Once, I lived in a small apartment on Biskupcova Street; across the street from a HiFi shop, a potraviny, and an apothecary with signs in the window I could not read: signs for some miracle product intended for gout, maybe, or some other problem concerning feet. I lived on the third floor, and so I had something of a pigeon’s-eye view of the street below. I lived in a one bedroom apartment, with a washing machine in the bathroom, and a fold-out drying rack in my bedroom. There was a brand new television in the living room, but I was only able to watch 4 channels; there was an old radio in the living room as well, with dial-markers telling me which stations I could listen to and which of those stations were Czechoslovakian, and which were Russian. Czechoslovakia doesn’t exist anymore. The Radio still works. When I lived in a small apartment on Biskupcova Street, I wrote—by hand—in a journal. I had a laptop, but no internet access. I had to use one of the countless internet cafes for that. Places with WiFi (pronounced “wee-fee” in Czech.) I found places with wee-fee, and stayed in touch—as best I could—with people on the other side of the planet. I kept my journal with me, jotting down impressions of what my life had become, jotting down fragments of stories that have yet to be finished. I suspect I was writing about Agara, though I didn’t know it at the time; I suspect that my eventual return to the Czech Republic will bring some of those latent stories to fruition. I don’t live on Biskupcova Street anymore, but I know how to get there. I know which plane to take, and which tram from the airport; I know how many steps I must go beyond the front door of Polo 1020 (a neighborhood bar) before I reach a familiar corner and a familiar apothecary selling foot ointment, nasal spray, and ibuprofen tablets in little foil packets. Chicago is a different city than Prague: it is younger, more flagrant in its puerile excesses: Chicago has something to prove, only it hasn’t discovered what. It is a louder city; it does not make me think of Agara, Ükür, or any real country—like the Czech Republic or Hungary, little-bitty Estonia, or great-big Russia. For the most part, Chicago makes me think of cold weather and truck-yards, of things found at random between truck-drops and dog turds. I found a dead computer in the truck yard a few days ago. I brought pieces of it home, in the hopes of making something out of dead, silicone guts. I washed them and arranged them beside my sparse collection of salvaged books I had a chat with Victor. I had a chat with Pavl. Now, as I consider a post to make, I find myself hearing their voices and their accents when they speak English. I find myself reading things I’d written in what seems like another life, and I see the beginnings of Agara—a country I will explore more of in the upcoming year. I can hear trams (in my mind, at least) and drunk guys singing as they stagger out of the friendly, smoky confines of Polo 1020, and walk home. It’s that kind of a place, Polo 1020; it calls itself a sports bar. It stands around the corner from an apartment building on Biskupcova Street, where the beginnings of a story found their way onto a leaf of paper. That paper is in Chicago now, held in place by a dead computer part. I like that conjunction. It’s an unexpected thing that looks quite good on my desk, beside this laptop, and close—so close!—to the chats with Victor and Pavl that I have saved. As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting, and I hope to catch up on doing the same. Hopefully, you’re all having a fantastic week and have a great weekend ahead.