Duchess and The Kittens, Ceske Krumlov

After the waters of the Vltava River pass under the various famous and not-so-famous bridges of Prague, they wind about 160 km into South Bohemia and wrap nearly completely around a town so quaint and picturesque that it seems to have been inspired by a children's pop-up book. Ceske Krumlov is home to the second largest castle complex in the C.R. (behind Prague Castle), the Egon Schiele Museum (sadly closed during my visit), dragon-head gutter spouts, Gypsies and if you were to have looked in the window of the Traveller's Hostel last Saturday night, you would have caught a glimpse of different kind of classic scene; the slapping silly of an obnoxious fan by lead singer Angela Alsap, aka, the Duchess.
We - my friends and members of the band 'Duchess and the Kittens' - took a bus out of Prague Friday afternoon. Under our feet, where some of us stood in the aisle due to our late arrival to a popular bus ride, were nestled a drum kit, an upright bass, guitar, saxophone, clarinet, shaky-shake things and other various and sundry band stuff. The ride there was long but I got a really nice view of the Czech countryside (or 'the nature' to all my students) - the sun laid out in wide strips over rolling green hills and farmland and I could sense the tension leaving the native passengers as we got farther from the city. I thought about drives to the Murdoch Lakehouse and my brother's house in Maine, about all the roads that lead out of office buildings, elevators, sickly lit corridors, cattle-cars and choked streets and out to the places that refill our tanks.
That night we filled ours with goulash and dumplings and locally brewed beer in a small pub that would eventually fill up as a Gypsy band blew us all away with music that I just can't describe. It was both effortless and intense, extremely passionate and nonchalant. They wore black and had dark skin and black hair. The bass player wore a gold medallion and he and the violin player would look smilingly into each other's eyes as they belted out songs in Romany that sounded like they'd come from the same tradition as marriachi music. The accordion player sat with his back to us but the sound of the shiny black box on his lap seemed to come out of the walls, and the clarinet player put sugar on everything that came by, occasionally taking a break to let the violin player apply his own semi-sweet finish. We drummed on the table, we slapped our knees, we clapped along with the rest of the bar and I felt like Dean Moriarty rubbing his belly and shouting 'blow, man, blow' to the trumpet player at the Chicago jazz club. If there was more room we would all have been dancing, but as it was we had to be satisfied with banging on stuff, shaking our heads and applauding each tune.
The next day I woke early and walked around the little town in the occasional company of the other 6 or 7 tourists who had come there during the off-season. The day was clear and crisp and the bright sun seemed incongruous with the smoke rising from nearly all the chimneys that poked up from the red rooftops. I followed the path that lead up the castle and through it, barely believing it wasn't all just a movie set.
Later I met up with my friends for an amazing traditional Czech feast - millet casseroles, barley cakes, sweet ham, root vegetable salads and lots of other stuff I didn't stop to identify. The flavors were strange and somehow tasted exotic, a surprise to someone who thought people in the 14th century were limited to seasoning their meat with other pieces of meat. On the back of the menu was a two-page description of the history of Czech food and I remember exactly none of it.
The show that night was a blast. The place filled up and soon the Duchess and the Kittens were in full swing. People were dancing, singing along and raising glasses of beer in salute to the band, to one another and to the nameless spirit that fills up such places. But two people, standing way in the back and chewing on some sour resentment, thought they'd make a name for themselves by shouting 'you suck!' at the band from time to time. There were some words exchanged between Angela and the two sad jerks and before the night was over she'd come off the stage to slap them each around, after which the rest of us sent them running for the stairs that led them up to their rooms, beer poured all over them and looks of bewilderment on their faces.
The night continued with more dancing, many re-tellings of the incident and drinks bought for Angela and the band.
The next day we played a game where we raced leafy sticks in the river, following them as they made their way to a small waterfall. This may soon be the national sport.
We took a train back and I felt like Harry, going home to normal life after so many adventures at Hogwarts. But Prague life isn't exactly normal and before long it will, itself, be a story out of a book that I may or may not write. So I try to be here, as much as possible, though often feel like I'm walking along next to myself, watching, as someone would walk alongside a half-submerged tree branch that's heading down river and will soon be out of sight.