Some days, we held informal class sessions at significant places around the city. Viewing spy photographs at the archives of the Institute for Totalitarian Regimes. Admiring abstract art at the Museum Kampa. Literary discourse in the back room of a local cafe. Roma debate in the living room of a social activist. Interacting with Czech instruments at the Rock ‘n Roll Museum. Snapping photos of pelicans at the Troja Zoo. In the basement of a Medieval restaurant, we discussed Czech history over pork knuckles and fragrant cheeses. We sat in a closet-sized room and wondered at the unique absurdity of Petr Nikel’s “songs” as he played us a concert, masks, props and all. Jazz at Reduta. Dance concerts at Ponec. We saw bad theater, good theater, clever art, ridiculous art, sipped on wine made by gypsies and ate pastries from market stalls.
We never went to Prague Castle.
We never walked across Charles Bridge.
We never visited the Sex Toy Museum or partied at Karlovy Lázně.
We never had to. Because we knew the real Prague.
