Shopping worries aside, we went back to the hotel to use the W.C. then started out again! We didn’t get very far though. As soon as we hit the Astronomical Clock and Namesti Main Square, we were hungry, taking photos, and bombarded with Mozart-clad young men attempting to lure us into a period concert.

Also hit upon by the guy dressed in a giant pizza outfit, luring us to and convincing us that we were hungry for a pizza special served by waiters from Northern Italy 🇮🇹. After watching the Japanese (tourists) videotape the Astronomical Clock – where we never saw “Death turning the sands of time a running” – we befriended one of the Mozart  ticket sellers, after warding him off once.

Some tourists passed by looking rather German and concert-going, and I pointed this out to him, that perhaps they were good prospects. He was however unmotivated to approach them, and we began a 15-minute or more dialogue.

He (“Mozart”) started by letting us know in no uncertain terms that the French were cheap penny-pinchers, as were the Italians, and would under no circumstances part with their hard-earned cash for a concert, classical or naught. Mozart also explained with harshness, how he used to work at the French restaurant around the corner from the square. One he successfully lured them into the seating area they would leave as soon as they looked at the prices, quoting that it was too expensive!

The Americans were the ones he said, who would spend the money. The Americans liked going to the concerts! He said he couldn’t tell by looking at them – he had to hear them, talk to them – to tell which country people were from. We joked about the white tennis shoes and that they should just wear a sign across their forehead.

We talked some more and we’re just about to part, when Mozart asked if we were British, and was astonished to find out that we were not! We were just as astonished to find he thought we were.

Mozart then became more interested in us, and started telling us his yearning and dream to go to America 🇺🇸. “Ah-meri-ka” with a pause and a long sigh of desire. He was convinced that all of his woes would cease and he could send back $500 US a month to his family in Algeria 🇩🇿, which would simultaneously solve all their woes, if he could just find a way to get to “Ah-meri-ka”.

Already working in the Czech Republic 🇨🇿 on a visa which was good for six months, he didn’t like it, although he was earning 15,000 Czech Krowns a month (more than three times an average Czech salary) plus some commissions. He lamented about how hot it was “wearing this hair – it’s not my hair you know” and the warm layers of Baroque silk clothing, pointed shoes, and knee socks, hat in the hot sun, talking to tourists.

And the locals didn’t like him, “they don’t like foreigners living here,” he let us know. Mozart searched his wallet to produce a name and address on a piece of paper – a friend he made, here in Prague – an American from Seattle. He has the dream to go back to America with her. She harbors the dream of staying in Prague, possibly teaching English. The grass is always dreamier on the other side. He continued to woe us with his situation and the wish of someday making a better life for him and his family.

We offered ideas, incentive, and advice half-heartedly, knowing that a part of his dream was only fantasy based on exploited t.v. images of America and the good life, which rarely exists for immigrants. Nonetheless he is going to try, to apply for a visa. We wished him the good fortune he was hoping for; Mom assured him that something would come up, and bid him farewell. “Look for me,” he said, “the next time you’re in Prague. I will still be here next summer if things don’t get better.”

Well we didn’t get further than around the closest corner and plopped down at a rival Czech-Italian owned restaurant for a few pizzas and three more Male Pivos. I think it was Budvar. I think we got two of the Pizza Margheritas and one with a few olives sprinkled on. From where we sat, we could see our Algerian buddy circling the fountain, bypassing tourists, sweating in the hot sun.

Thursday 27 May, 1999