an american in prague

I’m not sure exactly what had gotten into me, but  our first morning in Prague, I met a handsome German and decided we would have a fling.  It’s funny, because I don’t remember ever thinking anything like that (although I wouldn’t put it past myself to have just forgotten) but I figured, “it’s vacation,  so really, why not?”

My best friend Rhianna and I inched down the buffet line at the hotel restaurant, searching in vain for something western for breakfast.  I settled on a plate of fruit and a Sweedish pancake with jam, only to look up and see that all the tables in the tiny room were already occupied.  ”I don’t know where we’re gonna sit, Rhi,” I said. And no sooner had she opened her mouth to respond, than a stocky blonde with a Danish accent told us “You will sit with us. We have space,” and directed us to the corner of the room. It was a bit random, but we needed to eat, so we sat with him, Poul, and his business partner, Jan.

As it happened, these guys were hilarious. They had come to Czech on business and were friendly and smart as they come.  We laughed through most of our meal and were joined at the tail end by a third member of their party, Markus. Markus was like George Clooney. It wasn’t  because he looked anything like George Clooney, but he reminded me of George Clooney. Suave and distinguished looking, tan with hazel eyes, salt and pepper hair and maybe just a tiny bit too old for me. I was instantly on a mission. I smiled (maybe too much) laughed (maybe too loudly) and hoped that somehow by the time our plates were cleared, Markus would find a way to ask to see me again. I mean…I wouldn’t have asked myself…I’m still too old fashioned.  Either way, he did. They all did. Rhi and I were invited to meet them for drinks and dinner that night, and I couldn’t have been happier–especially considering how I looked that morning. Having just woken up a few minutes earlier, I had made my appearance downstairs in grey yoga pants and a wife beater, with a striped cashmere cardigan I hoped would disguise the fact that I hadn’t bothered with a bra.  Oh, and vintage cowgirl boots. And no make up. And I may or may not have brushed my teeth. That the German was even at all interested, might have been complete dumb luck.

After a full day of sightseeing, Rhi and I freshened up and headed to the bar for a quick drink before dinner.  The guys were waiting, all cleaned up themselves, and we left for what they promised to be a ‘traditional Czech meal’. (Now, I’ll eat almost anything, and most things I’ll try at least once, but I’ll spare you the details of how gross this food was). We left the restaurant and ambled through dimly lit alleys to a patio bar on a wide town square. More drinks. More laughing. The breeze was cool, the view, indescribable…it was completely idyllic. And then it got really good.

Somehow our group managed to separate and I found myself alone with the German, holding his hand on narrow cobbled streets in almost total disbelief at the beauty that surrounded me. We walked together to the Charles bridge, which stretched in the darkness over a the calm River Vltava, and admired, from that place, the centuries-old Gothic statues that lined its edges. The night was clear, save the few wispy clouds that covered, but could not obscure the brightness of the moon, pure white and waxing to almost full. We stood quietly, his arm around my shoulder and he kissed me softly, warming my face in the midst of the breezy chill.

I’d never known myself to be such a girly romantic, but in that moment, I was totally swept away.  It was like a movie and the scene couldn’t have been more perfect. The city, the bridge, the lights, the moon,  the handsome, international, financier and the American Tourist.

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