Bohemian Rhapsody
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 5: Bohemian Rhapsody
Embracing a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza, I open
my eyes and glance sleepily up at the stone bridge that
arches above the car. Blinking, I leap forward in my seat
and glare open mouthed at the sight of a large group of
Japanese tourists, with surprisingly small cameras, all
pointing and nudging each other as they battle to take
photographs of us both asleep in the car.
‘Hey, Si, wake up!’
Removing his face from the passenger window, Si
glances up at the tourists and shields his eyes from the
bright flashes of light.
‘Jesus Christ … Hey!’ he shouts, rolling down his window.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? There’s a
thing called privacy, you know!’
The Japanese tourists ignore him, and continue to fight
amongst themselves for that one special picture of two
European street urchins sleeping rough at the roadside. I
tear open my sleeping bag and quickly reverse the car out
of view.
‘Where’s the respect? We’re not a couple of animals in
some frigging … Bollocks!’ Si cries, screwing up his
face. ‘I’ve slept in my bloody contact lenses again. Why do
I always do that? Why?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘No! Right, that’s it, I’m going back to wearing glasses.’
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‘Glasses?’
‘What’s wrong with wearing glasses? I look cool in glasses.’
I laugh. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘But if you do that, I’ll take the piss out of you and start
calling you four-eyes.’
Si scratches his chin. ‘Hmm … that’s true. Bollocks!
Why am I so frigging blind?’
‘You should have laser treatment.’
‘It’s too expensive.’
‘Just get one eye done.’
‘Chris, don’t be ridiculous. Come on, let’s get out of here
I need to find somewhere to wash my hands.’
Waving goodbye to Cesky Krumlov, we return to the lush
green countryside and pass through numerous villages
that appear to be frozen in time. As we leave one particular
town lined with Noddy cars and classic Skoda’s, we
drive beside an old mansion house covered in green vine
and spot a huge stalk feeding its baby in a nest perched on
a tall chimney top.
‘Si, quick, pass me my camera! I can see a P.O. with my
name on it. Quick! Quick!’
Si reaches down between his legs and fishes my Nikon
FM2 out of his bag.
‘What’s a P.O?’ he asks.
‘A Photo Opportunity.’
‘Oh, right…’
‘This is incredible,’ I beam, raising the camera to my
face. ‘Absolutely incredible! Have you ever seen anything
so beautiful? It’s a stork, for Christ sake. It’s huge!’
‘Chris, please don’t think I’m criticizing your equipment,
but have you ever thought about going digital?’
I lower the camera. ‘You what?’
‘Digital. You know, the future of photography.’
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‘Yes, I do know what digital is, thank you very much.
Why?’
Si shrugs. ‘Oh … uh … no reason. It’s just I’ve heard you
can take a good quality picture with them now, and
they’re coming down in price.’
‘I do know about digital cameras. I’m a photographer, I
read Amateur Photography.’
‘Ooh … OK, sorry David Bailey. What’s your favorite
digital camera, then?’
‘Fuck knows. Look, Si, what’s with all the questions?
Are you purposefully trying to piss me off?’
‘All right, calm down! I must’ve hit a raw nerve.’
‘Are you saying my camera is shit and outdated?’ I cry,
waving the Nikon in his face. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No.’
We sit in silence for a few seconds.
I place the chunky camera on my lap. ‘I guess it is starting
to look a bit old fashioned. But I like using film, I
wouldn’t use anything else.’
‘Fair enough, Chris. As long as you take a good snap,
who cares what you use.’
Purchasing a motorway pass from a post office in the city
of Plzen, we find ourselves hurtling towards the capital
city of Prague. Excited by the prospect of seeing the
Bohemian architecture and experiencing a city that I’ve
heard so much about in recent years, I blast up the volume
on the radio and set to work at playing some serious air
guitar.
Reaching the outskirts of the city, we spot a tourist information
sign above a small grey portacabin. Pulling off the
motorway, we follow the slip road and park up next to a
shiny black BMW. An attractive blonde girl smokes a
cigarette behind the wheel and flicks through a glossy
magazine. Smiling in her direction, we climb out of the
Sierra and make our way over to the entrance. The girl
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reluctantly tosses the magazine to one side and jumps out
of the car. She babbles something at us in Czech, and smiling
innocently she swings open the door to the portacabin
and gestures for us to follow her inside. The office is
tiny, with a flimsy counter and one chair. There are tourist
posters pinned to the walls and a red folder on the
counter. Grabbing the folder, she opens it at the first page
and slides it in front of us. Flicking through the file, we
study pictures of the large selection of kitsch hotel rooms
on offer.
‘Hey, Si, what do you think?’
‘Yeah, she’s pretty hot,’ he whispers.
‘No. The hotel rooms, you idiot.’
‘Oh, I dunno. Bit basic, aren’t they?’
‘How much is forty euros?’
Si shrugs. ‘About thirty quid, I think.’
‘Hmm … that’s a bit out of our price range, maybe we
should just head for the train station and see what we can
find around there.’
‘The train station? You’re kidding, right?’
‘No.’
‘Chris, hotels around the train station in any city are
notorious for being flea-bitten hellholes.’
‘Well, they can’t be any worse than the dives in these
pictures, and at least they’ll be cheap.’
Si turns to the girl standing behind the counter. ‘Uh …
es gut, but nein danke,’ he mutters, hoping she’ll understand
a little German.
Looking disappointed, the girl punches the number 30
into a calculator and then points to a page in the folder.
‘She’s knocked down the price,’ Si grins.
I shake my head. ‘Nah. We don’t know where the hotel
will be. It could be miles outside town.’
She slides the folder in front of us. We both peer down
at the pictures and notice that it’s student accommodation.
She then points at a map of the city and indicates
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that it’s in the centre.
Si turns to me, and nods. ‘Sounds perfect! Let’s book in
for the night.’
Giving the girl the thumbs up, she grabs her mobile off
the counter and begins to make a call.
‘Hey, this is going to be fun!’ Si cries. ‘Maybe we should
ask her if she’d like to join us for a few drinks tonight.’
I frown. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘She’s probably got a boyfriend. A sexy girl like that
always has a boyfriend.’
‘Not necessarily. Ask her!’
‘Why me?’
‘I’m always doing it. Go on,’ Si winks.
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re a wimp.’
‘Piss off! Anyway, she doesn’t speak English. It’s pointless.’
‘Chris, it’s called the language of love, dear boy, the language
of love. You don’t need words.’
The girl finishes talking on the phone and blushes. She
slides the address across the counter.
‘Thank you, I mean dekuji,’ I beam.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replies. ‘I hope you guys have a
pleasant stay in Prague.’
Feeling deeply embarrassed that she speaks English, we
grin falsely and return quickly to the car.
* * *
Reaching the centre of Prague, we drive across one of the
impressive stone bridges that arches low over the Vltava
River. Miraculously, Prague was completely untouched by
World War II, and we’re immediately wowed by the city’s
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incredible bohemian architecture. Chris guides me through
the busy tram infested streets, and pausing at a pedestrian
crossing we watch the people of Prague rush by.
We arrive at the rather run-down student accommodation
building and head straight for a nearby car park situated
beneath a concrete fly-over. Waiting in a queue, Chris
excitedly points out a GB sticker stuck to the boot of the
car in front of us. Inching our way through the gate, we
take a ticket from a friendly old man in the office and pull
up in an empty space next to the blue Vauxhall Astra with
the GB sticker. A smartly dressed guy in a suit climbs out.
‘Hey, you’re from Great Britain!’ Chris smiles, pointing
at the sticker.
‘Yes, I am,’ the guy replies, grabbing a laptop case from
the boot.
‘Have you driven all the way, too?’
‘Sure have,’ he smiles, rushing around to the passenger
window. He cups his hands and peers through the glass
before tapping his trouser pocket. He then urgently jabs
his fingers inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a computer
disc.
‘Are you here on business?’ I chip in.
‘Yeah, I’m a journalist. I’m supposed to be interviewing
someone in about…’ he glances down at his watch, ‘hmm
… half-an-hour ago. Whoops, I’m a bit late, but not bad
considering I’ve just driven all the way from Surrey, I suppose.’
‘Bliemey, you must be knackered,’ Chris laughs.
‘Well, I had a pit stop in Brussels and Dresden, so I don’t
feel too tired. Where are you guys staying?’
‘At a hostel near here,’ I reply. ‘It’s part of the University,
I think.’
‘The place around the corner?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s where I’m staying,’ he beams.
‘Really?’
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‘Yes. Maybe later we could meet for a drink in the bar?’
‘Good idea,’ Chris nods enthusiastically.
‘Does nine o’clock sound OK?’
Chris looks over in my direction, and nods. ‘Yeah, nine
should be fine.’
‘Great. OK, I’d better be off. See you guys later.’
Storming off to his meeting with his laptop case tucked
under his arm, we casually gather our bags together and
head towards the hostel.
Checking into the student halls, we drag our bags down a
dark corridor and enter our musty jail cell. Collapsing onto
a lumpy bed, I stare up at the nicotine stained ceiling. The
room is dark and cold with steel bars at the window.
Tutting, I reach over for my cigarettes on the bedside table
and turn on the lamp. The bulb flickers a few times before
producing a dim orange glow. Sitting up, I lean against the
cold wall.
‘I bet Terry Waite had a better cell than this,’ I mutter,
glancing over at the antique radiator hanging from the
wall.
‘Stop complaining, it’s not that bad. It’s just somewhere
to crash for the night.’
‘It’s a shit hole!’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ Chris mutters, as he rummages
inside his rucksack. He looks up. ‘Hey, have you got a
towel?’
‘Use your own.’
‘I haven’t brought one.’
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘I forgot it.’
‘Well, bad luck It’s not my fault,’ I cough, swinging my
feet off the bed. ‘There’s no way I’m using a damp towel
that’s just been used to dry your shitty arse.’
Collapsing onto his bed, Chris buries his face in the rock
hard pillow.
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‘Oh yeah, and while we’re on the subject you can stop
using my frigging soap, too!’
Chris frowns. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s unhygienic, that’s why. I really don’t fancy
waking up one morning with mushrooms growing off the
end of my knob. All right?’
I’m awoken sometime later by a gurgling sound coming
from the radiator. I rub my eyes and look around the room.
Chris is sitting on the end of his bed and cleans his camera
lens with a sock. He’s showered and dressed to impress.
‘What time is it?’ I groan.
‘About seven thirty, I think.’
Grabbing my towel and wash kit, I leave the prison cell
and stumble down the dark corridor towards the communal
bathroom. As I push open the door, I’m surprised to hear
someone singing ‘Lady in Red’ in one of the shower cubicles.
Steam fills the room and throwing my towel over the
door to the adjacent cubicle, I step inside and begin to
undress.
‘Lady-in-red!’ the guy shrieks, ‘is dancing with meeee…
cheek to cheek.’
Smiling at this guy’s awful singing ability I turn on the
shower and quickly begin to apply shampoo to my greasy
hair. The shower is surprisingly hot and powerful, it lifts
my mood and I have to resist the desire to join in with the
rest of the chorus. After applying soap to my body, I stand
with my hands by my sides and relax for a moment
beneath the warm blanket of water. I turn off the shower,
wrap my towel around my waist and step out of the cubicle.
Just as I’m about to turn and head for the sink, the guy
in the cubicle opposite immerges at the same time as me.
I’m surprised to see it’s the journalist from the car park.
He’s bollock naked apart from wearing a pair of misted up
glasses.
‘Hey!’ I cry, feeling extremely uncomfortable. ‘How are ya?’
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‘I’m good. I feel as fresh as the morning dew,’ he replies,
throwing his towel over his shoulder. ‘I was just taking a
shower.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ I grin falsely.
‘Great!’
We both stand in silence.
‘So, how was your interview?’ I quickly ask.
‘Good.’
‘Great!’
There’s more uncomfortable silence.
‘Well … uh, I’m going to brush my teeth,’ I grin.
‘Me too,’ he replies, whipping off his glasses.
Walking over to a row of sinks, we both squeeze toothpaste
onto our toothbrushes and begin brushing. The guy
begins to hum ‘Lady in Red’, while I look down into the
sink, trying desperately to avoid the grotesque sight of his
flaccid penis in the reflection of the mirror. Catching his
eye, we both nod before spitting the toothpaste simultaneously
into the sinks.
‘What room number are you in?’ he asks.
‘Thirty.’
‘I’m in thirty-one, we’re neighbours! I’ll knock on your
door instead of meeting you in the bar, shall I?’
I slip my T-shirt over my head and gather my things
together. ‘Sounds great … bye.’
‘Wait a minute!’
I stop and peer over my shoulder.
‘What’s your name?’ he grins, standing exposed with his
hands on his hips. ‘My name’s Cliff.’
‘Simon,’ I quickly reply, and disappearing around the
corner I hurry back to the room.
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