Guide to Prague

DrF went to Prague to soak up a bit of culture.

Prague, City of Culture and... ABSINTHE!

My Brazilian colleague (who I believe may have a crush on me, but one can never be to sure if it's just a combination of her friendliness - and my ego) suggested that she and I go to Prague for the weekend. I agreed, reflexively (as I do) and we chose a weekend over a French public holiday, booked flights, etc.

Only after all had been set in stone did it begin to dawn on me that it may be a good idea to have a bit of Fighter Cover on this mission... just to make sure that I didn't get jumped out of the sun. I do like my Brazilian colleague, but I have two rules about who I get (ahem) romantically involved with: 1) never sleep with a colleague 2) never sleep with somebody you're not physically attracted to. So, one night at an Irish Pub in Paris (what is it with Paris and Irish pubs??? There are millions of them here!) I introduced the BC (Brazilian Colleague) to the Quiet American and then casually asked him if he was doing anything over the weekend in question. When he replied in the negatory, I informed him that the Czech Republic is home to Absinthe, strongest, most evil drink in the universe and a major ingredient in the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.

Now, I have to explain to you who the QA (Quiet American) is without blowing his cover. It is utterly important that he remain anonymous, as his job requires him to be Squeaky Clean... if ONLY they knew! He is a Scoundrel and a Rogue of very dubious moral character, yet very charming to the laydeez, leader of an extremely interesting life in different parts of the world and a huge fan of intoxicating substances. He'd never heard of Absinthe, but was dead keen to give it a go after I'd explained its effects on the Central Nervous System, so he agreed to join us. Phew.

A few weeks later, quite soon before we were due to leave, the B.C. announced that she was unable to get a Visa for the Czech Republic and therefore could not go after all. So it was only the QA and myself who arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport that fateful Thursday morning, all set for a culture-filled long weekend, visiting historic buildings, museums and art galleries... not.

I'd left the finding and booking of a hotel up to the QA, who'd located a double room at a four-star establishment, quite close to the city centre. The price was suspiciously low for four stars and we realised, when we were ushered into our chambre by the hopeful-looking bellboy, that the Czech rating of hotel quality is somewhat different to the other countries we'd visited. Nontheless, there was a minibar, the beds were comfy and the room was clean, even if you could just about touch each wall if you stretched out your arms.

The minibar was inspected and sampled while plans were made. We would postpone the massage advertised in the hotel brochure, because the masseuse was not available and we'd go check out the City. From the taxi on the way in from the Airport, we'd seen a man taking his pet python for a walk, wrapped around him like some sort of mad jacket, and we'd decided that Prague had Possibilities. Indeed it did.

We left the hotel, heading in what appeared to be a good direction and were soon on the Main Street, or one of them, we weren't too sure. The Plan was to find a bar which served beer and maybe Absinthe. Museums and Historic Sites could wait a while, plenty of time, plenty of stuff to see. We were thirsty.

After trying a good few bars, we still hadn't found anywhere which served Absinthe, although all of them served jolly good beer. Probably a good thing too, as it was still quite early in the afternoon and we'd have been Accident Victims if we had found an Absinthe-Vendor at that time. Maybe that's why we couldn't find Absinthe. They probably did have it, but had been told not to serve it to anybody who didn't speak Czech before an hour in the evening after which it didn't matter.

Eventually, we discovered a nice place on the river, near one of these really cool gates at the end of one of the bridges. You may notice that we never did, nor do I now know where we were, at any time. Actually, I lie. At one stage in the weekend, the QA showed amazing powers of navigation when it really counted. I at no stage had the faintest idea of where we were or what we were looking at. Not that it mattered, but surely, as a Tourist, one should always know where one is and what one is looking at? It is your duty.

We duly began the intricate process of assembling the potion. There is only one way I know of to render Absinthe fit to drink, but many different peculiarities exist. My method is to pour the Absinthe over a sugar cube held in a teaspoon, into a whisky glass. Then you light the cube and let it cook over the glass. When all the sugar's dissolved into a clear liquid, pour it into the glass and put out the resultant sheet of flame which erupts with a splash of water. The clear green liquid has now turned kind of milky and there's a hell of a lot of it, if you've been too generous with the water when startled by the fire. You can now either sip or gulp it, depending on how much you like Anis. I'm not a huge fan of licorice, so I normally just neck it and hold on for Dear Life.

It was agreed that indeed Absinthe is some pretty horrible-tasting shit and beers were required to revive our taste buds. We hadn't eaten very much since some vile baguettes at CDG and some food on the plane... I think we had some fries at the bar. Things get hazy after that. I know we had another two Absinthe and more and more beers at that bar, but I'm not sure... ohhh yes, we DID have some food at a really nice-looking place we saw on the huge Main Square in the middle of Prague, where I took the picture of the QA standing in front of a famous building. We didn't have a lot to eat, though and it is for this that I blame my subsequent behaviour.

Because we got absolutely lambasted. I recall getting accosted by these awful Gypsy girls, after failing to see the little men come out and ring the bells at midnight in the bell tower in the Main Square (defective, it would seem). These girls are in their early teens and they run up to you, grab you by the waist and try to stick their tongue down your throat. This is not as nice as it sounds. After beating a hasty retreat, we bumped into some rather Fly young babes and made plans to go to a club they knew of. The QA is good like that. Then one of the girls disappeared and left her mate alone with us. It was then that the QA got a whiff of something Fishy (perhaps the Gypsy girls had spooked him, who knows?) He decided that these girls were Bad News and suggested we bid them Good Night.

So, we were just staggering along, discussing what our options were, when a nice man sidled up to us and asked if we wanted to see Girls. The Best Girls in Prague, apparently. I was going to tell him to Get Knotted, when I discovered a very interesting fact. The QA is a connoisseur of the Nudibar. He's been to many in his home town (not quite Washington, but it may as well be, so he says he's from DeeCee, except he isn't, he's from Cennervill.) and he spent six months in Bangkok before coming to work in Paris for six months. I had been to exactly one Strip Club, when I was 16, I think, and I'd never really seen the point of watching somebody take their clothes off (and then what?). But I'm always Up for anything that would shock my Mum and so agreed to go and check it out.

Well. Captain Nemo's was indeed everything that the Man had said. Notice how I can clearly remember the name of the Nudibar, but none of the names of any of the other places we went to, even though I was plenty trashed by the time we got there. Telling, isn't it? Big, soft, red leather sofas all over the place with incredibly beeyootiful women sitting on them, smiling. We'd used up all our cash by this stage and were very relieved when the Smiling Man Behind the Counter assured us that all Major Credit Cards were accepted. This was our undoing. Unlimited credit in a place like this? We'd found Al Bundy's idea of paradise and realised that he really is a great Philosopher.

I had my first-ever lap dance (another thing, the idea of which had never appealed to me) and realised that money actually can buy you love. Those Beatles never had a lap dance at Captain Nemo's, obviously. When I got back, I discovered that the QA had ordered us another Absinthe. This is when everything went downhill. You never have four. Bad Idea. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The QA went off for his lap dance and when he got back, I was not to be found. He just assumed that I'd gone off for another lap dance and so he carried on spading the stripper whom he'd decided was definitely in love with him.

Imagine his surprise to see the Dr being carried in by the manager and placed gently on the sofa. He'd been discovered having a bit of a nap in the toilets and was in a state of semi-consciousness. The QA thought this was extremely amusing, ordered more drinks and had more lap dances while the Dr snored in front of pole-grappling Czech and Russian strippers. Terrible. A very poor performance. But I will inform you that the QA is almost nine years younger and at least a foot taller than I, which is why he prevailed when I fell. He's also one of those people who's always the last to leave a party, when there's nothing left to drink. Nine years ago, that would never have happened. The Dr's Getting On.

We eventually left Captain Nemo's, allegedly tried to get a drink at another bar (according to the QA, it was my idea, but there's no way I could have done that, no way) got thrown out because they were closing and took the Beer Scooter home. The next day was Saturday. Horrible, unbearable pain was the first thing I became conscious of. The room was brightly lit by the sunlight streaming through large, open windows and somebody was using a jackhammer in the be-scaffolded building across the street. It felt as if he was drilling directly into my mangled prefrontal cortex. The QA was still out like a light and there was no way I was going to sleep with that drill, so I went and had a shower and watched the war on CNN until a faint moaning could be heard and I knew that the QA had entered Hell.

The previous evening's endeavors were recounted; two addled brains and a handful of crumpled credit card receipts collaborating to piece together what had happened. I refused to believe the QA's attestations that I'd been carried back from the bogs in a very Bad State. No ways, man. That never happens. It was now the early afternoon and Time for breakfast. So we drank everything the minibar had to offer, even the water. There was great consternation when the Man from Virginia couldn't find a light for his ciggies and no less than three sorties were made to the bar for matches and beer.

Eventually, it dawned on us that we should, really a) eat and b) go and see the Sights. Neither seemed a more entertaining prospect than trying to watch the adult channel before it got scrambled (they give you a tantalising 30 seconds before evilly snatching it away from you like a playground bully) but we were in Prague, so we may as well go out and get amongst it.

In the interests of supporting the QA's God-Given Right to consume American Fast Food in any and every major city on the planet, we sampled some of the indigenous KFC. Not nice. The best is to be found in Amsterdam, although that may have something to do with the quality and quantity of other commodities on offer in that fair city. This stuff was dry and had some sort of chili amongst the eleven herbs and spices which gave me heartburn. Some nasty latte later, we were sitting in a bar, watching the sun go down over the castle that we were supposed to have visited that day, trying to force the chicken and coffee down with cool, refreshing Czech beer.

Feeling better, it was time to amble around some more. The QA wanted to go and gamble in a casino (which had a strip bar upstairs and monitors around the tables so you could watch the strippers while losing all you money) but decided not to after seeing the only guy at the Roulette table lose a huge pile of chips. Bad Mojo. After stumbling into a rather nice street, full of shops selling beautiful crystal and tourist knick-knacks we found the same place as the night before (pretty waitresses, you see) and had dinner, washing it down with some Absinthe, which caused the QA to go an interesting shade of green and excuse himself for a little while. Very nice place to sit and digest one's meal, that restaurant. The tables are outside, on the square and there is all sorts of stuff going on. Jugglers and street performers, a la Covent Garden, loads of beautiful people milling about; charming, in fact.

The QA returned and we discussed what we were going to do on this fine summer's eve. We decided to go to a different Nudibar this time, to add some variety to our cultural visit. Walking down a street leading from the square, we soon encountered the now-familiar Gypsy girls, whistling and stalking up to us, arms outstretched. Neatly sidestepping them, we were spied by the ubiquitous Dodgy Geezer and offered Girls. We were led to another Nudibar. this had a sort of Brazilian theme and after shelling out the entrance fee, we were shown into a room which was empty but for ourselves and about five strippers. We were outnumbered. This place was not nearly as nice as good old Captain Nemo’s and the Martinis were not to the QA's liking (they seldom are). The QA is a Martini Connoisseur, even going so far as to enquire as to the sort of Vodka to be used and informing the uncomprehending waiting staff that it is to be shaken, not stirred. I don't think he realises that a Martini is made with Vermouth in Europe, he's never liked any of the Martinis he's been served when I was around, at any rate.

So we drifted off again into the night, seeking the comforting leather sofas of Cap'n Nemo's, and the lovely long legs of Skinny Girl and the other nice young lady who the QA believed to be in love with him. It was at this point when his Radar kicked in and he led us straight to the front door of Captain Nemo's Leisure Lounge. Like some sort of giant Homing Pigeon, the place had become imprinted on his memory and there was no ways he was getting lost.

The manager greeted the QA like an old friend and gave me a Look which we both understood to indicate that I was to lose consciousness on the couch and not in the Facilities. It was then that I started to believe the QA's allegations. Skinny girl and the one the QA was in love gave us huge smiles and ushered us to our sofa, where they kept us company for the rest of the evening. They were Our Girls and we felt like Olympian Gods, the envy of all the other customers. We felt Special, these girls liked us and really wanted to hang with us (in between Dances and Lesbian Shows in the hot tub somewhere, which we never went to see.)

Towards the end of the evening, as we were trying to find a way to get Our Girls to invite us up to their room, we were joined by Ewen, a be-kilted Scot whose stag night it was. He'd sent his mates back to the hotel and was intent on squeezing every drop out of his last evening as a Free Man. He and all his mates were in Kilts and were wearing the mandatory T-Shirt which declared: "Ewen's Stag Night" on the front and "Is it Really Necessary" on the back. We bought him a Absinthe and ended up staggering down the road in the early morning light. For some reason, he's given the QA his Straw Boater, which the QA was wearing with pride and looking decidedly dodgy. After bumping into a very drunken young Irish lad, who wanted to fight Ewen, even though he was about half his size, and driving off some more very persistent (and incredibly ugly) gypsy girls, we staggered into our room and collapsed.

The next day was our last chance to see Prague as we should have. Museums, art galleries, old buildings... Cultural Stuff. At 11am the phone began to ring. After trying and trying, the Hotel eventually sent a Bellboy to tell us that checkout time was at 11am and it was now 12 and could we please go. The QA had not stirred throughout any of this, still fully clothed on his bed, TV remote in a death grip from when he'd been trying to hack the Adult channel before passing out. We eventually negotiated a Stay of Execution in exchange for 100 Crowns. Cheap at the price and sweet oblivion for the rest of the afternoon, that even the persistent drilling couldn't interrupt.

Finally, it was time to catch out plane. Valentino Rossi had won the Motorcycle GP and we'd cleared the minibar once more. We had a near-miss at the airport, trying to walk through Passport Control without checking onto the plane, because we didn't have luggage of course, dummy. We tried to eat some food which we'd ordered by mistake in the Army-Style restaurant and were stood in front of the Duty Free, staring at gigantic bottles of excellent, cheap Absinthe. We couldn't do it. We never wanted to see the stuff ever again, as long as we lived. The whole point of going to Prague (for us) had been because you could buy the Green Fire there, when it was banned everywhere else. Now we were standing at the End of the Rainbow, staring at the Pot of Gold and it was the last thing we wanted. We boarded the flight back to Paris, empty handed but at least we'd Been to Prague. We were sure of that.

The only people who really knew where we went that weekend were the Nice People at MasterCard, who had left a message on my phone on Sunday and phoned me first thing Monday Morning to ask if I'd been in Prague Friday and Saturday night, spending insane amounts of money at an establishment of Ill Repute and attempting to draw cash from various machines about the place, using several different PIN code attempts.

The QA and I heartily recommend Prague for a weekend of culture and fun, just remember, three's fun, four's trouble and strippers are actually being paid to be nice to you. But who cares, hey?

October 31, 2003 in Adventures , Blog

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