years. The buildings were ornate, but my mind wrestled to pull them to familiar experiences — “I’m in Barcelona, Madrid, Heidelberg, Rome…”
But I’m not. I’m someplace completely new.
We ventured out after unloading our bags and having a nibble and a drink, heading to a restaurant just doors down from Gord’s flat. It immediately appealed to my taste for “Europeanness” (I know, the term is meaningless, but I enjoy the experience when I get it). The interior featured rough brick and dark colours, old black and white photos, and on the bar sat a vinitage typewriter with an inexplicably wide carriage that looked like it could be used to type up a newspaper.
The food was just what you’d expect, in a good way, heavy, hearty stuff. I had gnocchi suspended in thick goat’s cheese, served with on a glazed clay dish with a matching spoon (think Goldilocks has a heart-clogging meal with a glass of Hoegaarten the size of a janitor’s bucket, and you’re about there). Gord and Robert had a “Czech pan”, which was a small, handled skillet with a built-in burner underneath that made the oily stew of meat, onions, cabbage, and potatoes boil. I was defeated: I couldn’t finish mine; I had, in defense of my usual black hole appetite, eaten during the day and foolishly snacked before we left the house. Still, it was a damned heavy meal, and I can’t keep that up all week.
We checked out a small pub more like someone’s rec room, having a cold glass of Czech lager (I missed my room temperature real Scottish ale), then we walked through several levels of a nightclub, but it was clear we couldn’t stay out and awake long enough to catch the real nightlife arriving, and none of us seemed to mind.
Now it’s a fresh, sunny morning, and we’re about to head out and spend Sunday exploring the city.
