Dateline, July 2nd, 2022. Midafternoon in Staré Město.

I awoke mid-afternoon feeling refreshed, and my phone was fully charged.

“Hot dog! I thought to myself. “I’m heading downtown!”

And downtown I headed. I took the tram to Republic Square and wandered south for a few blocks. Before I know it, I had stumbled upon one of Prague’s most treasured icon’s: The Astronomical Clock. The line to buy tickets stretched out the door, and I decided it best to view the interior of that majestic medieval masterpiece of architecture another time. Fortunately, directly across from the clock is an art museum. The names of the artists on were emblazoned on the facade of the building in big bold print: DALI, MOUCHA, WARHOL.

When I saw those names, I felt like had just won the lottery. I walked into the museum and went through my usual routine of stumbling through Czech. Fortunately for yours truly, Old Town is so chock full of English speaking tourists that the man behind the counter spared me from embarrassing myself. Faster than you can say “Tomato Soup,” I had purchased my first ticket to my first Prague tourist attraction. Hooray!

I took the elevator up one floor and saw some great original works from Salvador Dalí. The man was truly a master of his own medium. His best works seem to be something of a prelude to Strawberry Fields Forever, in that nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about it.

Speaking of ’60s music, the Warhol exhibit was exceptionally powerful. The museum had piped in music from the Velvet Underground. Since Andy produced their first album and launched them into fame and/or notoriety, it was such a nice touch. The music set the mood in a very visceral sense. As I walked from room to room seeing some of Andy’s vast array of amazing artwork, I half expected John Cale to tap me on the shoulder and asked me how I was doing. Well, he didn’t show up in person, but the combination of sight and sound reminded me of what Cale said when asked whether or not Andy really liked the Velvet’s music.

“I think he [Andy] just liked company,” said Cale, nonchalantly. This words carried even more meaning when I saw the plethora of personal correspondence letters that Andy had saved over the years. Some were to and from his relatives in Miró, Czechoslovakia, during the Soviet occupation, others were to and from his close friends and family in the United States. As I read these letters, Lou Reed crooned, “Linger on, your pale blue eyes,” in the background. Overall, a very powerful experience.

As I walked from room to room in the Warhol exhibit, I kept telling myself that after I’d seen everything, it was time for me to go. However, time and again another Velvet Underground song played over the speakers, and found myself staying just a little bit longer. Ironically, the only part of the Warhol exhibit where viewers can’t hear the band is in the film room, which plays Andy’s 1967 “documentary,” The Velvet Underground and Nico, on a continuous loop. I use the term “documentary”in quotes because Andy intentionally filmed the band out-of-focus and placed his microphones so close to the band’s amplifiers that all one can hear is the sound of fuzzy feedback. Oh, Andy, so clever. I guess if you want to know what the Velvet Underground didn’t look like or sound like in 1967, this is the documentary for you!

Anyhow, after I heard a great live rendition of “White Light/White Heat,” followed by a deep-cut performance of “Foggy Notion,” I decided that my lust for art had been sufficiently satiated for the time being, and I headed back out into the real world. However, according to Salvador Dalí, this world isn’t so real after all. As I walked a few blocks from Prague’s “Old Town” and transitioned into “New Town,” (neighborhoods named as such because “New Town” is “only 600 years old, compared to the 1400 year old medieval strucutures that dominate Old Town) I conceded that Dalí may have had a point.

So maybe I had dinner at Prague’s Aloha Bar, or maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was all just a work of fiction, or maybe I was back in Hawaii in the 1960s . . . In any case, my belly was full, my mind was both meditated and mystified, and I was ready to try and sleep off some more of my jet lag.

Tomorrow is a new day . . .