We walked through Mala Strana (Lesser Town) as sunset shaded the western skies in the colors of butter and honey, peach, salmon, and dusty, ashy blue. We'd gone to fruit vendors earlier in the day and gorged ourselves on strawberries the size of golfballs. We drank beer and shouldered our way through tourists and locals alike. It was my idea to wander through the switchback convolution of Mala Strana streets, because there are spots along the river where friends may talk, where friends may share bottles of beer and amazingly small cigarettes emblazoned with the names START or RESPECT or MOON in bold, eye-searing letters. They are Czech-local brands. Cheap. Not exceptionally-well packed. They burn quickly, but their taste (for smokers) is mild. So, we wandered the streets of Mala Strana, smoking Starts, and listening to the waft of music from the bridge. There was rain that day, as always in spring. We'd escaped the worst of it in the quiet enclosure of a restaurant strangely devoid of tourists. I ate chicken breast, stuffed with sweet corn, mushrooms, pork, and cheese. Pavl ate duck. We both drank beer. Lots of beer. It's what you do in Prague. It's what you do in the entire Republic. Beer is as much a conversation as any copious spill of words that may sigh from your throat. With beer, Pavl and I spoke eloquently. We laughed. We held our silence when the time for silence outweighed all else. And so, as sunset colors toppled between clouds in the west, and with beer and tobacco on our breaths, we wandered the streets of Prague's Lesser Town. We imagined that we were rich, and lived in an enormous house painted in an uncommon shade of ocher. In such wild imaginings, I was a famous writer and artist and Victor (still locked in his life in Moscow) lived with me: a famous photographer and graphic artist; we lived with two cats in a building within sight of Charles Bridge. Pavl, for his part, was simply our neighbor, our housemate, though perhaps, he'd join a band and play the spoons. “No one plays punk rock spoons,” he said. “I think there is a place for that.” Beer-logic dictated that Pavl playing spoons in a punk-rock band was the next big thing. The band, I decided, should be called Reality Czech. If Pavl groaned at the pun, he was polite enough to do so silently. And now...as I continue with my writing and my artistic endeavors, as well as my quest to reach the heart of Mother Russia, I think of Palv and of Victor, and of the ocher-faced building we have yet to buy. I think of the meander of streets close to Charles Bridge. I've mentioned this recurring dream to Pavl—in Prague, and in cities to the south. I've mentioned the same dream to Victor. It is a good dream, and the ancient, weathered towers at each end of Charles Bridge are a part of it. * * * * Though Charles Bridge is one of Prague's most famous icons, you can only see the Malostranská věž (Lesser Town Tower) here. The pale yellow building with the double roof is the former house of an ostrich plume merchant. The house itself has been converted into a restaurant/hotel, but it is still known as The Three Ostriches. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and hopefully you've enjoyed this shot as much as I enjoyed the day I made it. I also have to do some catching up on viewing and commenting, but hopefully I can do so this weekend.