PRAGUE, Czechoslovakia, December. 25, 2003 -- Christmas in Prague.
Standing at the statue of Good King Wenceslas, looking down – maybe not “on the feast of Stephen, where the snow lay all about, deep and crisp and even” -- but at least on the wide commercial avenues that stretch from the grand square named after him.
And there was a little bit of snow. And it was colder than Moscow!
Prague stands as a lighthouse to the rest of us: They bore the communist yoke, not gladly, but with dignity. When the tanks of the Soviet Union rumbled ominously in the spring of 1968, a young student immolated himself here in protest. The memorial to Jan Palach, a cross imbedded in the sidewalk near Wenceslas’ statue, is a moving tribute to the fierce commitment to freedom, a commitment that was only able to come to flower in the “velvet revolution” of 1989. But it came.
Today, Prague – despite its antiquity – strikes me as a joyful and vibrant city, perhaps because most of the people I saw were happy tourists. It seems to be continuously celebrating itself, as if to say, “I have known the living death of tyranny, but I have survived, I will survive.”
The natives are kind, helpful. Many speak English; many others speak Russian because they were forced to learn it. One native, who spoke neither English nor Russian, managed to give me directions in German. They’re a cosmopolitan lot.
Little had changed since my first visit to Prague 10 years ago: St. Vitus’ Cathedral still presides over the city from the hill above the Charles Castle; Charles Bridge, built in 1357, still stretches as the oldest and most entertaining span across the Vltava River. Only the high water marks of the floods of 2002 were new.
The great surprise for me was Karlova Vary, which I had often heard about from Russians, for whom it is the preeminent and ultra chic health spa. As one of my Russian friends explained:
“We go there and drink the water from the mineral spring and take treatments all day and then go and drink the Czech beer and absinthe all night.
“It’s very healthy.”
Karlova Vary, which means something like “the boiling Charles spa,” lies 70 miles west of Prague in a volcanic pocket. It’s named after the same Roman Emperor, Charles IV, for whom the Prague castle and bridge are named. He “rediscovered” the 163-degree alkaline sulfur spring and developed it in the mid-14th century. But what is immediately striking about the city is its beautifully preserved architecture from its renaissance in the early 1700s.
Its elegance reflects the magnificence of its patrons, which have included Goethe, Beethoven, Chopin, Brahms, Peter the Great, and the greatest of all the Russian literati, Alexander Pushkin. Many of them were guests of the grand Hotel Pupp, the pronunciation of which, “poop,” would probably not have put it in the top rankings in elite English circles. But 300 years after its opening, Hotel Pupp still reigns supreme, its name notwithstanding.
However, one day was enough. It is a lovely bit of antiquity, but after an hour or two you’ve seen it all. Then what? Bor-ing.
Back to the excitement of Prague. We spent a lot of time with the guide book and the telephone nailing down gay bars and clubs. The guide book said there was one in Stare Mesto, old town, but when we got there it had been replaced by a straight bar, whose limp-wristed bartender nevertheless knew how to find “Stella’s.” So on Christmas Eve, off we went to Stella’s. An unremarkable but pleasant-enough watering hole, it was filled with the requisite middle-aged queens. I was drinking my second Staripramin beer with the absinthe-based Becherovka when Anton suddenly grabbed my arm.
“There’s Misha!”
He had already disappeared around the corner, but I found him immediately. He was with an unsavory looking character to whom he introduced me. Boyfriend? Sugar daddy? Casual acquaintance?
Though his 26th birthday was just two days away, he still looked 18. I wanted to put my arms around him and hold him, but I didn’t dare rekindle anything. I knew I didn’t want to keep him in my life. I pulled him into the lighted cloak room and gave him our hotel address and phone number. He pointed to his face where he said the Chechens had beaten him, but I could see no evidence. Maybe the scars had healed or maybe…
I said goodby and returned to our table – and for the rest of the evening fought back the tears, not always successfully.
We left in time to meet the midnight deadline for the metro.
On Christmas Day in the morning, I got up for the hotel breakfast and waited for the others to stir.
I was feeling a bit sorry for myself. My Misha chapter had turned out to be a disaster – a failure for me and for him. And much of my time here has been spent alone while the three kids have gone to clubs and then slept all day. Nothing for me to do but write in my bloody diary. But this is what I wrote later in the day:
1:10 p: What a difference a romp in the hay makes. At first (Shurik) was still a little grumpy when I pulled his shorts off, and then turned him to me so our dicks were fencing with each other. His was very hard and kept erecting into my belly. I played with his ass. Gorgeous. Then I got down to business. As I sucked his dick he caressed my shoulders and back, clearly enjoying it; then when he stiffened and came he again caressed my shoulder lovingly.
I immediately began jerking my own stiff cock and quickly came. I said, “you are my best Christmas present.” “And you are mine.” He was smiling and sweet. It was the best sex we’ve had yet. It just gets better and better. I think he really loves me.
Shurik said he hadn’t enjoyed the gay club, Gejzee, because there weren’t many people. He also said Misha had arrived on the scene about 2 a.m. after I had given him money that he had said he would spend to go to the refugee camp today. Obviously, he didn’t. Well, Lucy, looks like Charlie Brown has kicked the football again.
For the first time, Shurik sat around naked after sex while I showered. And after he showered he continued to parade around stark raving naked for another hour.
His body is so gorgeous. I guess I’m still not really believing he could love me. And I keep looking for evidence. That can bode an absolutely self-fulfilling prophecy. I must get away from that negative mood. I must take him at his word: “I love you forever.”
5 p: It continued. He paraded around stark raving naked for another hour. Then to Anton and Yegor’s room; Yegor and I lounged lovingly all afternoon. Shurik returned; again he was going back to bed -- alone. I went back and Yegor announced he had a stomach ache and headache. I said, “does that mean I can’t give you my Xmas present?” He nodded.
Okay, didn’t really want to anyway. Hurts my ass and he isn’t nearly the turn-on that Shurik is.
At 6 p.m. Anton is meeting some Belgian he met last night at the club; not pretty, but looks interesting and nice. Anton said he had no illusions; only wants to get a Belgian visa. He was very touchy-feely this fternoon, and let me be. Is it manipulation? Probably.
I was sitting alone in our room while Shurik watched incessant MTV in Yegor and Anton’s room.
Suddenly Shurik popped his head in: “Misha’s here!”
I invited Misha into the room, but he refused. “I don’t feel comfortable. Can we go get a cup of coffee or something to eat?”
The only thing open was the hotel restaurant and the only thing they were serving was espresso and alcohol.
I ordered two espressos.
“I’ve decided to go back to the refugee camp tomorrow and I need to do it,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Okay.”
“I know I cheated you. You know when I went to Kiev to visit Fat Misha and he called and said I was in jail and needed 0 to get out? That was a lie. I know you didn’t believe me at the time. And I put the money for the light bill in my pocket.”
“Why did you do it, Misha?”
He shrugged.
“Just to have a good time?”
He nodded.
I fought back the tears.
“This will be the last time we see each other,” he said.
I nodded.
“Thank you for everything.”
“There’s food in the room if you’re hungry.”
“No, I don’t want to go there.”
We stopped at the reception desk and I changed into Czech kronar.
We entered the elevator and I pushed the button for 7. As soon as the doors closed I took him in my arms and we kissed deeply and lovingly for the last time.
Then I pushed “5,” told him goodby, and got off. The mist obscured the elevator doors as they closed on him forever.
Yegor wanted to go to the gay baths, and asked me to go with him. “They’re open from 12 midnight to 12 noon.” They’d cost about 250 kronar apiece – about for the two of us.
“I can’t stay awake all night. Is there a place to sleep?”
“No.”
“Go tell Shurik your plans and see what he wants to do.”
Shurik immediately said “Yes, but I’d like to eat first.”
“I can’t afford to pay for the baths and a restaurant, too. We can do one or the other, but not both. I’m going to a restaurant.”
I had heard about a special Czech Christmas dish, a schnitzel made of carp. I wanted to find a restaurant and have a Czech Christmas dinner of carp schnitzel – with friends. Or at least with a friend. Certainly not alone on the most meaningful night of the year to Americans.
“Which do you want to do,” I asked Shurik.
“Neither. I’m staying here,” he pouted. Why was he pouting, like a spoiled brat?
When Yegor returned to his room, I followed him.
Yegor, why don’t you go with me to dinner, and then you can go to the spa.”
“I don’t want anything to eat.”
“You don’t have to eat. Just come with me and keep me company.”
“I drank some absinthe last night at the gay club, and it made me sick. I upchucked this morning. If I even looked at food, I’d be sick again.”
Anton? “Sorry, I’m meeting the Belgian guy I met at the club last night.”
Back to Shurik, still pouting: “No.”
“As a special favor?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t have to eat. Just go with me.”
“No.”
“Look, I’m asking you to do this one favor for me.”
“No. Get Yegor or Anton.”
“Shurik, I do everything for you. What have you done for me?”
“I sleep with you!”
Whoops! That’s a favor? You don’t enjoy orgasms? Sex with me is repayment? Must analyze this relationship.
“Shurik, I’m asking you one last time as a special favor to me to go with me ”
“No.”
Just two days before, his 19-year-old larynx had whispered into my 70-year-old tympanum: “I love you forever.”
Just how long constitutes “forever” was suddenly becoming annoyingly clear.
I grabbed my coat and stalked out to have a carp – not carp schnitzel, just a carp -- Christmas dinner in Prague. Alone.
