I remember him sitting at the wooden bar at U Sudu, on Vodickova Street, impervious to the harsh, pounding bottom beat of American Rap filtered through meticulous, European editing… impervious, as well, to the inane discussion to his side. One sided talk. I sat on the far side of the prattler, a foreigner--like myself--unaccustomed to the gentler etiquette of herbal smoke. In Prague, you consume what you need, as many times as you need, but you don’t let it interfere with others--in a bar, on a tram, on the street. You allow those beside you to keep their silence. You never really know if they desperately need it--or will need the memory of it later. In Prague, a good moment of silence is hard to come by. The woman immediately to his right had gotten up, leaving her wine. She was engaged in play with friends at the foosbol table: red and blue men on metal rods--offense and defense and a little wooden ball. Ten Crowns gets you a game, and silence if you need it. Czechs are serious about their table-soccer game. I remember that I was drinking beer. The Prattler was making tea. You make tea when you allow your beer to loose its head. It is rude to make tea when those around you have glasses going empty. It means that you don’t trust them, that you aren’t opening yourself in the same ways that they are. It means you don’t respect brewers. On the far side of the tea-making prattler, the stranger sat, sprinkling tobacco onto crisp, white strips of paper--tobacco for now. In the bar. For later, undoubtedly kept in pockets holding coins and warmth for the gloveless walk home. I remember that the stranger had no lighter, but I also remember staring at him, wondering at his familial links. I’d said good bye to Pavel the day before, farther down Vodickova Street, and in looking at the stranger, I thought of my friend. They have the same eyes, you see, the same general cast of the features, the same musical accents that render English soft and friendlier on the ear. He doesn’t know Pavel. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that as the tea-making prattler allowed his beer to loose its head, I switched seats and warmed the stool left by the foosbol playing woman with smoky laughter and a mouth-full of bawdy jokes. I asked the Stranger if he knows Pavel, if he’s Moravian or Bohemian, if he needed a lighter. The answers to my questions were short and friendly: No. Bohemian. Yes. We spoke for an hour or so, sharing smoke and beer, Coca Cola, and long moments of silence. We did not make tea.