“Woke up this morning,discovered I ‘d been turned into a gigantic bug, which made it hard to get out of bed…..” Franz Kafka Blues, in rough translation.
“Yu can’t have the blues in Prague,” Memphis Earlene says. “Not even if you’re Jewish.”
She won’t elaborate. That’s my job.
Consider Prague’s tragic history of being on the losing side of most wars…..but “tragic” doesn’t sound right.
Irish history is tragic. Prague history is existentially absurd. The fountain outside the Kafka Museum consists of what looks like two statues of cyborgs pissing into a shallow pool shaped like the Czech Republic. Or is it the country formerly known as Czechoslvakia? Our writing workshop classroom overlooks the old Prague Jewish cemetery.
“You should channel your inner Stephen King and write Jewish Pet Sematary,” Scarlett says.
“That’s a sick idea, ” I say. It is also irresistable. Irresistable as absinthe ice cream, another local delicacy.
Prague has second hand stores, fabulous Baroque architechture, and an English language bookstore. I could almost live here. So could Scarlett.
We have two more weeks to convince Memphis Earlene.