I spent a couple of the last five or six years living in Prague. It’s a really wonderful city. Parts of it are like a fairy-tale rendered in stone and tile, and I was lucky enough to live in some really stunning spots and make some great friends. I also had several utterly surreal experiences, as you might expect from such a magical city.
There was the night I went to see an English theatre company put on a production of 1984, for example. It took about half an hour to find the theatre, largely because it was in the middle of communist nowhere, on a small square that didn’t exist — it was in the process of becoming a Metro station, I think. The theatre was only accessible by going through the playground of a busy school, round the back past the janitorial sheds, over some rubble, and across to the venue. Unsurprisingly, it was indeed part of the school. The actors — all four of them — weren’t students (which was a pleasant surprise after the venue), but they might as well have been. It was all dreadfully earnest, and packed to the gunnels with awkward exposition and peculiar close-harmony singing, which you don’t necessarily associate automatically with Big Brother. Still, the beer was 26p a tin, and they let me take it into the… well… the school dining hall, I think, so that was all OK.
Then there was the occasion that I went into a bar for a drink and something to eat, and — because I was gazumped by a couple of rude Swedes who pushed past me as I was heading for the only free table — ended up being seated at an antique piano. The waitress smiled apologetically, closed the lid, and the proceeded to serve me a meal onto the piano. I was pretty irritated at first, but then it dawned on me that it might be my only chance ever to eat a restaurant meal off a valuable musical instrument. The same place offers the patrons the option of buying a mug of coffee for someone else in the future, who may wander in, in dire straits, in need of some liquid fortification. It’s a lovely idea, and there are usually a few ‘Hanging Coffees’ over the bar. (It’s actually called the Hanging Coffee, if you find yourself in the area, and I highly recommend it!)
Desert Locust by Tiexano
The most unsettling however was probably when I was sitting in a small bar. I was having a pint of an excellent local beer when I noticed a large plastic tub of grasshoppers and locusts next to me. Now, me and insects really don’t go very well together, so I wasn’t entirely happy to notice the little bastards. On the other hand, they did appear to be dead — there were about forty of them, all totally motionless. I had a good old squint at them, and decided that maybe they were like gassed butterflies or something, and that either someone had a very morbid sense of what would make a nice home ornament, or the landlord was considering just gluing them in nooks and crannies around the bar as a misguided talking point or something.
Anyway, I was kinda reassured by the thought that they were dead, and ignored them. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that there was movement. I looked round, and the entire bloody tub was seething. They weren’t dead at all; they’d just been pretending or something, lulling me into a false sense of security. The landlord must have seen my expression, because he came over, apologised, and movedthem away a bit.
Then he came back and, in very broken English, said “They are for my friend.” He paused for a moment, looking embarrassed. “He has…” He trailed off, his face twisting into a horrific grimace. “Kamelo.”
My god! What the hell was Kamelo? Why would you need a tub of locusts?
Was it a particularly nasty perversion? Some peculiar skin disease? An enemy he really hated? An illegal insect-racing syndicate? A torment-the-contestants show on Czech TV?
The landlord glanced at my face, and tried again, still grimacing. “Agas.”
I didn’t like that grimace at all, and I didn’t much like the big-eyed little bastards clicking around at me, and I wasn’t exactly sober, so I was getting ready to bolt for the door in case I became the next instalment of Kamelo myself, when one of the people at the bar took pity on me and translated. “Big lizard. Colour change. Green-grey, like so.”
Ah. A damned Chameleon. Obvious, really…
well after reading that article ,i’ll look out for locust and rude swedes but will off course will admire pragues architecture when myself and my misses go there next week.nuff said.
If you get a chance to pop into the Hanging Coffee, Ash, I recommend it :) It’s on Uvoz, a steep but ravishingly gorgeous street that runs from the square behind the Castle straight down to Charles Bridge. There’s a lovely monastery at the top too, Strahov Monastery, with a stunning (if brief) pay-per-view illuminated medieval library. Best tram stop: Pohorelec on the 22/23.
Oh man – I remember that production of 1984. In the intervening years I’d hoped to find myself in the neighbourhood again, but never had any idea to start with where the feck we were. What great memories!
Big tank of locusts I never saw, however. Thankfully. Those things creep me out too.
Yeah, it was an awesome — and awesomely strange — evening, particularly considering I’d been in Prague about a fortnight! I never had any idea of where we were, before or after, which actually just makes it all the better.
Tank of locusts: evil.
Simple!