Herna Indiana

Tuesday nights are always a crazy time for me. From 16.00 to 17.30 I have my Modern Czech Art and Architecture's out class, after which I have to make my way back to the study center at Vysehrad for my next class that starts that 18.30, which I usually get to just before it starts, and from there we head out to an unknown location where we are given tea and have to discuss Living and Learning (official title: Seminar for Living and Learning).

This week, though, my friend Kyrie, who is in both the seminar and the art class with me, and I decided to by-pass the extra travel time that results from going back to Vysehrad and then off to the tea house, and went straight to Namesti Miru, where class was to be held today.

In the beginning, we planned on just spending the extra hour of time we had at the tea house we were to be meeting at, but upon arrival we discovered that the place was completely full and that there would be no place for us until 7 o'clock when our reserved room opened up.

So we went back out into the cold October air, and started walking down the street. I saw a sign for "Herna Indiana" (for those of you who are not among the 10,000,000 people worldwide who speak Czech, the letter "a" is sometimes added to the ends of masculine words for reasons I have yet to discover). Happily, I suggested we head over. "I could go for a samosa," I said.

As we drew closer to the business, Kyrie and I noticed that out front were statues of American Indians*. We looked at each other and laughed, not sure what this meant for our samosas. "Tobacco...?" Kyrie asked.

Upon entering the front door, we were greeted with slot machines lining the walls, and at the far end a bar, a few tables, a tv broadcasting some soccer game, and a digital counter listing the amount of the jackpot. The Herna Indiana was a casino.

We walked over to the bar where the bartender and two other men looked at us curiously, and we ordered two half liters of Staropramen (at 14 crowns apiece--about 80 cents). We took our beers and sat at a nearby table to do some last minute homework and wait for class to start.

We were about a quarter of the way done with our beers when the bartender, after looking like he was consulting with the other two patrons, came over.

"Hello," he said. "You have 18? Yes?"
"Eighteen?"
"Eighteen years?"
"Yes. We're older than 18. We're twenty."
"You see, sometimes we get police in here. Do you have passport I can see?"
"I have a card."
"Can I see?"
Kyrie and I both pulled out our student ID cards and showed them to him. After verifying we were over 18, he smiled, thanked us, and walked away.

A couple thoughts on this interaction.

First of all: we look older than 18.

Secondly: we were working away, unsuccessfully, on our Czech homework. To me, this does not scream "police accessory." Instead it screams, "I'm foreign."

Finally: I'd think that if the Czech police really wanted to catch them selling alcohol to underage people, they'd choose a couple girls a bit less conspicuous than two obviously American girls.

I'm just saying.

Looking back now, I realize the bartender was only worried the police would come in and think we were underage. Me being me, however, I prefer to think that they mistook me as a covert officer, no matter how obvious it was that I'm not.

*I am using the term "American Indian" because I have been out of the country for two months and do not know what the politically correct term of the week is. Hopefully I have not offended anyone with this. If you do not agree with my terminology, please substitute "Native American" in its place. Thank you.