Dateline July 6th, 2022

Today got off to a promising start. I was wondering the streets of Staré Město when I stumbled upon a store with hockey hats. Would I find headwear indicative of my native Hartford?

Well, sure enough, I was in luck. For the first time in over 25 years, I found a Hartford Whalers hat for sale (to be fair, the Whalers weren’t even selling the hats 25 years ago–my father and each received one for free before the team skipped town). I thanked the storeowner for stocking something that is just so aesthetically pleasing. I pointed to the space between the whale’s tale and the W.

“Do you know what this means?”

“Of course,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “It’s the H for Hartford. The Hartford Whalers.”

It seems the Whalers, like Velvet Underground, are more popular in Prague than they ever were in America. Go Figure!

The hat provided me great shelter from the summer sun, as well as a nice little nostalgia-trip and/or birth certificate for anyone asking me where I’m from. This would come in handy later that evening when I made my triumphant return to the Letna Beer Garden.

This time I was steeped in confidence. I recognized the woman bartender from yesterday and she recognized me. I went through all the verbal commands perfectly. After I had paid for my pivo, she replied with a friendly “diký.”

Hot dog! When a native Czech ditches formal děkuji to the informal diký, you know that you’re doing something right. It’s the subtle Czech way of saying that they consider you to be in close company.

I sat down at table, faster than you could say “Velvet Revolution,” I was joined about half a dozen middle-aged men. Initially, they spoke Czech. Startled, I just said my default panic response: “Mluvite Anglicky?”

“Yes,” said one of them. “Can we join you?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“Cheers, mate,” he said, as he and his friends sat down.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Prague born-and raised.

“Really? You’re English is so good you sound like a native speaker.”

“Thank you,” my new companion said, a bit taken aback by my praised. “I studied at the foreign language school. Where are you from?”

“America, between New York and Boston.”

With that simple seed, a great conversation sprouted. We talked about what Prague is like now, and what is like back when it was still part of Czechoslovakia. Another one of my new companions should me a photograph of the hideous monument that Josef Stalin dedicated to himself. “It was big, ugly, and terrifying,” he said.

“In other words, just like the man himself.” I commented.

“Exactly.”

“So what happened to the monument? Did you guys remove it after the Russians left.”

“Even better: we blew it up with dynamite.“

When I heard that, I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. We spoke some more about life in Prague, life in America, and life in general. On this particular evening, I felt like a character in one of Hemingway’s great novels of American expats in Europe. The beer was dark and the weather was hot and the sun was bright but we didn’t mind the hot air or the bright sun because trees of the garden shielded from the sunlight and the mountain breezes pushed the hot air out of the way and kept us nice and cool as we drank our beer and spoke of good times and good women.

When our conversation came to a close, my new pals from Prague implored me to see what their people had done to replace the Stalin monument.

I promised them I would investigate.

And tomorrow, that is exactly what I did.

To be continued . . .