I woke up at 10a (having stayed in the night before) and almost considered going to church because I've been a pretty unholy felluh these last few weeks. But then I said to myself, why break rank now, after 6 years of dutifully avoiding Mass. And then I walked outside and God struck me down with a single rod of lightning. Just kidding, but if by chance I am the victim of a smiting some time in the not so distant future, I prehumously understand why.
Instead I went to the grocery store. I was hongry. Not a big shopping trip -- I would have qualified for the express-lane except there's nothing express about service anywhere in Prague -- but I did have something in my basket that I've been trying really hard not to buy: Nutella.
Now I don't normally eat Nutella in the states (look at me, calling America "the states" -- For shame!). I've eaten Nutella, and I've enjoyed Nutella when I've eaten it, but I'm not yet comfortable with the idea of a chocolate spread, especially when peanut butter is a perfectly excellent accompaniment to jams, jellies, and all other members of the preserve genus. But I'm no fool. It's almost universally known that Nutella is better in Europe (or maybe their peanut butter just sucks, which is an equally possible claim). So I cracked. 1 empty jar and just shy of 3 days later, I can testify: Nutella is better in Europe.
I transacted at approximately 10:40a Sunday. I finished my jar of Nutella at approximately 1a Wednesday. That means I dipped, spread, dolloped, and scraped 400 grams of Nutella into my mouth in less than 72 hours. That's in addition to the 2 sleeves of butter crackers and 1 loaf of bread I used as vehicles to transport the delicious, almond-Chocolately crack paste to my fiending mouth.
 |
| Raw Materials |
 |
| Finished Product. |
Nutella, Peanut Butter, and Strawberry Jam on a Tuc cracker. I ate 40 of these Sunday afternoon.
I haven't been this smitten by a sweet since my early youth when, during every Lenten season, I'd go grocery shopping with my mother solely so I could steal upwards of 5 Cadbury Creme Eggs from the Giant seasonal section and immediately devour them in the handicapped stall of the Giant public restroom. Again, if I'm ever struck by lightning or if I ever fall through a sewer grate, I understand.
So after my intimate evening with the first half of Season 1 of The Sopranos and the PB-N-J combo, I figured I should probably put on some pants and go talk to people.
The Drunken Monkey was proudly streaming any and all NFL games on their projectors, and considering most of every single Bro in CIEE is either a die-hard Jets fan or a die-hard Pats fan (the latter outnumbering the former), a bi-partisan contingent and more made the trip north to our favorite American bar in Prague.
A number of things that I just said, and a number of things that happened after what I just said happened, require further explanation.
First up: The Drunken Monkey. Simply put, this is the American bar in Prague. It's run by a team of dudes that moved here at some point in their young adult life and are now living the dream -- milking every semester's shipment of American wallets studying abroad and getting kids and themselves wasted nightly on cheap Czech booze. And before I lambast it for being exactly the kind of bar American students studying abroad should not have at their disposal, let me say that I gotta respect these dudes' hustle. They get hammered, or facilitate others getting hammered, 24/7/365 in the dingy, large room they've clearly busted their ass to assemble. Replete with fold out pong tables and a giant projector screen, this place is a cash cow for American students eager to get fucked up, and not eager to deal with any Czech people in the process.
Granted, most of the people I've associated myself with thus far are not the discover culture type, and I'm not quite that type myself. But as far as I can tell, there isn't much Czech culture to be discovered in Prague. It's either local culture, which is essentially inaccesible because of the language barrier, or tourist culture, which is entirely accessible if you're willing to shell out a few clams. The Drunken Monkey falls somewhere in between, with football on Sundays and beruit at the drop of a hat, which creates a warm, albeit artificial, environment for Americans. And I've had warm, artificial fun there. I've also had a poor, artificial time there. I can't really identify what Sunday was, but at the very least I was entertained.
The Jets-Pats game was being projected in the back room, and a group of American guys had already posted up before our bigger group of American guys arrived. But while we guys were merely trying to slam some beers and watch the game (as the pregame for the Tiesto concert happening later that night), they guys were in full-on party mode. And by full-on party mode I mean half of them were sitting at a table watching the other half storm through a 65 minute game of 10-cup beruit.
Now I'm not necessarily in a position to judge. I myself have played prominent roles in some notoriously slow and painful ruit matches. You know the kind that drags on for so long that when winning cup is sunk everyone breathes a major sigh of relief and without saying anything commandeers the table for flip cup? That was this, except worse, because there weren't any girls to play flip cup with.
These guys were fucking awful. And not only were they awful, they thought they were God's gift to pong -- fuckin' oohing and ahhing and shakin' it off and air-packing-the-tin every time their errant shots fell somewhere in the general vicinity of the other side of the table. Finally, about 8 minutes after the initial lob, my mainest man in the checkered shorts-checkered golf shirt get-up (read that twice) got wet. And he went nuts. You would have thought someone from the International Department of Awesome officially added fat and sweaty to the International Department of Awesome Awesome List.
And then I had to watch all four of these jabronies (props: Brady) revisit this scene 19 more times over the course of the next barn-burning 55 minutes.
And then every once and a while I'd watch some of the football game. I have the utmost respect for the NY-Boston rivalry, and I think football is awesome (read: I love watching football highlights), but it's just not my bag. Growing up in a DC household that always put precedence on reading, I've never really had a reason to watch sports. Not only because my mother and father could not give less of a shit about sports, but also because in my lifetime DC sports franchises have consistently disappointed.
Alright this is incomplete but I've been struggling through this guy all day and now it's time to shower and hit Radost hard. Thursdays, Radost, standard. And in 10 hours I will get on the sausage van to Munich for Oktoberfeez. Looking forward to redesvouzing with Matthew Spilliams, Emily Dempsey, Large Marge, and Charny's bitch ass, and then gettin' German rowdy all weekend. A hell of an entry is in my near future. Hopefully I can bang it out before I get smote by the heavy hand of the Lord.
Faithfully yours,
Martin Jay
No comments:
Post a Comment