Every Thursday, other days if we're able, three of us meet for two hours of squash, a two player game (we cycle through in a rotation to possibly win one and most likely lose the other to Tom, Lord of Squash). Squash is similar to racket ball: played in a rectangular room, the object of the game is to hit the ball against the front wall in a way which prevents your opponent from doing the same, using the sidewalls to your advantage. After the ball has hit the front wall, it can bounce off the others any number of times but the floor only once. First to nine wins. The ball--golfball-size, rubber--has less elasticity than a racketball (i.e. it bounces like puddy thrown against a brick wall). The serves got to come halfway back on the court before it touches the floor, and the first time I played my shoulder was aching from trying to swing the racket like a Louiville slugger to get it there and back again, Tom returning it with a slight swoop at the elbow and flick of the wrist. But I'm getting the hang of it: if he's at the back of the court, I lay it lightly up against the wall; if he's at the front, drive it to the far back. Even mastered a deadly strike to the corner--front wall, sidewall, floor. Unreturnable. The game is all sprint and stop, sprint and stop, sprint and stop. For the past week or more, for sitting, standing, and even walking, I've really needed a cane.

It was beautiful today, so a friend and I went on a walk all the way through Old Town Square and across the river to Letna, a park area on the hill, at the top of which is a giant lance and box (I thought it was a crane or an abstract knight) but it's actually a metronome.

What it was or is she couldn't tell me. I imagine--and I could look this up and learn the truth but I like to imagine--that the metronome was built in the communist era by a party-hired artist to regulate the beat of the city at precise intervals, keep them ticking away like a machine. Letna is great of skateboarding, drinking from the looks of the wine bottles,a nd simply looking. You can see all of Prague as it slopes up the banks of the river, then down slightly, then up again. The gold trimmed dome of the National Muzeum. Far away, the two spires of the church at Namesti Miru, close to where I live. Rudolifnum right by the park. A few bridges up river, the National Opera House.

She was trying to teach me Czech pronunciation while I was making calls to possible flatmates and schools. To one school, I started by saying "Dobre Denh. M-loo-vee-te Angliski?" When I got off the phone, she said I didn't know you knew that much Czech. I can't play all my cards at once I told her. If there's anything I learned working out in the trees all summer, it's to not let them know you speak the language.

Halloween's celebrated in the Czech Republic, or rather expats in the Czech Republic celebrate Halloween, catching the locals off guard as they parade down the street dressed as zombies. I went to a zombie party in a flat Saturday, BYOB, gruesome make-up at the door, Thriller playing on someone's laptop in the corner. Oh, I almost forgot--I met two girls from Lincoln City. Lincoln City! The LC. I know, wild. At around one, we were told to get out, so everyone went to the same bar--fifty zombies winding through cobblestone alleways in the rain. Must've been scary, or very, very funny, their walk probably very true to character.

Photographs, Flats, and Football

See that little dot at the end, that's me the other day, or where I would have been, when I sold my first photograph. A friend of mine works on the bridge, selling photographs of Prague. I went to visit him, and while I was there I sold a picture to an Italian man, and gave a New Yorker the insight on where to catch the best classical music in Prague (I didn't, however, tell him how to get the best price, sneak in, that's my own secret). The Charles Bridge was the first built in Prague; the only other way to cross the Vltava was to swim or boat in summer or walk across the thick ice in winter, though because of how the river's regulated today it does not freeze over anymore.

Flat hunting is not over, but it is getting better. I have three places in mind right now, but there's always the hesitation of commitment--what if that jewel of a flat is right around the corner, why settle? I'll tell you why, because the hostel's breaking my wallet. The manager gave me a good discount, though, so it's not that bad.

I just got back from an American football game, kids 16 to 19, basically a high school game. I went with a few friends, one's boss is the coach. It was the championship game: the Prague Panthers vs the Lions. And our team, the team we were rooting for, won! 37-6. In the last minutes, the quarterback, on his own goal line, snaked through the defensive line on a qb sneak and ran a TD for 95 or so yards. To add insult to injury, the whole team did the football as a bomb fall down enzone dance (those of you who watch know what I'm talking about); they got a penalty for that one. But you're only champs once so better live it up.

Tonight I guess there's a lot of Halloween parties. So I'm going to go take a nap, rest up, then see what kind of trouble I can get myself into.

Sketches of a City

This post is simply an assortment of entries in my journal. Observations and opinions and Prague through my eyes.

If there's anything good to be said of communism, it's that communism left an efficient and reliable public transit system, extensive in its range of the city.

An old man told me Prague had a functioning university when Columbus discovered the Americas in 1492. He was very proud of that.

Written on the wall in a tunnel connecting platforms at a train station were the words "Fuck Disco," which is actually very funny: because with all the shit in the world to say "F" to, this particular person chose "Disco."

If an elderly man or woman steps on the metro or tram, automatically someone, young punks as well as businessmen, stand and offer their seat.

In Prague, dogs are everywhere, and so is there shit. Czechs love their pets, but seldom clean up their messes.

Many young people have mp3 players. But the white head phones of the ipod are sparse; usually a clear mark of the tourist. Electronics are expensive in the Czech Republic, more so than in the U.S.

Condiments, in the Czech Republic, are amenities. 5 kcs for a packet of ketchup. 2 kcs for cream for coffee and tea. 2 kcs for bags at grocery store. 19 kcs for water at restaraunt. 15 kcs for chopsticks (which they ask for after you've removed sticks from package). 1 kc per shake of salt and pepper...well, no, S&P is free, but you get the point.

One surcharge I can endorse, however, is the fee for public restrooms. Usually a middle-age woman works as attendant, collects her free, and lets you enter. Always the place sparkles. I think anyone can handle paying 50 cents for a clean and sanitary toilet, unless they have no change, only a thousand kc note which no one will break...in which case my advice is to make like a Czech dog and be on your way.

I give my students proverbs written on strips of paper, then let them work through the literal translation to the figurative by discussing in pairs, and, finally, as I make my way from desk to desk, have them tell me their best interpretation. "All generalizations are false," is one of the sayings, so take my crude observations as just that, one person's limited view of a diverse, complex city and culture.

As we watched Australia play the West Indies, an Auzzie schooled me in the ways of cricket--how the wickets work, the strategy of a baller, how many balls are in an over (6), how to score points (a possible 1, 4, or 6). Cricket, you say...what the hell is cricket...other than an emasculated version of baseball, where dainty Englishman play a half, then take their tea and crumpets in the second. Right? A Sally game. Maybe not. Maybe there's great timing and power in connecting with a ball coming any number of angles off a rough surface. Maybe there's great dexterity in a batter's ability to ricochet a 120km fastball nearly 180 degrees behind him, utilizing a 360 degree range for his hitting (cricket is played on an oval field, with pitcher and batter in the center). Maybe there's expert strategy in using a fastballer or a spinner, depending on the weakness of the batter. Or even sly, underhand play when a pitcher digs his toe-cleat in on release, in the same place pitch after pitch, so that when the other pitcher throws from the opposite side, he can aim for that cleated spot, causing the spinning-ball to rebound in unpredictable ways. Yeah, maybe.

After that discussion, a barrel-chested Auzzie sat next to me, and we got to talking about Australian football (not to be confused with rugby). Round and round the rules we went, finally concluding with this summation of the game: Australia football is like smear-the-queer with rules. Hit. Bang. Pass. Kick. Score. Broken fingers and bloody noses. Now that's a game after my own heart.

Prague Castle at night

We ventured down to old town the other night, with a group of twenty or so, and a local as our tour guide. Walking past Prague Castle at night demands a photo. During the day, a fog (or smog)usually blurs the view, but at night the lights luminate every spire, edifice, and statue. For nothing, only a short walk, it's not a bad sight. The photo I have really does nothing for the actual. There's times when I stand and just say "wow". Times when I have to remind myself to look up and enjoy. And others when I walk past without glance, like a local, uh so what--it's only, as man once said, a bunch of old shit.

We went to a dance club yesterday. Czechs, eastern Europeans in general, which includes Germany here, are terrible dancers. No rythmn. None. And they're stuck in this funky late 80s, 90s mode. Early Madonna. Vanilla Ice. And other big hair, terrible stuff. Not so bad for me, it's like I'm back at a highschool dance. I can even use the same moves. Over here, they're brand new.

A teacher who I share a class with called in sick, so I'm filling in for her tomorrow at 9 am. And I got some good tips on other language schools.

Flat Hunt

Remember that game Duck Hunt? Remember when you'd miss the duck, and after the duck flapped out of the corner the screen, the dog would pop up laughing, deriding and mocking you?--this is the paradigm Czech reality agencies pattern their treatment of English speakers after.

"The flats unfurnished," they say.

"No matter. We'll look at it anyways."

"Oh, actually it's already taken."

And when they do grace you with a viewing, the price some how increases by at least 1000 krowns. A summation of the last place we checked out: no oven, stove, no dishwasher, no washing machine, no lights in most rooms, no furnishing. But tell you what, the Russian in his business suit says, I'll lower the price from 16,000 to 15,000 (plus 4500 utilities). Like that's supposed to make me feel better: he raised the price from 15,000 on the phone to 16,000 in person. But I'm not cynical. I'm optimistic. I'm ready to view another flat tomorrow--or at least I would have been if the lady hadn't called today and said the place was taken.

Still I love the Czech people. The locals working at the hostel have been a tremendous help. They search online for me, call to translate, even offer me a place in their own flat. And the beer's great. You got to give them that. They do have great beer. But man can't live on hops alone, at least not for an extended period of time.

This weekend I'm going bar hopping with the bartender; his brothers are coming into town from Belfast. We should have a good time.

Grammar, Bagels, and Tony Soprano

Work has been going very well. The school director gave me three more classes. In my intermediate class, I've left the last twenty minutes for a brief and concise lesson in grammar. Some enjoy the lesson, others cringe when I start chalkig up "subject-verb-object" and "intransitive and transitive verbs." Teaching grammar is like showing someone how to ride a bike. Sure, your average Joe can show you how to keep the pedals moving and how to steer the handle bars, but you're never going to win the Tour de France. What I give my students is a high intensity US Postal-like training course--greased and streamlined by my own grammatical, semi-nerdish obsessiveness. This week I have classes Monday through Thursday.

It's Monday morning, and my future roommate and I have woken at 7 to call a property manager at 8:30. The Czech-speaking receptionist kindly did the actual calling, confirmed the manager spoke English, and set up a meeting for us at 11:00. The apartment has four rooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, washing machine, and WC. We may have five people living with us, if everything goes to plan; two are a couple and will share a room. But even if the apt is a little cramped, splitting rent five ways will keep me from boarding a plane state-ward for awhile. Johnny's Canadian, and we've talked about joining an indoor futbol club, something I've actually always wanted to do. Wednesday night Croatia and England play (J's croatian so he'll root for them, and I'll take England 'cause a rivalry always makes for a better time; in the European spirit, I plan on yelling at the tv a lot). He also showed me a great bagel shop, Bohemian Bagels, which is crowded with Americans daily--we just can't get enough bagels. I never knew bagels were uniquely American, or at least a zealous love for bagels is uniquely American. And for myself, I went to the shop the day after I learned of it.

Though the past few days have been very uneventful, the other night was the exception, when my friend (you're friends with someone if you hangout more than once and exchange emails here in the hostel) and I were at a trendy bar, and he got us invited to a party on friday thrown by a very rich man (by my standards), who drives a very nice car, and who makes his money from the two-hundred or so strippers he has working around the city, and most likely other shady activities. He was fat, with a cute girl on his arm--very Tony Soprano. How we get ourselves into this kind of stuff is beyond me. We skipped the party, however; I think I can save the "crimish" underbelly of Prague for another day.

The Professor

I had my second day of teaching tonight, and it went very well. A few hours before, I gave a privat lesson, working with a man one-on-one, and then I went to the headquarters of the school at around four, prepared my lesson, and, at around ten to six, walked over to the building where the class is held.

Three more students arrived today. First, the new students introduced themselves, and then we did a group exercise where all the students filled in the blank of a sentence stating what they will do with their English. The class continued on with similar discussions and exercises, and even a game working on listening skills. It's a different experience, sittin at the front of the classroom with the chalkboard at your back, the students looking attentively at me, most the students anyways. To my own suprise, I fell right into the role of teacher; it fits me well, though I wish I could be teaching Lit rather than grammatical structures.

And I embrace and cringe at the fact that I hear the voice of my own teachers and mentors and favorite authors on style and writing channeled through my speaking, my gestures and scratching on the chalkboard. I've come to realize, in the few classes I've taught, that writing on the chalkboard is a fine art--avoiding smuding chalk on one's sweatshirt, writing at a equal level so your sentence doesn't gradually take a grade down, and erasing without suffocating in a cloud of dust. The eraser here is a giant spunge. At any rate, I can take solace in the fact that title, as teacher at a secondary school, is Professor.

Don't pay attention to the writing--a person should be shot for using words like "solace" and terms like "one's sweatshirt"--but it's late and I'm going to bed.