I’m not quite sure that I remember what Ivo was talking about—or demonstrating—but I’m fairly certain that Štépán found something of extreme interest on YouTube, or one of the numerous, dubious download torrents available in the Czech Republic. I do remember that it was late, that Štépán, was bored, and that Ivo had probably just ambled up from the 500 year-old cellar bar next door. The Golden Sickle was quiet—it was not yet late enough for the hostel’s English and American and Australian guests to engage in the nightly prayers to Commodia, goddess of the toilet. I learned (from American and Australian party animals) that one often prays (vigorously) to Commodia, on one’s knees; hugging porcelain as if hanging on for dear life. I learned from various English stag party hooligans that there is no need to pray to Commodia. One simply makes a drunkard’s mess wherever one stands: preferably in front of large groups of people who aren’t interested in seeing what you’ve had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, mixed with the unreasonably copious amounts you’ve had to drink. It was late—I know that much. I’d been out, snapping pictures of Prague’s night-time face. I’d been wandering through back alleys and courtyards with my camera, with my thoughts, and with echoes of conversations I had with Pavl, floating through my mind. It was late, and I knew that Štépán was awake. Working. Probably drinking an entire pitcher full of water, with lemon slices floating in it. I knew that he was likely to start a conversation off with: "the thing is…" only in Czech, the “th” blend doesn’t exist, and so it’s nearly impossible for come Czechs to pronounce without making extensive use of a napkin, afterwards. Štépán’s English is largely self-taught, and so he lacks the necessary training to make the “th” sound, without spraying the person standing in front of him with a light, mouth-temperature drizzle. He bypasses the drizzle by simply refusing to pronounce the “th” blend. As a result, any conversation beginning with, “…the thing is…” will likely come across as "…ze fing is…. For about a month, Štépán started nearly every English-language conversation with that phrase. Ivo, one of Štépán’s friends had also decided to pay a late-night visit. As I walked into the Golden Sickle office, my camera in hand, I found them talking: watching videos, listening to music, smoking, and drinking something intriguing. Iced tea, only their version of iced tea was room temperature tea. They were more interested in smoking. I remember that much. Though I nabbed this photo of Štépán—in very close proximity to a sneeze—and Ivo…um…I have no real memory of what Ivo was on about, but it was most-certainly…demonstrative. It looks—to an American—a bit naughty. But I know Štépán, and I know Ivo to a lesser degree; he was probably describing the size of the carp living in his bathtub on Christmas Eve Night. Either that, or he was getting very friendly with the scanner in front of him. I doubt that, but you never know. I found this photograph in the greatly diminished file of photos I’d emailed to Victor and to other friends not in Prague at that time. I saw it today, and fragments of that night came back in jarring, sharp detail. I won’t go into the story concerning a cigarette, a small trash can, a window, and a battery, but suffice it to say, it was a typical Prague story on a typical Prague night, and I’m glad I captured at least this much of it. I also like the fact I captured the enormous number of warnings, admonishments, and pieces of helpful advice on the Golden Sickle wall! I miss that place, but I’m glad that I’m still in contact with Štépán. He is in Amsterdam now. He has a sun-tan: like cooked lobster, as he puts it. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this little (cryptic) dip into night-time Prague.