A Glass Of Headache

I just learned about something called Red Wine Headache. It even has its own acronym, RWH.

Of course, I knew that it's possible to get a headache after drinking red wine. But I figured that that was also called a hangover. Maybe I'm the last wine drinker in the world to learn that you can get a RWH without really drinking all that much.

One of my favorite wines is Tarapaca Cabernet Sauvignon. It's a $15 bottle of wine that is often on sale in Prague for $5, so I buy -- and drink -- quite a bit of it. I have a friend who drinks a lot of wine but who says he can't drink Tarapaca without getting a headache.

I guess I kinda discounted his headaches as being, well, all in his head (at least as far as being caused by the Tarapaca, that is).

Until today.

I woke up with a smashing headache, a real stomach turner. I felt nauseous. I took a handful of pain killers, but it's still never quite gone away, nine hours later.

Last night, I drank a bottle of Aromo Private Reserve Carmenere 2007. I really nice bottle of wine from Chile. What I woke up with was not a hangover, however. It was a RWH. I'm sure of it now.

Turns out RWH even has its own Wikipedia page.

They're not sure what causes it (sulfites, histamines, tannins), only that it is a legitimate phenomenon. And each person is affected differently by different wines. A wine that I love gives my friend a headache, for example.

There's no cure, other than staying away from red wines that give you a heachache.

It was delicious, but I guess I won't be having a glass of Aroma Private Reserve Carmenere 2007 anytime soon. Thankfully, I only bought one bottle.

Oscar Update

Oscar making himself at home.

Remember Oscar the outdoor cat?

In March, I wrote about our efforts here and here to nurse Oscar back to health, and perhaps to find him a new home.

In the end, we were forced to release Oscar back into the wild (Oscar Wild?).

But I thought you might like to know that Oscar comes for breakfast and dinner each morning and night, and often can be found sleeping under the trees in our front yard.

The other day, we noticed him taking a snooze on a comfy cushion on a chair on our back terrace.

So all is well with Oscar.

Just thought you'd want to know.

What Does A Bottle Of $1.50 Red Wine Taste Like?

As you may know, I've been on a never-ending quest to find the best bottle of red wine in Prague for $5 or less. I've written about my search in previous posts, such as here and here.

So you can imagine that my curiosity was piqued when I saw a bottle of Spanish red being sold in one of my favorite wine shops for 29 Czech crowns, or about $1.50. It was also resting in a nest of fake straw in a wicker basket, as if it was a bottle worth noting.

(By the way, what's the profit margin on a bottle of $1.50 wine. Is anyone actually making any money on this?)

I had to buy a bottle, just to see what it would taste like.

I remember another bottle of Spanish table wine I bought last year, Sol de Espana, that proved to be literally undrinkable. Could this Las Meninas be as bad? Or maybe I had discovered a treasure trove of drinkable, and very cheap, red wine -- a dream come true.

The vintner takes its name, for reasons unknown, to me, after the famous painting of the same name by the Spanish painter Velázquez. A reproduction of the painting is on the label.

Not that this is a sign of quality of anything, at least not anymore, but it should be noted that the bottle had a real cork. No screw top for Las Meninas!

Daisy and I opened the bottle with dinner the other night. Neither of us had high expectations. In fact, I figured we'd be pouring it down the drain after a couple of sips. But lo and behold...

It was surprisingly unbad. That is to say, it wasn't good, but it was just on this side of drinkable. We ended up draining most of the bottle.

It had the color of raspberry soda, and absolutely no character whatsoever. It was hardly there. Daisy described it as the Corona of wines. Nothing to offend. Nothing to commend. She also thought it was slightly fizzy, something which I did not detect.

It was inoffensive, almost flavorless table wine. But most importantly, it didn't taste bad. If you'd made this wine yourself at home, you'd probably be pretty proud of it.

Not bad for $1.50, I have to admit. Although it's not good enough to claim the crown of the new Best Red Wine In Prague For $5 (Or Less).

The Best Pizza In Prague?

Brewsta, Prague's first and most tireless restaurant blogger, recently wrote a review of the pizza at Sbarro, in the Flora mall.

(For some reason, some readers took him to task for writing about what is basically a fast-food joint. That's pretty ridiculous. Food is food. I agree with Brewsta. Some of the best pizza in Prague can be found at Pizza Grosso, a little hole-in-the-wall under the highway near the Muzeum metro stop and the No. 11 tram stop. But by their reasoning, Brewsta shouldn't write about that place because it's not a real restaurant. But I digress... )

Brewsta's a New York-pizza kind of guy, and I, too, like a good New York-style pie (although, unlike Brewsta, I do like the pizzas at Rugantino and Grosseto very much, especially the salami pizza at Rugantino).

Which brings me to my own little fast-food restaurant tip.

If you're ever out at the Metropole mall near Zličín, go up to the food court and have a slice or two of the pizza at a place called Villa. In my opinion, it's the best New York-style pizza in Prague. Lovely crust, well-cooked. Nice assortment of fresh toppings. Fantastic sauce.

The first time I tasted one of their slices I was blown away. I hadn't expected anything special, but it knocked my socks off. I hadn't tasted anything like that in Prague before, or since. (Yes, it would be nice to have a picture of the actual pizza, but I wasn't actually eating the day I took the picture above. Sorry.)

It's not the best pizza in the world. It may not even be the best pizza in Prague. And Zličín is a long way out there, so I can't even say it deserves a special trip.

But if you're ever shopping at Ikea, or seeing a movie at Metropole, check out Villa. You won't be disappointed.

Here's hoping Villa opens another branch somewhere closer to the center of Prague.

One Of My Favorite -- If Offbeat -- Wine Shops

I'm a sucker for big, bold Chilean and Argentine reds.

One of my favorite vintners is Chile's Tarapaca. You can often find bottles of their Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot or Carmenere on sale for 99 CZK (about $5.25) at some of the local hypermarkets.

However, I've recently discovered an unusual source for some good South American reds that I wanted to share. It's the Don Pealo Tobacco Shop at the Metropole mall on the outskirts of Prague, near Zličín. They may have other locations around Prague, too.

It looks like an ordinary tobacco and magazine shop, but in addition to a good selection of cigars and pipe tobacco, they also sell a variety of Chilean and Argentine wines that I had never heard of, but which have almost always proved to be good values.

For example, I recently purchased a bottle of Chile's Aromo Private Reserve Carmenere 2007 for 136 CZK (about $7.25), as well as Argentina's Finca Las Moras "Intis" Merlot/Malbec 2006 for a bargain 79 CZK ($4.00).

I haven't tried either of them yet, but I'm betting that they're both flavorful and full-bodied. I can't wait to try them.

More Weird Stuff In Prague

I found this food stand in the food court at the Metropole mall near Zličín in Prague. I know Czechs like corn on the cob, but I'm still scratching my head trying to figure out the appeal of corn in a cup.

Weird Stuff I See In Prague

I saw this nauseating "Early Days" doll in a toy store in the Metropole mall. All wrinkly and shriveled, like an old man. Looks a lot like Brad Pitt's character in the early moments of "Benjamin Button," if you ask me.


I'd be embarrassed to put this in my shopping cart, wouldn't you? Apparently, it's toilet paper infused with herbs and spices and unguents designed to relieve the pain and itch of hemorrhoids. Couldn't they think of a better name? Reminds me of the washing machine detergent here called Colon.

Top 10 Memorable Moments From My Shoulder Surgery

After 36 hours without food, this was my breakfast. I had to laugh. And yes, I ate every crumb.

A few days ago, I had reconstructive surgery on the AC joint on my left shoulder. I spent one night in Prague's Motol hospital and am now home recuperating.

Surgery's probably never routine, and when it's your first night ever spent in a hospital, and when that hospital is in Czech Republic and you don't really speak the language, it's especially nerve-wracking.

Rather than bore you with a blow-by-blow account of my experience, here are my Top 10 Most Memorable Moments at Motol:

No. 10

I don't have much experience with hospitals in the U.S., so maybe this is not all that unusual, but Motol is like a little city unto itself. There are grocery stores, cafes, a pharmacy, a clothing store, and even a table set up in a hallway that was filled with all sorts of Avon makeup. For some reason, I find this highly amusing. Maybe it's just me.

No. 9

I've seen this elsewhere in the Czech Republic, and I'm sure it's common elsewhere, but it never ceases to amaze me.

I walked down a large hallway in Motol. On each side of the hallway were doors, closed doors -- may 20 or 25 in all. Along the sides of the hallway were chairs, maybe 50 or 60 chairs. Each chair was filled with someone, usually an elderly person, who was usually carrying crutches or was in a wheelchair or had a bandage wrapped around their head. They were all waiting for one of the doors to open, hoping to be called in for treatment.

I always felt so sad for these folks every time I walked through the hall.

No. 8

I used a bed pan for the first time. Actually, it more like an oddly shaped Tupperware container. It did the trick, though. Makes me think about getting one for home use!

No. 7

I was in a room with two other older gentlemen. I think they were both getting hip replacements. They both snored like sick bears suffering from sleep apnea. What an unbelievable racket. And they farted pretty regularly, too. It was difficult to sleep.

No. 6

I was told not to eat for six hours before my surgery. I was also told I couldn't eat for about six hours after my surgery. I arrived at the hospital at 9 a.m., but my surgery didn't end up happening until 5:30 p.m. or so. Sadly, no one woke me up at midnight or 1 a.m. to feed me.

Breakfast wasn't served until 8 a.m. the next morning. I went for about 36 hours without food or water, which I'm sure is a new personal best. (I was given fluids intraveneously before my procedure, however.)


The reading lamp above my bed looked like a prop out of the original "Star Trek" TV show.

No. 5

A few hours before my surgery, a guy shows up in my room with an empty chair on wheels. I hesitate to call it a wheelchair, because it was basically just an old hard-seated metal chair on wheels. I was told to sit in it, and I was wheeled down the hall, into an elevator, and down another hallway into an X-ray room. An X-ray was taken of my shoulder.

I was told to get back in the chair and was wheeled back to my room. It's funny, because I had walked into the hospital on my own just a few hours before. And when I was discharged the next day, I just walked out. Funny.

No. 4

When they finally came for me for the surgery, I was made to wear one of those classic hospital gowns; you know, the ones that tie in the back. Unfortunately, because of my shoulder, I couldn't reach my arm around to tie it. No one volunteered to help me. Can't blame 'em, really.

Then they wheeled me on my hospital bed through the hallways and down a few floors in an elevator. It's a weird feeling. I couldn't help but think of all those TV shows where they shoot up at the ceiling from the perspective of a patient being wheeled into a life-or-death operation. You see the hallway lights and the ceiling tiles and you're looking up at the undersides of everyone's face. Surreal.

No. 3

Again, perhaps they do this in U.S. hospitals, too, but once they wheeled me near to the operating room, I was told to transfer myself from the hospital bed to a flat, metal shelf built into a wall that reminded me of a giant dumbwaiter. It was cold on my butt. From there, I was told to move myself to another, smaller gurney on the other side of the wall.

I have been told that I was being transferred from the non-sterile hallway into the sterile environment of the operating theater. It was all just very awkward and strange.


My hospital room. My bed was on the far right. Pretty intimate quarters.

No. 2

I was chatting with my surgeon just before the operation. I was probably the fifth or sixth patient he'd operated on that day, and from what I understand, he had quite a few still to do. I looked up at him while we were chatting and noticed that his eyeglasses were speckled with drops of blood.

No. 1

I was so hungry when breakfast was finally delivered at 8 a.m. the next morning. It was the saddest, lamest, most hilarious "breakfast" I've ever been served. It was a blue pastric tray on which was a saucer with two slices of brown bread, a sealed plastic packet of salami slices, a tiny tub of margarine, and a cup of a lukewarm, light brown liquid that could not be described as either coffee or tea. I'm not sure sure what it was.

The surgery went well, I'm told, and I'm home now, trying to rest. It still hurts a lot, and my left arm is in a restraining sling so I can't move it around.

All in all, I can't complain. The doctors and nurses were all very nice to me, and I'm sure I got special treatment because I was a foreigner.

Except for that breakfast.


Prague's lovely Motol hospital on a chilly, wet morning.

An MRI? WTF!

I've visited the military hospital quite a few times now, and I still puzzle over the meaning of this unsettling sculpture inside the grounds. The man hovering over the naked woman is wearing a scuba mask. Bizarre.

I didn't want to press the panic button.

And by panic button, I literally mean a panic button.

I guess it was a pride thing, or a man thing. I didn't want to wuss out. I didn't want to admit that I couldn't handle it.

I was getting an MRI at Prague's Central Military Hospital. My left shoulder had been bothering me for a few months, and cortisone shots and physical therapy had had no effect. The pain just kept getting worse.

I showed up at the hospital at the end of a day that had already been hectic and stressful, and frankly I hadn't given the MRI much thought.

I was taken to a subterranean level of the hospital, through dark corridors, to a room housing the machine. I was told to remove all of my clothing except my underwear. I was told to walk through a metal detector -- I guess to make sure I didn't have a hidden titanium plate in my head or something.

Then I was unceremoniously led into the room housing the MRI, a hulking behemoth of a machine, like some leftover part from an old Soyuz rocket.


The MRI machine in question, taken through the window of the observation room.

I was told to lie down on my back on a cold sliding slab, and the attendant put a squeeze bulb in my right hand.

"Just press this if you have any trouble," he said.

I honestly didn't know what he could be talking about. I hadn't given my MRI any thought. I hadn't done any research about what to expect during an MRI. I just figured it would be a painless way to see inside my shoulder.

Then he slid the slab inside the mouth of the beast, and I instantly knew what the panic button was for.

I am claustrophobic.

Laying on my back, I could not see out the bottom of the tube at my feet, nor could I see out the other end, above my head. The roof of the machine was about a thumb's length from the tip of my nose.

I felt like I was in a coffin.

My heart was racing. I felt that I was going to scream.

And then they turned the MRI on.


Prague's Central Military Hospital.

Now, since my MRI experience, I've done some research, and have spoken with friends who've had MRIs themselves. They've told me that they were given headphones and asked what kind of music they'd like to hear. Another friend was given headphones, although no music.

Everyone, except me, had been briefed ahead of time about what to expect, asked if they were claustrophobic.

I was not briefed, nor given headphones and a choice of music. And you really need headphones because an MRI is REALLY, REALLY LOUD AND KINDA SCARY SOUNDING.

The noise sounds like something from a science-fiction movie. A vibrating magnetic whine, almost like an alarm, the kinds of signal that would alert an entire city that something's gone horribly wrong in the local nuclear power plant.

Here's a video I found on YouTube that will give you some idea of the sound of an MRI. But believe me, when you're stuck inside, the sound is amplified many times over:



So there I am, freaking out about being stuck in a coffin, and to top it all off, there's this unnerving noise blasting through my skull.

At first I laid there with my eyes open, but soon realized that was a very, very bad idea. I closed them, and tried to take my mind to a happy, peaceful, magical place. I felt myself consciously trying to control my mind, thinking to myself, "Calm down, Grant. You can survive this."

I thought of our vacations in Croatia, swimming in the clear, clean Adriatic and drinking wine and eating grilled calamari. I thought of the breeze whispering through the pines along the shore.

After about 10 minutes, the noise stopped. I thought I had survived. I had done it!

I waited for them to pull me out.

Then the noise began again.

I could feel the panic bulb in my sweaty hand. I thought hard about squeezing it.

After another 10 minutes, the noise stopped again. Surely, it's over, I thought.

After a few minutes of silence, the MRI fired up again. I thought to myself, if you knew a terrorist was claustrophobic, an MRI would be far more effective than water-boarding. Would such a scenario constitute torture?

After another 10 minutes or so, it was over. I felt the slab moving, and I was pulled out.

The tissue paper I was lying on was soaked with sweat. But I hadn't pushed the panic button.

"Now I see why you need the panic button," I said. "That's insane."

The attendant laughed.

"Does anyone actually use the panic button?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "A lot of the women do."

Perhaps women are statistically more susceptible to claustrophobia than men. Who knows? I was just happy to have been rescued, surprised that I had survived, and amazed at how life throws you these unexpected little adventures.

Turns out the MRI showed that my acromioclavicular joint -- the joint at the top of the shoulder -- is, as the doctor put it, "destroyed."

I decided to have surgery.

That's a whole 'nother story.

Bulgaria, Inside And In Style

Daisy, Emma and I took a memorable trip to Bulgaria a few weeks ago.

We got to see the country inside out, in a way, because we went with our close friends, Momchil Blagoev and his wife, Tanya Kancheva, and their son Victor.

Momchil and Tanya were born and raised in Bulgaria, and by traveling with them, we were offered a window seat to their world, to their Bulgaria.

We met lots of family members -- mothers, fathers, brothers, nieces, cousins, and Tanya's 87-year-old grandmother, Yona Kancheva, who lives in the tiny village of Klimentovo.

We ate lots of incredible home-cooked food -- from drob sarma, a subtle Bulgarian lamb and rice pie, to what seemed to me to be an entire roasted lamb, cooked to perfection. We drank what seemed like liters of homemade rakia, a fruit brandy that packs a powerful punch. (Check out my separate slideshow on the food of Bulgaria.)

We saw chickens hatching from eggs in the kitchen of Momchil's parents; hand-colored Easter eggs in the kitchen of Tanya's parents in the city of Ruse, in northern Bulgaria; sipped glasses of exquisite Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon straight from oak barrels in the vast aging room at the Bessa Valley vineyards; and strolled beside the Danube in the sunshine.



Click for a full slideshow with captions.

We took a cable car to the still-snow-capped peak of Mt. Vitosha, looming over Sofia (accent on the first syllable, if you please); toured the broadcasting center of the world-famous Bulgarian National Radio, thanks to our old colleague, Stefan Radovanov, who is now the very important director of programming there; and were surprised to find the president of Bulgaria, Georgi Parvanov, walk right past us at an outdoor book market.

On a rainy, misty morning, we strolled through the quiet courtyards of the Troyan Monastery and lit a candle in its early 19th-century Church of Sveta Bogoroditsa, and took a trip back to 19th-century Bulgaria on the colorful streets of the open-air ethnographic museum known as Etera. And I held my own against Momchil's father, Lubo, in some intense games of backgammon, where I learned -- and have since, sadly, forgotten -- some cool Turkish words for double ones, double twos, etc.

At every turn, we were treated like royalty, feted and fed and lubricated beyond compare. We can't thank both families enough. Their generosity and graciousness and, well, love will be impossible to repay, but we'll do our best next time they come to Prague.



Click for a full slideshow with captions.

Follow Me On Twitter

Just a quick note -- between blog posts -- to let everyone know that I am on Twitter, and tweeting away fairly regularly.

About travel and music and drink. About Prague. About biking. About life.

Also recording some AudioBoos, too.

Please check me out and follow me, if you're so inclined. It would be a pleasure to tweet in your general direction.

You can find me on Twitter at grantpodelco

Godspeed, Oscar

Oscar on his favorite carpet in our bathroom a few minutes before his release.

We really had no choice.

We released Oscar, the stray cat, back out into the wild just a few minutes ago.

We've been nursing him back to health over the past month or so, ever since we discovered him wheezing and coughing under a pine tree in our front yard. Turns out he had pneumonia.

We'd been feeding him for a year and a half or so, almost every morning and evening, when he'd arrive on our front stoop. I wrote about the drama in a previous post.

Well, after numerous trips to the vet, Oscar did recover, but we kept him safe and warm and dry in our bathroom while we figured out what to do with him. In the meantime, we got him fixed, and gave him medicine for worms and fleas, and fed and watered him well.

He got so used to our presence that he'd roll over and let us scratch his tummy. He'd make a special kind of squeak when we came in in the morning and at night to feed him. He'd purr like crazy and let us stroke him from his ears down to his tail.

And he, amazingly, used the litter box religiously.

But after a month in our bathroom, we had to finally figure out what to do with him.

We had three choices, none of which involved finding him an adopted home. It just wouldn't have worked. We're sure of it.

We recently went to Bulgaria for eight days, and left Oscar in the kind care of our friend Rob, someone very familiar with cats himself. Unfortunately, Oscar did not fare so well in Rob's care. Nothing to do with Rob. It was simply the stress of being in a strange environment.

He didn't eat all week, expept for a few nibbles at some sardines that Rob put out in a last-ditch effort. He hid behind the washing machine most of the day, only coming out at night to make running leaps at the windows in an effort to escape. The problem is, Rob lives on the 13th floor of a high-rise.

He lost a lot of weight during those eight days.

Daisy and I are both confident that Oscar wouldn't have done well at all in an adoptive home. In fact, he would have suffered. (We sent out word about Oscar through a variety of forums, but only gone one response from someone possibly willing to adopt him, which fizzled out in the end. Just as well, we think.)

So we had three options:

1. Let him live in our bathroom for the next few years.

2. Try to introduce him to our other two cats and let him live in our house.

3. Reintroduce him back into the wide world.

Option No. 1 was obviously out of the question.

Option No. 2 was enticing, and we had just taken our two housecats to the vet to begin the series of shots necessary for them to coexist around Oscar. But the series of shots would not be over for another four weeks, and we simply couldn't risk exposing them to potentially dangerous viruses that Oscar might be carrying.

Nor could be fathom keeping Oscar in our bathroom for another month until the shots took full effect. (Nor did we want to endure the experience of two male cats trying to mark their territory in our house, if you know what I mean.)

And frankly, based on a test run a few weeks ago, neither of us think that Oscar would have fared well confined in our house, even without the complication of the shots. In a brief test run, Oscar also made flying runs at our windows in an effort to escape.

So we were left with no choice, really, at least in our minds.

Oscar was now healthy. And it just didn't seem fair to keep him cooped up in our small bathroom any longer.

And it is almost summer, and the temperatures are moderate, and he should have no trouble staying healthy.

But it was a tough decision nonetheless.


He liked to roll over and let me scratch his tummy. Pretty trusting for a stray cat.

A few hours ago, after he ate a big plate of cat food, we put him in his cat carrier, took him outside on our front steps, and opened the cage.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he ran out and disappeared into the bushes. (Of course, it started to rain a few minutes later. Damn.)

But it's all familiar territory to him. He's lived around our house for at least 18 months, and survived two winters. He knows where to go to stay warm and dry. And he definitely knows where to come for food.

I still have a lump in my throat after seeing him vanish into the hedge. And I don't think I'll feel any relief until he shows up for breakfast or dinner again and lets us scratch him behind the ears.

And I feel confident that if he gets sick or injured again, he'll let us capture him and take him to the doctor.

Godspeed, Oscar. Please be careful out there. You're a tough cat, and you've touched all of our hearts.

Obama & Air Force One Landing In Prague

My friends Stewart Moore and Mark Baker and I hopped on our mountain bikes and headed toward the airport on Saturday.

U.S. President Barack Obama was due in Prague, and we wanted to see Air Force One land.

Sure enough, we managed to get a fantastic view of the big bird landing right over our heads.

I'll be writing more about the whole bike trip on Grant's Prague Bike Blog, but for now, enjoy this video.

From "Time And The Bottle"

"I’m a little appalled at all the time I’ve lost, but then, wasting time wasn’t exactly an unforeseen side effect; it was part of the fun. Of course it was; if drinking wasn’t so much fun it wouldn’t be such a widespread and terrible problem.

"While responsible people were working their way up their professional ladders, my friends and I were spending whole days eating oysters, drinking pitchers of mimosas and beer, and laughing ’til we wept on decks overlooking the Chesapeake Bay.

"There is really no drinking half as enjoyable as daytime drinking, when the sun is out, the bars are empty of dilettantes, and the afternoon stretches ahead of you like summer vacation. The gleeful complicity you and your drinking buddies share in the excellent decision to have one more ill-advised round, knowing full well you’re forfeiting the day — you can almost physically feel something lifted from you at this moment, even if you know it will fall back more heavily later on. We used to raise a toast: 'Gentlemen — our lives are unbelievably great.' "

-- From "Time And The Bottle" by Tim Kreider on the "Proof" blog at "The New York Times"

It Felt Like A Secret

One of my favorite places in Prague burned to the ground on March 22.

It was a restaurant called Koliba, in the forest near the village of Roztoky, northwest of Prague. The cause, as far as I know, has not yet been determined. Electrical problem? An open fire that got out of control? Arson?

In the end, for Koliba's many fans, the cause doesn't really matter.

It's gone.

And at the worst time, just as summer -- when Koliba really shined -- is right around the corner.



I'll never forget the first time I saw Koliba.

My good buddy Stewart had come across it on a bike ride, and couldn't wait to show me, too. It was a cyclist's dream, and with its chalet-style building covered in ivy, and the small pond out front, it looked more like a too-perfect movie set than a real place to sit down and enjoy a few half-liters.

Koliba was the kind of place we always enjoyed taking visitors to. It felt like a secret, a slice of Prague that not everyone had a chance to enjoy -- good food, including fish and meats grilled on an outdoor fire, and great beer (Budvar) in a bucolic setting.

Even in the three years or so I'd been going to Koliba, it had changed ownership a few times, and service was often spotty. But we kept going back because it was so pleasant just to sit back, let the setting sun warm your face, sip a beer, and watch the carp jumping in the small pond out front.

I often felt compelled to take pictures of Koliba every time I passed on my bike, even though I already had plenty. I've put together a little slideshow of some of the pictures I've taken at Koliba over the years. It ends, sadly, with shots taken by my friend Fiona Gaze earlier this week, after the fire. It's now just a charred skeleton.

I had a lot of good times at Koliba, and I'm going to miss it greatly.

The Funny Thing Is, I'm Really A Dog Person

Oscar getting a bit better, and a bit more comfortable in his new surroundings.

We have a wild animal living in our bathroom.

His name is Oscar.

Ever since we moved out here into the country outside Prague, we've been feeding a few stray cats in the neighborhood. One cat in particular would show up like clockwork for breakfast and dinner.

At the start, he would run away if we attempted to get near him or pet him. But gradually, over time, he let us scratch his ears, and pretty soon we could pet him for a few minutes before we gave him his food.

Emma named him Oscar.

We grew attached to Oscar over the months, and would worry when he'd disappear for a few days. But he'd always return. Dirtier, and with burrs in his fur, but he'd always return.

He's a tough cat.


Oscar, a few hours after his capture, and while he was still quite sick.

Once, he appeared for breakfast with a very bloody paw. It appeared as if something had sliced into his paw. We could see a bloody straight line in his fur. We discussed what to do. We tried to catch him and put him in a cat carrier, but as soon as he knew what we were trying to do, he'd run away.

We asked around about any city pet rescue service, but nothing like that exists here. We thought perhaps we could tranquilize Oscar with something in his food, but the vet we contacted said that would be dangerous, since Oscar would likely just fall asleep out in the woods somewhere.

So we did nothing, reluctantly.

Eventually, the wound healed, and Oscar seemed none the worse for wear. We were relieved.

A few months later, a large abscess appeared on the side of Oscar's face. It looked bad.

A few morning's later and Oscar appeared for breakfast. The abscess had burst. The whole side of his face was bloody and raw.

We tried to catch him, but as I grabbed him at the scruff of the neck, he'd freak out and run away.

Again, we felt helpless.

But once again, the wound eventually healed, and Oscar seemed fine.


Flakey, a real fighter, on Stewart's lap.

In the meantime, a cat we called Oscar Junior started showing up along with Oscar. They seemed very friendly with one another. We thought that Oscar might be the father, since Junior looked a lot like Oscar.

Sadly, Oscar Junior was hit by a car near our house, a sad story which I previously wrote about here.

We've had some happy cat experiences, too.

Last July, just an hour before we were scheduled to leave to catch a flight to Croatia, as we were chilling on the back porch, Daisy heard a strange noise. It sounded like a bird to me, but Daisy knew better. A little poking around uncovered a tiny white kitten, its eyes still shut, meowing and meowing under a tree in our neighbor's yard. It couldn't have been more than a day or two old. Its mother was nowhere to be found.

How it managed to get under that tree we'll never know.

Fortunately, our landlord, Jaroslav Kumbera, was doing some work on our house, and we convinced him to take the kitten to the vet. We couldn't miss our flight. We'd pay for everything, we just wanted him to see if there was any hope the kitten could survive.

From Croatia, we learned via text messaging that the kitten, whom Mr. Kumbera had named Flake, was hanging in there. They were feeding it special milk from an eye dropper, and it seemed to be responding.

To make a long story short, we returned two weeks later from Croatia, and took ownership of Flake. She was in pretty good shape, all thanks to Mr. Kumbera and his wife. They had saved his life.

Flake had a nasty eye infection (see pictures at left and just below) that was being treated with drops and ointment, but she had a good appetite, and was very active.

After a few weeks, Flake began to eat on her own, and her eyes cleared up.

We already have two cats of our own, and we didn't want a third. And it just so happened that my good friend Stewart was looking for a cat for his two boys.

And that's were Flakey, as she was rechristened, is living today, some eight months later.

Believe it or not, another cat started appearing along with Oscar for his feedings. This cat was so sweet, and had no trouble in letting us pet her. Since Stewart was looking for a second cat to add to his family, it seemed an obvious choice.

Flukey, as she is now known, is living with Flakey, and all is well.

All was well, that is.

Until we started noticing that Oscar had developed a very nasty cough and seemed to have trouble breathing. And it seemed to be getting worse.

I came home from work on March 12 to find Oscar underneath a pine tree in our front yard, coughing so hard he was almost convulsing. He was so sick he didn't even pay me any mind as I walked past. He was obviously a very sick cat.

I decided it was time to try to catch him and take him to the vet. If I could.

I found our cat carrier in the basement, took it outside and opened it up near his food bowls.


Sweet Flukey, in her new home.

Oscar did finally come over to see if there was any food, and I slowly grabbed him by the scuff of the neck.

He didn't resist, and even let me put him halfway into the carrier. But then he freaked out and I was forced to let go. He ran away.

I thought I had blown my one chance.

He eventually came back to his food bowls and I tried again. I grabbed him the scuff of the neck until he was hanging limply. And this time he didn't resist at all as I slid him into the cage and closed the door.

We are very lucky to have one of Prague's best veterinary clinics just a few kilometers from our house -- the Veterinary Klinika in Horoměřice. They have always been gracious, even when I've walked in without an appointment.

I was unsure how Oscar would react to being examined by the vet, but he was so sick that he didn't really resist. He was even docile enough to allow me -- clad in a gigantic lead apron -- to hold him down while his lungs were X-rayed.


Oscar Junior, with Oscar, chowing down one day last year.

I've been back to the vet three times now and spent about $110, and the verdict is that Oscar has pneumonia. He's been given a 14-day treatment of antibiotics, and has been living in our downstairs bathroom since March 12. He's taken to indoor life fairly well, but he's scared of strange noises or sudden movements.

I think he's just happy to be warm and and dry is enjoying the idea of sleeping without having to worry about getting eaten by a wild animal.

Unfortunately, some of the medicine has given him a bad case of diarrhea, so that's not been at all pleasant. Surprisingly, though, he's taken to using the litter box, so it could be a lot worse. A lot worse.

Oscar's due back at the vet on March 30, and the doctor said not to let him outside between now and then or his recovery would be jeopardized. He still has a very horrible-sounding cough, a cough that seems to wrack his whole body.

In the meantime, Oscar's sleeping and eating in his private hotel room, and he's even taken to rolling over so that we can scratch his stomach.

He's really a sweet cat. He loves to be petted, has a robust purr, and has never tried to bite or scratch us. I call him feral, but it seems like he has had a home life somewhere in his past. He is curious about our two cats, but not in an aggressive way. (We're keeping them separate, of course.)

The doctor said he's only about three years old, so it's hard to imagine what life has handed him so far. But he spent all of this brutally cold winter outside, even when we did everything we could to coax him in. The guy deserves a break.

Know anyone who wants to adopt a cat?

Ski Trip To Filzmoos, Austria

With all of Filzmoos below us...

Daisy, Emma and I recently returned from a short ski trip to the small Austrian village of Filzmoos.

I'd never heard of it either.

Turns out it's a few kilometers southeast of Salzburg, way up in the mountains. It had been recommended by a friend, who had regaled us with stories of its mountain splendor.

Turns out he was right.

It's a quintessential alpine village, nestled below an oddly shaped mountain called the Bischofsmütze, or Bishop's Mitre.

Sadly, we never got to see much of that mountain, or any of the surrounding peaks. The village was enveloped in clouds for our entire visit. Which meant that it was snowing. A lot.


My morning exercise.

I used to live in Syracuse, New York, considered to be the snowiest big city in the United States. On average, Syracuse gets about 3 meters of snow each winter season. I'm pretty sure that Filzmoos received almost that much during the four days we were there.



Simply put, it never stopped snowing -- morning, noon, and all night, for all four days. The car was covered with a half-meter of snow each morning, and with a half-meter during the day, while we were on the slopes or wherever. It took a good 45 minutes each morning just to dig the car out.

Of course, that meant excellent skiing conditions, if not horrific driving conditions (thank god for my chains!).

We had a lovely time.

Amazingly, the ski rental shop had ski boots in my freakish size (14 in U.S., around 49 in European), so I was able to ski (although I had to ski in my jeans, since I hadn't counted on them actually having my size). We took a private ski lesson and had a great time in the deep powder.


Sleigh ride through the mountain forest. The driver shared a bottle of his homemade apricot schnapps with us on the journey.

We swam in a cool indoor/outdoor pool in the village; drove to a nearby village for the Rodelbahn, a four-kilometer-long toboggan run through empty mountain forests; and took a very long (and very, very cold) horse-drawn sleigh ride (in a real sleigh) up into the mountains to the Oberhofalm, a 300-year-old restaurant that I'm imagining is magnificently located, with views of the surrounding peaks.

All we saw were meters and meters of snow piled high, and its most welcoming lights in the dark woods (right).

We enjoyed some wonderful meals of pork and liver dumpling soup and sauerkraut and dumplings, and drank about 10 liters of weissbier.

We stayed at a cute little pension on the outskirts of town, the Pension Hochkönig.

We're actually thinking of spending Christmas in Filzmoos, with our good friends Momchil and Tanya and their son, Victor, who were supposed to accompany us on our ski trip. Unfortunately, Victor got sick at the last minute and they had to stay home.

And maybe at Christmas the sun will come out and we'll be able to see the mountains.


Daisy negotiates a deceptively tricky stretch of the Rodelbahn.

It's Not Much, But We Like It (Mostly)

Click to enlarge...

Regular readers of my blogs know that I live in Černý Vůl, an unassuming hamlet some 15 kilometers or so northwest of Prague. Even longtime residents of Prague have never heard of Černý Vůl, and we live on a street that doesn't even show up on GPS, making it extremely difficult for taxi drivers or ordinary humans to visit our place.

Not much happens in Černý Vůl.

A big truck ran off the road and overturned in the village last winter while trying to negotiate a treacherous curve. And our local pub, which we've only visited once in the year and a half we've lived here, has just reopened after much-needed renovations. (It's one of those places where everyone stared at us when we walked through the door, so we just haven't gone back for more.)

But we like the village. Mostly.

Except in the winter, when acrid coal smoke belching from ancient furnaces clouds the air. And in the early spring, when our (partially dirt) road turns into a muddy, rut-filled mess. And except for the lack of basic services. The village's only grocery store is open from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. weekdays, conveniently just while we're at work.

Černý Vůl means Black Bull. A small sign on a cycle path below our house says: "Černý Vůl is a site of rich archaeological finds. A Neolithic ceramic bull's head found here gave the village its name."



A friend of mine, Michal Pupcsik, who lives in Beloky, another small village northwest of Prague, collect old postcards of villages in the neighborhood -- Statenice, Tuchoměřice, Beloky, Středokluky, Lidice, Okoř, Holubice, et al.

He just sent me one of his latest acquisitions -- a very cool postcard of Černý Vůl, date unknown, but I'm guessing from sometime in the 1930s. The infamous backward S-shaped road snaking down through the village would tell you it was Černý Vůl, even if the postcard itself did not. (The postcard identifies Černý Vůl as a "settlement," interestingly.) There's also a photograph of the village pub, before renovations.

I took the other photograph out of my bedroom window on March 10, showing roughly the same view.

As you can see, not much has changed in 80 years or so.

Check Out This Blog If You Know What's Good For You

Radek and Hilary in Croatia, on the way to Albania.

I want to call your attention to a fantastic blog, written by my good friends Radek and Hilary over at Motorbike Ventures.

They're the folks who helped me find and buy my own motorcycle here in Prague. They rent motorcycles for those looking for a European adventure, and also do what they did for me -- help locate a suitable motorcycle and then negotiate not only the price, but also the Czech bureaucracy in terms of getting the bike registered.

Radek and Hilary don't just help others to have fun. They also travel themselves throughout Europe on their motorcycles, and Hilary's been writing a very entertaining account of the trip they took to Croatia, Montenegro and Albania last summer.

It's amazing. Great details. Evocative descriptions. And wonderful photographs.

Check it out here. The pictures I've published with this post are from their blog.



If you have any interest in traveling by motorcycle, you won't be disappointed.

I hope Daisy and I can take a few overnight trips on my Honda Shadow 600 this summer, even if it's only within the Czech Republic.

In the meantime, I will continue to dream about riding to Albania. I sure wish I'd had my bike when they were planning that trip!

When Good Mayonnaise Goes Bad

I always smile when I see this sign in the snack bar where I work.

Apparently, someone got sick after eating a sandwich that they'd left sitting on their desk for six hours or something. I guess the legal department told them to put up this sign.