It was already late when we first arrived, and Pedro and I had been traveling through central Europe for nearly eleven hours. So it is quite possible my senses were a bit off, but the Hlavni Nadrazi appeared to be lit in the same manner as an interrogation room. Bright, exposed fluorescent lights swung down from the ceiling like stalactites. The lights highlighted a shade of maroon that could never have possibly been in style at any point since the Art Nouveau structure was first built in 1901. I kept waiting for the Law and Order music to cue up and for Lennie Briscoe to read me my rights.

At this particular late hour the only people around were other weary-looking travelers, lives strapped to their backs much like me; and of course the hotel-pushers. Before going to Prague I was offered numerous bits of wisdom: don’t take taxis unless the hostel calls them for you, don’t walk around at night unless you are in a group, and watch out for the guys at the train station offering hotel rooms. They always spoke of Prague as if it was Dodge City, a place where the law had no bearing. I didn’t think things could be that bad, I had seen similar hotel pushers in Paris and Amsterdam, and I was sure it wouldn’t be much worse in Prague.

They were everywhere, hawking places with curious names like the Klub Habitat Hostel, Travelers Hostel Island (not on an island), Golden Sickle Hostel, and my favourite, Hostel Elf. Each man was clad in an identical sleazy manner, leather coat a colour of no animal on this earth and ample chest hair spilling forth from Miami Vice style silk shirt. They were all in various stages of baldness, with the wiry hair that lathered with enough grease to coat a pig. Their voices were obnoxious, their odour unavoidable, and like their distant Carney cousins, completely hilarious. One chided Pedro and I for not being man enough for their hostel (one can only wonder what they hid behind their walls). Yet another offered to find our mommies for us because, “we looked lost like puppy.” Pedro and I already had a hostel booked, so we were able to bypass most of the commotion.

One thing I recommend for any first time visitor in a European city is to bring along another European for navigational purposes. It isn’t that I can’t read a map, or even that I am bad with orienteering myself. Give me a good street map and I get through any major American city with only minimal wrong turns. However, put me in most European cities and I am as useful as a bat in daylight. In Europe the streets twist and turn like crooked politician.

Luckily Pedro was well versed in European street travel and was able to guide us to the street our hostel was on with remarkable efficiency for someone of Portuguese descent. The problem then was finding our hostel. We stood in front of what we presumed to be the correct address but it appeared to be a standard building, in-distinguishable from the thousands that touched it. So I did what any good person would do-knocked, and walked around the corner, leaving Pedro standing there alone. A minute passed with nothing happening before I returned. With no sign of anyone around, and the prospect of spending our first night in Prague on the street, I decided it would be best if we let ourselves in. After opening the colossal wooden door we were met with an even more colossal iron gate with a note taped to it that read:

Dear Jeff and Pedro: We are happy you could make it to our city. Sorry, I got tired and went home. But if you want to sleep in your room tonight, you can go to the bar next door and they will let you in. Enjoy. Sincerely, Martha

Pedro and I then went into what appeared to be the world’s smallest bar. We were just two kids in backpacks, and this clearly wasn’t the sort of bar that welcomed tourists. An eerie silence, usually reserved for cheap horror movies, filled the room as we walked towards the bartender. Not sure if he spoke English, and damn sure I didn’t speak Czech, I simply handed him the note our lazy friend Martha left for us. He looked us up and down for a second before handing us two keys that could double as yardsticks.

We went back and struggled with the iron gate and walked up steep stairs. Eventually we found the way to our room, which, unbeknownst to us, was also the room of 12 other young men. Pedro and I set down our stuff on the only two remaining bunks in the room and tried to plan the rest of our night.

Just then two guys entered the room carrying beers and singing. They introduced themselves as Graham and Lloyd and spoke in such a heavy Glaswegian accent that it was a battle to understand anything they asked. Now for those of you who haven’t heard a Glaswegian speak, let me assure you it is without a doubt the hardest of any of the accents in English to understand. They make Jamaicans sound like they are speaking the King’s English. I have found the best way to deal with any Glaswegian is to simply vary your responses between nodding your head yes or no. If you want to communicate further with them, look at the colour of shirt they are wearing. If they are wearing a blue shirt, randomly say “Damn Celtic, bloody wankers,” and if they are wearing a green shirt opt for “Rangers are bollocks. They are a bunch of sheep-shaggers.” However, mixing up either of these responses could result in an unfortunate and painful death.

They told us about their week in Prague, filled with beers so large you could swim in and all the shagging their hyper-active sex drives could handle. Hearing this, Pedro and I grew considerably more excited for our weekend adventure.

—-***—-

It was nearing eleven and Pedro and I were slightly hung over due to a full day of train drinking and the fact we hadn’t had a meal since breakfast. Being the rational people we are, we set out for food. Unable to find anything resembling a bathroom in our hostel I went down to the bar from earlier for some quick relief. Upon leaving, I saw a stairwell that looked of the curious sort you wouldn’t expect to see outside of the Middle Ages. I called for Pedro to join me as we explored the infinite abyss. The bar instantly went from the World’s Smallest Bar to the World’s Coolest. We found hidden room after hidden room. There were stairwells leading off to other, more secluded areas. Each room was connected by stone tunnels with actual torchlights lighting the way. And there were girls! And beer! Girls with beer! The bar appeared to be of another world, a fifth and forgotten island from Gulliver’s travels. Pedro and I dropped any plans of food and focused all of our attention on the Gomorrah-goodness that lay before us.

A lot has been said about the attractive nature of Czech women. Forget anything you have been told. They are far more attractive. It appears as if the place is a models breeding ground. The fall of Communism made a country of five million Victoria’s Secret models free to explore. With little exception the women are flawless. Tall and slender with fair skin, the colour of pastry dough. Even better, it appears the women have used up all the attractiveness of the country, leaving the men looking as awkward as an Eastern European mud fence.

The beer, much like everything else in Prague, is incredibly cheap, as well as incredibly strong. Beer in the Czech Republic is measured by degrees, according to a method devised by Professor Balling in the 17th century. Many think that the percent is the amount of alcohol, but it’s actually the amount of malt extract used in the brewing process. The percentage of alcohol is about a quarter of the percent shown on the bottle, so 12% beer is roughly 3% alcohol, though as Pedro and I found out, it is often a fair bit more potent. Anxious to try the original inspiration for Budweiser, we ordered two Budvar’s. It too carries the slogan King of Beers due to its preference among various kings throughout history. The beer came out in glasses so large they could sleep a family of three comfortably, and only cost us a staggering forty-five cents. In Paris the same amount of beer would require the co-signing of a loan.

Beers in hand, we set down by a foosball table with the maximum opportunity to stare at the endless expanses of women that lay before us. We proceeded to play foosball and drink for more than an hour. As we were about to leave two impossibly attractive girls began to walk in our direction. Their clothes were black, meshing with the cold naked walls behind them. The shorter of the two had the stunning sort of beauty that seemed to confront you from across the room. Her low-cut shirt revealed breasts that danced as if held by marionette strings. The redness of her cheeks bouncing off white skin made her appear almost cherub-like. Her hair was raven and curled at the end like a Shepard’s crook. The taller one had long sleek lines like you find on European luxury cars. Her hair was straw coloured and flirted with the tops of her shoulders. Her deep-set Aqua eyes and slender lips made her appear more innocent than her friend.

As the Sirens neared the shorter one asked me a question in that horrible coughing language. I drunkenly smiled and stared back hoping they would find my ignorance a turn on and have endless hours of sex with me. Sadly, the taller of the two simply indicated they would like to play Pedro and me in foosball. They each did a shot that smelled vaguely of Tequila and we were set.

Within five seconds Pedro and I scored a goal, the ball hitting the net with the hollow thud of a hammer striking a nail. The two girls began to giggle in a tone oddly attractive. Then, like lightning, they began to kiss. Pedro gave me a look confirming he too had all his dreams realised as they touched places even the skimpiest bikini would cover. Their hands fumbled to make contact with mounds of flesh and their hips came together like magnets.

That is how the four of us passed the next hour. You would think it would get old, but it never did. Every time we would score, they would kiss. They grasped the knobs of the players and twisted with animalistic intensity. I attempted conversation. But neither of them spoke much English, and only minimal German. But who needs to talk when there is so much kissing going on? As the bar was closing they asked us those memorable words, “So where do you two stay?” Score. We were in. Sex-with real, gorgeous, Czech women was soon to follow.

“We are staying upstairs from here,” I fumbled in my drunken anticipation. The words were barely out of my mouth before I came upon one of the most saddening images of my life. A room filled with twelve other guys, who were all surely sleeping. Guys who would undoubtedly not be able to get the same joy out of loud sex we would. I remembered how the bed squeaked when I set my stuff on it earlier in the night. With a heavy heart I explained them our problem, the whole time kicking myself for not booking our own room. They just smiled and invited us back to their place. This was getting better by the minute! Sure. Right away. Let’s go.

Walking out, the cold air hit me with a certain suddenness that brought about the unfortunate feeling of sobriety. Soon I wanted to know – who were these girls? Where were we going? How were we going to get there? And why were several large men who appeared as if they liked to hurt people like myself now walking towards us. The sort with muscles so big their elbows never touch their sides. We had been set up. Those girls lured us in with their kissing. We were going to be mercilessly beaten, and not for sexual purposes.

Then the strangest thing happened. The inhumanely goonish-looking men stopped and turned around. The taller of the girls informed us that those men thought we were drunken tourists and were going to, as she nicely put it, “hurt our stuff.” But because the thugs heard the girls speaking Czech they assumed Pedro and I were Czech as well. That horrible coughing language I had so detested earlier was now like honey to my ears.

Already fending off one near-death incident, my rationality began to assert its dominance over my penis. With the alcohol wearing off I wanted to know their names, I wanted to know where we were going. They assured me it was only thirty minutes away. By tram. I excused Pedro and myself so we could briefly conference on the issue.

Out on the dank street I went over our options with Pedro. We could go with the girls to their house in the deeply isolated in the Czech countryside. From there three things could happen. First, we could engage in a marathon of passionate loving, and receive gold medals for our sexual prowess. Second, we could be taken to a barn, dressed in leather chaps and have ballgags inserted in our mouths, hopelessly trying to utter a fifteen syllable safety word without any vowels. Finally, we could contract an STD so obscure it has yet to have been discovered. Or we could play it safe, stay in our hostel with the drunken Scots, and try and find more local girls tomorrow. However, Pedro was on a quest to sleep with a woman from every European nation so the prospect of turning into a Communist crustacean didn’t seem to faze him.

In the end I had to assert, in the trademark American go-at-it-alone attitude, that we were going back and we would meet them tomorrow. With that I turned to walk back to the hostel. I am sure if one of the girls had in any way tried to stop me I would have gone with them. Maybe I never would have returned, but at least I would have died knowing what a Czech orgasm sounds like.

Pedro and I made our way back through the two large doors with considerably more difficulty than before and up to our room. I squeaked my way into bed that night, reeling from a day filled with the dizziness a new city brings and numerous liters of beer. My world spun as I took my place among the sleeping Germans and Brits. Through the silence of the room Pedro whispered sadly, “We could have had sex with them Jeff.”

I replied, “I know Pedro, but then what would we have left to do tomorrow?”.

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