IMMORTALITY. Having just finished the novel by Kundera, I am certain he is destined for it.
Fresh off the tram and the boulevard of Vršovická intersects a flat and unpromising quarter, on the boundary of middle-class comfort and working-class expediency, between elegant apartments and the ubiquitous panelák (the kind of tower block seen in the background of any respectable Cold War thriller). It is winter in Prague. Orders coming from Moscow are a thing of the past, but my blueing lips tell me the November wind still makes the trip, and I’m growing self-conscious about the din of my dental castanets. My guide is late.
Prudence trumps fashion here, and padded coat after weathered fleece after dubious fur cap pass by. Young, old, male, female, sober, stumbling and everything in between are making their way excitably toward an antique loudspeaker’s call. Continue reading “Bohemians Rhapsody – a celebration of Czech football.”