Night creeps in swiftly here…you never notice it on the horizon; it is a reverse shadow that spreads outward…from the center of the city…outward from the winding, cobbled streets or the strips of asphalt, gleaming with tram tracks like bizarre strands of spider’s silk. Night rises, in accordance with designs that stand askew from common expectation. Darkness is a welcome thing here; a place to shelter. For its age, Prague has so few ghosts, so few specters to make the night into an interminable span of screeching, screaming terrors. Ah, but Prague possesses its own terrors: look into its history and you’ll find Soviet tanks and students who set themselves aflame in protest for freedoms that were lost despite all efforts to hold them. Prague remembers terror, all in the names of occupation, theft, or the expansion of imperial borders. There are these things, and things more horrifying…but no ghosts, none belonging to that ectoplasmic species, anyway. And bearing this in mind, it is no wonder ,then, that the cellar bars and restaurants are often dark and windowless places…underground warrens suffused with the redolence of beer and tabak, expensive cologne, and the light, airy scent of women’s balms and lotions. “This is my secret place,” Pavel said to me on our first night in his favorite bar. It was a comfortable place, loud with the seductive, undulant pulse of rakish dance beats and gospel-tinged lyrics. On our first night there, we were largely alone. There were couples in quiet, amatory conversations, intriguing pairs…men and women…men and men…elegant creatures of indeterminate gender… and as I looked around, the significance of my friend’s words struck me. This was his secret place, though I know that he’s never had anything to hide. In Prague, everyone has a secret place…a shelter from the constant, squealing rumble of trams and traffic. Every secret place seems to be a cellar. “I like it here,” I told Pavel, somewhere between my first and second beer. “Good,” Pavel said. “Because in the spring, I want to see you here, and I want to know that you live in my city.” And with beer, I sealed my promise to do all that I could to stay. For my friends…one born in these magical Czech lands, and another--who through the irony of history and fate--will come to occupy Prague from the heart of Moscow itself. But he’ll do so without tanks, or the promise of violence; he‘ll come armed with his camera, and will stand as an unwitting accomplice in some of my own artistic endeavors. I remember that beer, and the promise I made while drinking it. I remember Pavel, half sprawled on a couch that was too soft for anything but decadent relaxation. I remember the DJ, and the tall/gorgeous woman who said that the night would be perfect if Pavel and I kissed. I kissed Pavel. I kissed the tall/gorgeous woman, and learned her name. If my friend from Moscow had been there on that night, I would have kissed him too. It’s what you do in Prague--you see it everywhere…people kissing. It’s what you do in a city where night spreads upward from the streets and the cellars, and paints the sky with stars. **** As always, thank you for viewing and reading, and hopefully everyone is on the verge of a fantastic weekend.