The smell of urine in the old town square. But I could see how the residents of Prague could be sick of the tourists. I was sick of the tourists, even though I technically was one—spending a month in Prague at a summer writing program.
The Velvet Revolution may have freed Prague from a communist regime, but the city seemed to have passed hands directly to a tourist regime. Just two pieces. You do it yourself. What do you mean? To Go. TO GO. I would find myself siding with the woman behind the counter. So smug was I with my five Czech word repertoire. Yet eventually I made my own travel faux pas — lost myself — because after a month living out of my suitcase, frustration met exhaustion met a little bit of entitlement.
I had decided to treat myself to a pedicure. I reasoned that I could read for my writing workshop, maybe do some writing and editing, and get my toes done at the same time. The perfect way to multitask. Plus, it was raining. The man at the salon was Vietnamese. He had been in Prague for three years, so he spoke a little Czech and about as much English as I knew Czech. I thought we had settled on a price before the treatment.
He cut my nails too short and then picked at the skin around the nails with his mean little metal tool until each toe bled. As I put my feet back into the grubby water tub, I hoped that my hepatitis shots were current. There was no salt scrub, no calf and foot massage.
He must have wondered why I had hiked my pants up to my knees. This is a different place, I reasoned, determined not to be the typical tourist who expects to get everything just like at home. Cost extra. I am not paying 37 dollars for that. He shook his head. How about swindler? Thankfully, those words were not in my Czech repertoire. Plus tip.
