A Connecticut Yankee in King Wenceslas's Court

Dateline: July 5th, 2022

When this old world starts bringing me down,
and people are just too much for me to face,
I climb way up to the top of the stairs,
And all my cares just drift up into space.

This morning, I noticed that my phone was no longer able to make phone calls. Ouch. That’s kind of the defining feature of a phone, don’t you think? Anyhow, I spent a good solid two hours texting customer support at AT&T notifying them of my dilemma. I received a rather vague unconvincing answer about how their satellites weren’t working, then I conked out and slept for another six hours.

When I awoke, it was nearly evening. Worse, it was still hot in my apartment. Apparently, Holešice is an urban heat island–a result of constructing too many edifices on what should have been a marshy mudflat. Worse, my apartment has the interior view to a courtyard. The stuffy air was suffocating me.

So I headed out . . . out and up to the Letna Beer Garden. I took the tram to banks of the Vltava River, and walked up many, many flights of stairs to what could be described as the roof of the city of Prague. Down below, you can see all the famous neighborhoods and vistas: the žižkov tower, the National Museum, Prague Castle, and of course, the mighty, muddy, Vltava River. From up above, you can feel the wind wisp over the hills and sweep over the river. It’s a breeze that cools the body and soothes the mind on a hot day.

And it’s also the location of the Letna Beer Garden. Thus, I decided to go local and enjoy another delicious Czech beer–for my health of course. It took my a while to figure out the assembly-line-like efficiency that this beer garden has. Simply put: There are two lines. You order your beer, they pour it for you, you pay and take your seat. I went to the shorter of the two lines, eager to prove I was “better” than those other tourists and . . . I flopped right away.

It started out so promising, though! I said “Dobrý den”with such confidence and gusto. I started to say “Cerveza” before I corrected myself and said “Pivo.” Oops. My cover was blown. I admitted fault and simply said, “mluvite anglicky?”

The barkeep looked at me like I was some sort of psychopath. My Czech was actually passable, my Spanish was even better. She must have been wondering why would I even ask her if she spoke English?

“Ne,” was all she responded, with a very confused facial expression.

“I speak English”said her co-worker to the rescue. “What do you want, one beer? That will be 97 crowns; there is a 50 crown deposit.” I reached for my wallet and fumbled for the first bill I could find: a $2,000 crown bill.

“Do you have anything smaller?” she said, demandingly. “I am not breaking that.”

“Uh, yes,” I said. “I mean, ano.” She rolled her eyes and smiled as I handed her a $200 crown bill. Her co-worker handed me my beer, and I gave both of them a very large tip for their troubles.

“Děkuji,” I said. I took a gentle sip from the foam-topped pivo. Hmm, I thought. To my health!

I sat and relaxed as I admired the view. If you ever so lucky to visit the Letna Beer Garden, not only will you be greeted with majestic views of the city, as well as calm mountain breezes, but you will hear people conversing all around in German, Dutch, Russian, English, Czech–the list goes on.

I stayed until dusk, and then trotted down the hill, just in time to see the sun’s last light over the Vltava river.

Tomorrow is a new day . . .

Dateline: July 4th, 2022

Today started much like the previous day: I woke up early, ate breakfast, practiced Czech online, and then went back to sleep for another six hours. Damn jet lag!

When I awoke, it was already evening. I knew I had to do something special on this particular day, so I decided to head on down to Mala Strana to see the Lennon Wall.

As much as I appreciate and enjoy John Lennon, it might surprise you, dear reader, that my first memory of this man was not a positive one. The year was 1987. I had just returned home from school and was looking forward to watching cartoons on television. However, my mother informed me that tonight, Dad would be watching a documentary on John Lennon.

Who? Needless say I did not take the news well. I was a jealous guy, and was none to pleased that for the next 90 minutes, my father’s attention would be singularly focused on the television. I didn’t get much from the documentary–only that John was a man who wore glasses and wanted to stop the war.

Like most kids my age in 1987, I thought Vietnam was a triumphant victory for the United States because Rambo. I knew nothing of the complete unmitigated disaster that war was, or about my father’s bronze star that he had learned for his involuntary service in South Vietnam.

Still, stopping war seemed like a noble goal. As I got older, I did learn to appreciate John’s music and messages. I also wondered what would happen in 2020–40 years after his death, and another 40 years after his birth. Would people still remember him? Would they still care?

Hence my obsession with the Lennon Wall. Apparently, shortly after John’s untimely death, Prague citizens started risking their lives with their constant graffiti on one particular wall in Prague’s Mala Strana (lesser town) neighborhood. The wall was (and still is) owned by the Maltese government, so it was outside of the Communist ruling party’s jurisdiction. Four decades later, not only is this magnificent monument to John Lennon still visible, but the city of Prague has given it protected status, and any further graffiti must be approved by a commission of artists.

However, since I have virtually no visual artistic talent anyway, I didn’t need to draw. I simply put my hand to the wall, said a silent prayer for peace in my mind, and reflected on the many, many, many people who have contributed to John’s message of peace and love for the last 42 years.

Yes, that’s right. The Lennon wall is older than the man himself.

Or as Obi-Wan might say:

You can’t win, Darth. If you cut me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possible imagine.

Dateline: July 3rd, 2022

One thing that we all are prone to suffer from is what psychologists call the “protagonist viewpoint.” That is to say that each of us believes that we are the main character in a book or movie that encompasses each of our daily lives. The trouble with this logic is that there are currently 8 billion people in the world, and guess what? You’re not the main character. You’re just an extra. So am I. So is everybody else we interact with.

However humble I may have thought myself to be in the past, whatever shreds of my “protagonist viewpoint” remained have been surely ripped to shreds as I try to adjust to life in this new country. This morning was another such example in which the author, merely an extra on planet on earth right now rather than humanities main protagonist, struggled to get through another day.

I woke up with a nagging cough–one that had been lingering since allergy seasoned boomed in the Connecticut River Valley where I had been residing prior to my arrival in Prague. I figured I would walk to the local drug store and purchase some cough medicine. Trouble was, the local drug stores in the Czech republic don’t sell medicines. They sell vitamins, herbal treatments, shampoos, toiletries, cosmetics–you know, everything that CVS would sell except medicine! Oy vey!

Fortunately, herbal tea seamed like a wise choice. I grabbed a box off the counter, along with some shampoo and detergent, and walked to the cash register to pay.

“Dobrý den,” said the cashier with a smile. She was blonde-haired middle aged woman who stood just a hair under 6 feet tall (or 183 cm).

“Dobrý den,” I replied as I placed my items on the conveyor belt. The cashier scanned the items with ease and then spoke at a pace that simply far too fast for my poor brain to comprehend.

“Sorry, I said. My cover as a fluent Czech speaker lasted all of three seconds. “Mluvím malý český,” I said. “Mluvite anglický?”

“Yes, she replied”. “It’s 320 crowns. Cash or card?”

“Cash,” I replied, as if to prove I was smart enough to at least count money after my latest foray into a foreign language flounder. As I handed her the money, she asked me if I needed a bag.

“No necesito–uh, nepotřebuji” I replied. For some reason, I couldn’t help but reply in Spanish (the only other language I speak conversationally) before mustering a reply in the correct Czech language.

When the cashier heard this, her face broke into a wide smile.

“Mluvíš hezký malý český (You speak nice little Czech)!” Her face was vibrant, her voice jubilant. Hey, at least the few words that I can speak in Czech are coming out right!

I put the tea and shampoo in my backpack and the walked across the street to an actual pharmacy to get my cough medicine. And at the actual pharmacies in Czechia, they only sell medicine, and almost everything is behind the counter. This includes something that is simply sold over the counter in the United States, Robitussin cough syrup.

I walked to the counter and simply asked if the pharmacist if she spoke English. She replied that she did, and asked me what I needed. I told her that I needed cough syrup, to which she turned around and pulled a bottle off the shelf behind her. As she handed the bottle to me, she read the instructions. “Make sure you take exactly 7.5 milliliters every 4-6 hours” she said, sternly. “And remember, this medication is not for children.”

When I heard that, I immediately thought of the children I saw drinking beer at the local restaurant Friday night. On the inside, I was laughing hysterically, but on the outside, I did everything I did to match her stern and serious facial expression and voice intonation. I simply thanked her and headed back to my apartment.

Upon arriving, I swallowed seven and half milliliters of cough syrup, studied Czech for another hour on DuoLingo, then slept for another six hours. When I awoke, it was just in time to take some more medicine–and just in time to head back to my favorite (and only) restaurant I had been to at that point in time.

Restaurace Pět peněz (Restaurant 5 money.) On this night, I ordered the Baltic salmon. As I ate, I savored the flavor for each and every moment. Mm, mám to rád, I thought to myself. mám to rád. Loosely translated, this means, “I like it.” More specifically, it means, “I have a happiness for it.”

As I tasted each and every magnificent morsel of this amalgam of salmon meat, sauce and vegetables, my mind transported me way back to Christmas Eve, 1987. Five-year-old me took a healthy serving of turkey, along with yams and asparagus. Then my grandmother offered me a healthy serving of gravy to go with it.

For some reason, gravy just made five-year-old me squeemish. I already liked the turkey, so why put anything else on it? I simply said no thank you. When my grandmother heard this, an atomic bomb nearly exploded in her mind. “”He doesn’t want the gravy?! She exclaimed. “What’s wrong with him! You can’t have turkey without gravy.”

When her mother (Momma Nonna to me) saw this, she she smiled and laughed. She had made this gravy herself–a recipe from her native village of Potenzo in Italy. Needless to say, this was very good gravy. She let her son (Uncle Joe to me) do the talking for him. “Relax, Mildred,” said Uncle Joe with a smile. “He’ll have the gravy when he’s ready. Let him go at his own pace.”

When I heard this, I smiled and feasted on my dry turkey. I repeated this process for years and years. Sadly, after Momma Nonna passed away shortly after Easter in 1992. Despite our best efforts no one in our family could every quite make the Christmas gravy the way that she could.

As I thought of that very specific Christmas 35 years ago, I just let the flavor of the food marinate in my mouth, and smiled. When I was ready to pay, I made sure to leave a 40 crown tip for service. I pulled two 20 crown pieces out of my pocket, and saw that each of them graced the image of good King Wenceslas. This brought my mind back to my grandmother’s living room, Christmas, 1987. Everyone’s there, and my mother is singing in her pitch-perfect Catholic schoolgirl voice:

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shone the moon that night, 
Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gathering winter fuel

After caroling, it was time for the gift exchange, and Uncle Joe, (remember him) handed me a perfectly wrapped gift that was no larger than an ipad (needless to say, it was not an ipad. But you get the picture).

“I know it’s small,” he said as he handed it to me. “But important things come in tiny packages.” I thanked him as I ripped the wrapper to shreds (again, this caused my Great-Depression-raised grandmother to recoil in horror). With the wrapping removed, I saw a beautifully illustrated cover to an abridged version of Around the World in 80 days.

Hot dog! The man knew I was born to travel. I thought of this as I paid for my meal in full, handed over my Czech crowns to my waitserver, and parted ways with a simple “děkuji, na shladenou.” With this, the waiter smiled. Only two days in, and my Czech is slowing getting better. And with such fantastic food options everywhere, well, let’s just say I look forward to practicing live and in person every chance I get well I’m here.

Prague–where every restaurant serves a meal worthy of Christmas dinner.

Mám to rád indeed. I like it!

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 . . .

Dateline: July 2nd, 2022.

I awoke at the sound of my phone’s alarm clock at 5:45 am local time. Unfortunately, the two phone calls that I made yesterday, as well as using the luggage locator app, had almost completely zapped the phone’s battery life. And since I didn’t have Czechoslovakian-compatible charger, I knew I had to act fast.

I used what little battery power I had remaining to get directions to the nearest mall. I saw there was a tram stop just two blocks away from my apartment. Hot dog! I thought to myself. We’re in business!

However, the events that unfolded thereafter didn’t go quite as planned. The whole experience felt surreal. It started in a rather pedestrian sense, literally and figuratively. As I walked to through the streets of Holešovice, I felt like I was an extra on a movie set. The buildings themselves were just so beautiful that they did not appear real to me. Why would they? Most American apartment buildings are cheaply built–even the expensive ones.

However, I had little time to admire the architecture as I soon reached my first dilemma. I was certain that I could just purchase a tram ticket at the stop. However, once I arrived, I saw this was not the case. I didn’t want to get busted for not having a ticket on my first full day in Prague, so I decided to simply follow the tram tracks until I reached my destination. As I headed two blocks due eastward, I reached Libensky Most–a bridge of the mighty, muddy, Vltava River. I had literally goosebumps on my body as it dawned on me that I had never been this far east in my entire life. I admired the view of the water flowing beneath me, and the majestic city center nearby. I lamented that I didn’t have enough battery power to go around snapping photographs willy-nilly, but I promised I would make it up to myself later.

After about fifteen minutes of walking, I saw a general store right in front of the mall. Hmm, here’s an opportunity, I thought. I walked in, and sure enough, they had phone charges for Czechoslovakian outlets. Problem was, I didn’t understand nearly enough Czech to read the directions on the package. I had no idea which chargers were compatible with my phone. I turned to the clerk behind the counter for assistance.

“Dobrý Den,” I said. “Mluvim maly Czezky. Mluvite Anglicky?”

“Anglicky?” The Vietnamese man behind the counter shook his head and apologized. “Ne.”

Oh dear. Thinking back to may days as an inventory manager at Manhattan’s largest bike shop, I remember all the times when someone who didn’t speak English or Spanish needed a new part (or in some cases, a whole bike.) Since this was before the ubiquity of smartphones, I had to rely on hand signals to get the message across.

Now the shoe was on the other foot. This time I was hapless customer, hoping that the man behind the counter would understand my dilemma. I pointed to the charging port on my phone. “Neznam.” I said in Czech. “I don’t know which one I need.” I pointed to a nearby outlet. “To test?” I asked, gesturing a plug in motion with my hands.

Well, fortunately the store owner and his wife who had just walked in understood my crude gestures and remarkably limited Czech vocabulary just fine. It’s a good thing they did, because I had inadertantly chosen an incompatible charger, and once they saw what kind of port my phone had, they were able to help me find the right one.

With that, I thanked my Vietnamese friends and said goodbye. “Děkuji.” I said with a smile. “Na shladenou.” And with that, I walked out the door with a smile. Feeling refreshed at having completed my task, I decided to take a photo of the most interesting thing in my immediate vicinity: A giant dinosaur sculpture atop the nearby mall. Fun fact: Jurassic Park debuted in 1993, the same year the Czech Republic became a country.

As I walked back, I felt the jet lag overpowering me, and lamented that I had yet to see a single tram stop with a ticket vending machine displayed outside. So I walked back the way I came, plugged in my phone, and did some research to find out how I could pay for tram tickets in Prague.

When I found the answer, I nearly facepalmed. Apparently the ticket vending machines are on the trams themselves.

Instead, I chuckled aloud at my foolishness, lay down in bed, and promptly slept for another six hours.

It’s getting better all the time . . .

To your health, comrades. To your health.

Dateline: July 1st, 2022

It was five o’clock in the morning when the plan touched down in Dublin. I did not receive so much as a wink of sleep on the plane. How could I? We were flying so close to the north pole that even as one side of the window was as black as the far side of the moon, the other side of the plane let in constant sunlight. I kept my sanity by reading Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Admittedly, this drug-fueled dismal misadventure into the depths of the American Dream may not have been the best choice for the occasion. Then again, Dr. Thompson’s spot on analysis of how Timothy Leary destroyed what he had created, how downers definitely started with Nixon, and how the other such magnificent moments of Dr. Thompson’s lucid prognostications certainly captured some of the reasons for my own adventure.

I have lived in America for four decades. With the exception of a brief, one-hour excursion into Canada, I have never left the United States. For this and many other reasons, it was time for something new. When I looked the window of the plane and saw the brilliant beauty of Dublin Bay, I couldn’t help but let out more than a few tears.

I had to wait a few hours for my connecting flight into Prague. Some of the Dubliners went to the nearest foodstand to buy beer, whereas I opted for water.

I guess I wasn’t ready to go completely local yet. Besides, after reading anything from Hunter S. Thompson, I was wary about consuming any mind-altering substance of any kind after getting not a wink of sleep in the last 24 hours. As I staggered back to the seating area, bottle of water in hand, one of the flight attendants asked if I was okay.

“Oh, no worries, I’m fine,” I said as I plopped down on the nearest seat I could find. She looked a little less than reassured, but then I found a five-Euro cent piece on the floor. Hot dog! Things were looking up already! I pocket the coin and chugged my half-liter of water. Before I knew it, it was time to board my flight to Prague.

Shortly after liftoff, we crossed over the English channel. I thought the English and American bombers who made this flight in their prop-planes during the second world war, and thought of how terrifying it must have been for everyone involved. The land below looked so peaceful, so beautiful. Somewhere over Denmark, I lost sight of the land and saw only clouds. At this point, I finally succumbed to sleep, and the next thing I knew, I had landed at Vaclav Havel International Airport. Alleluia!

My heart stopped as I waited patiently for the man behind the counter to stamp my passport. Some say that Czech public officials are stern and serious, and this man was no exception. He examined each and every page of my unstamped passport. Then he looked at each every page again. And again.

After what seemed like an eternity, he stamped the page, looked me right in the eye. “Welcome to Prague!” He said, sternly.

“Děkuji,” I replied. With that, the man behind the counter smiled. “Prosím,”he said, smiling this time, and he waved me through the gate. I stepped through, and let out a mighty exhale.

Things were just one relief after another: I found my luggage without a problem. A quick phone call (thanks to the free airport wifi) secured my cab ride from the airport to my student housing in Holešovice, and another quick phone call to remind my bank, that yes, I am indeed in continental Europe. As I surveyed the land from the back seat of the cab, I felt reminders of San Francisco–a city literally built within mountains. However, my mind and body could do no more exploring after I reached my destination. I simply check in to my apartment, and mentally checked out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

It was evening when I awoke, and I decided that I was going to eat like a local. A short walk away from my apartment was a very nice little neighborhood restaurant. I stepped inside.

“Dobrý Den.” said the waitress.

“Dobrý Den.” I replied. “Mluvite Anglicky?” She shook her head, and called on her colleague. “Anglicky,” she said to him, and pointed to me. With that, the English speaking waiter handed me a menu and told me I could sit anywhere. I found a small, cozy table in the corner with a view facing towards the front window. I ordered a dark Czech beer and a plate of spinach gnocchi. After I handed the waiter the menu, I noticed that two teenage boys seated by the window were each drinking glasses of beer. Shortly thereafter, the boys’ father returned from the men’s room to join them.

Welcome to Prague.

A few minutes later, the waiter arrived with my pivo. People told me that Czech’s don’t pour out the foam that tops the bear, but rather, embrace it. They insist that all the nutrients from the beer can be found in the foam, and since they invented the drink, I’ll have to take their word for it. “Na zdraví!” I said to myself, and with that, consumed my first taste of authentic Czech beer.

The gnocchi arrived a few minutes later, and was absolutely excellent. It felt as delicious as the Christmas dinner’s your grandmother (or great-grandmother, depending on your age) used to make. I savored the flavor. To say this meal was merely good would be an understatement of epic proportions. Good? This was fantastic. At it was only 12 bucks!

I finished my meal, thanked the staff, and headed back to my apartment.

And with that, my first day in Prague had come to a close.

Dateline, July 22^nd, 2022.

Who are you? Where do you come from? What are you doing here?

After three weeks in a new city, in a new country, in a new continent, I am finally starting to find my bearings.

I was standing on a metro platform beneath the streets of Prague when a middle-aged woman approached me. “Dobrý Den.” She said. Then she started asking me questions that I couldn’t quite understand. “Mluvim maly Cesky” (I speak little Czech) I replied. “Mluvite Anglicky?”

She shook her head. No,” Ukrainske she replied.

Oh dear.

From what little Czech and Russian I knew, I was able to understand that she and her children were looking for the Vltvaska metro stop. Once I realized this, I smiled. To the map! I said, with the enthusiasm of former Carmen Sandiego gameshow host Craig Lee. I don’t speak Ukranian, but I knew that between my limited Russian and Czech skills, coupled with this visual aid, I would be able to send this woman and her children in the right direction.

“”Potrebuješ Krasny” I said, pointing to the red line. (I took a calculated risk, here. Potrebujes” is Czech for “you need,” whereas Krasny is the Russian word for red. Since Ukrainian is approximately 50 percent identical to Russian, I used the Russian, rather than Czech word for red.

“This is the green line,” I said, pointing to the map. Ne zelena”” (here I slipped back into Czech, then continued my hybrid dialect of Russian, and English). Red line, Krasny, takes you to Vltavksa. Red line is up the stairs,” I said, pointing towards the escalator. I repeated myself a few times to see if anything I said was getting through to her.

Fortunately, the woman’s older daughter of about 12 was hanging to my every garbled, Slavic word (Kids learn so fast!). I could see the look of recognition in her eyes, and I smiled. I looked at the older child. Do you understand?

“Yes,” she said, with impeccable English. “I understand.

With that, the mother thanked me, and she and her young girls went on their merry way–or at least as merry as they could be under the circumstances.

After three works of jet lag recovery, the mystique and aura of simply existing in one of Europe’s greatest cities, and the overwhelming language barrier, I was finally able to help someone.

And thus, the need to catalogue this spiritual journey of mine that started three weeks ago shall indeed by visible in cyberspace.

Thanks for reading.

Have a nice day!