They gave me a flat in Prague with the only condition that, when the owners returned, there would be toilet paper and coffee. He was in front of the Kafka café, in the Jewish quarter. It was huge, and its façade was so spectacular that every time I went out into the street, there was a camera pointed at the door. Click. I will have appeared in dozens of photos. Photos that maybe someone still reviews in some corner of the world. On paper, because it was 2003. I thought I would escape the heat, but I walked at 40 degrees. I took refuge in unconditioned bars, very cheap, without tourists. It said: “Dobrý den”. At the bar: “Pivo, prosím”. And when they brought the giant glass of half a liter: “Děkuji”. A group of young people invited me to sit with them, and with gestures – almost no one spoke English – they explained to me that this was their meeting place, and that each (huge, wooden) table was reserved for a different gang. Or so I understood.
We communicated with the bartender at another venue named Cho-Cho through the TV guide attached to the newspaper: The Simpsons were “family” and we had as many brothers or sisters as Barts or Lisas we listed on our fingers. Maggie equaled children; he had one, a boy (he pointed to Maggie and then to Bart). The Friends translation was obvious. He ate in restaurants without knowing what he was ordering; He pointed out what he pointed out in the letter, they always brought sauerkraut (it was called something else).
My neighbors were orthodox. One day I saw one by the narrow patio of lights, crouching behind his window. I could swear he was pointing a shotgun at the window across the street. I looked and there was a pigeon on the ledge. I was so scared that I turned away and pretended I hadn't seen anything.
When you travel alone, you don't have to visit what there is to visit. Well, I went to the cemetery, and I went down to the subway to see how deep it had been built, and when some acquaintances who were passing through came by, we went to the Charles Bridge, the Powder Tower, Kampa Island and Malá Strana. I made friends with a Czech-Parisian who took me to trendy places. We spoke in French. The copy of L'insoutenable légèreté de l'être that I found in the house was also in French. She had read it when she was sixteen in the Tusquets edition, the first boyfriend I had gave it to me. Then I would read everything Kundera published, The joke would be my favorite. When I was studying at the UAB, a boy I liked dropped The Book of Ridiculous Loves on the train. With an e-book he wouldn't have known what he was reading and maybe I wouldn't have liked it as much.
With mobile phones and social networks, that trip to Prague would have been different. As different as The Unbearable Lightness of Being seemed to me when I reread it while I was there, ten years after the first time, half the time that has passed since then. That is why there are places and books that I prefer not to return to. Because I have very good memories of them. And instead of returning, I would feel that they are no longer there, that I can't find them.
