Treasure, for me, is a verb: it is a state of being.  I suppose if I stopped and thought about it, I’d have to say that treasure is a synonym for happiness, and happiness is a synonym for peace-of-mind.  It’s something I felt for two blessed years in a country that didn’t exist when I was a child. 

When I first arrived in theCzechRepublic, I’d intended to stay for only three months.  I’d hoped to arrive inRussia, to make a new life inMoscowwith someone special to me.  Russian immigration is a difficult thing, if you’re not filthy rich.  I am not filthy rich.  And so three months in theCzech Republicturned into two years.  I don’t mind that.  I discovered that home is a word best spoken in Czech, among friends who talk to ducks, friends who care little for fashion and find it completely reasonable to wear green and white football (socker) socks that don’t match anything else he’s wearing, and friends who listen to the Ramones and Bob Dylan, while arriving late to work. 

I saw the full moon many times in theCzechRepublic, most notably in the city ofPrague, and the small, magical town of Český Krumlov.  I saw the full moon with a friend named Jarda: a bartender/waiter at a small hospoda (pub) near the old Český Krumlov gate-house.  I’d spent the day with friends fromEngland.  We’d gone to Český Krumlov for the weekend.  We stayed for nearly two weeks.  I developed a friendship with Jarda (Jaroslav) and on one particular night, we ambled around the town, smoking cigarettes like fiends (a common occurrence in theCzech Republic) and eventually settling down on a rock in theVltavaRiver.  The river meanders through the town and below the disproportionately large castle at the middle of the town.  If you’ve seen the movie “The Illusionist” you’ve seen parts of the Český Krumlov castle—one shot taken through the display window of a small convenience store situated across from the castle gate.  The Český Krumlov castle is distinct for its painted tower, but on the night that Jarda and I sat on a rock in the river, we didn’t see the tower.  We only saw the cliff on which a part of the castle perched.  We saw darkened windows and tourist-attracting spotlights.  We saw ducks, and at some point, Jarda pulled his sandals off and plunged his feet into the water.  Something, he said, nibbled his toes, but I couldn’t see what.  I only saw pale, Czech toes beneath rippled water.

Later, we walked across the “wooden bridge” one of two famous bridges in the town.  The more famous “stone bridge” was the one we’d crossed in order to reach the downward-sloping path to the river-bank and the large, flat rock we’d chosen as our own.  We drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and talked about everything and nothing at all.  And later, on the wooden bridge, we paused for a long, long moment, to look at the moon.  I told him that Chicago and Český Krumlov shared that moon, and he told me that perhaps—one night in the distant, distant future, he would look at the moon, and seven hours later, I’d see the same moon with his “eye prints” all over it.

Jarda is inFinlandnow; he scored a swanky IT job, and I’m inChicago, plotting my return home.  I’ll see Jarda again…I’ll make my way to Russia and see someone else, someone special…but in the meantime, I’ll remember a mood, a river, and the prodigious number of cigarettes I smoked with a guy who worked at a local hospoda.  The moon—always something special to me—means something different now, and I think it’s an incredible treasure. 

I saw the moon a couple of nights ago.  I stood with Corey on his back porch, photographing it and talking about everything and nothing at all.  Jarda is in Finland, Victor is in Russia, and I’m in Chicago, but maybe—just maybe—there are Russian and Czech “eye prints” all over the moon in this photograph.  If so, then the moon and the “eye prints” represent a treasure of incalculable value.