"It's like you're always stuck in second gear,
Well, it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year.

But, I'll be there for you, when the rain starts to pour.
I'll be there for you, like I've been there before.
I'll be there for you, cause you're there for me too." --"I'll Be There for You" by the Rembrandts.


Brief aside: Ok. Now I know that my blog hasn't exactly been "weekly", in the American sense of the word "week". But, as it turns out, in the Czech Republic, a week is actually 11 days, so I'm pretty much right on time.

Being in Prague, I've learned several things. 1. Bone roasted pork knuckles aren't necessarily the best things to eat before running. 2. Avoid British stag parties at all costs. 3. Expecting to work while two of your friends are visiting is nearly impossible.

I got to Prague two weeks ago, after spending several days in Bratislava absorbing the culture and eating alone at the one, sort of Mexican restaurant in Slovakia. I keep doing this--getting homesick for something 'American' (or, I guess in this case, 'Mexican') and hoping that the Eastern European approximated facsimile of that thing will stave off said feeling. And it never, ever works out. The guacamole at 'Hacienda Mexicana' was something that a well paid food critic for a Bratislava paper might refer to as, "gross" and " possibly made with fish". But, alas, I needed to reunite with my friend and travel companion, the aforementioned Big Cat, and so I met him in Prague, where we rented an apartment for a month and both finally shaved off our travel beards.

The city is beautiful. It was one of the only European cities left basically untouched during the destruction of World War II and it is small, walkable and safe. But there are SO many tourists. SO many. See how I emphasized the word by putting on caps lock? That's how serious I am about getting across this point. And, yes, technically I am a tourist too, and yes, I guess, looking back I shouldn't have purchased an extra large velour sweatsuit with the words "Czech it Out" stitched across the front and back and, okay, fine, I probably shouldn't wear it everyday... but, seriously, how are there even any people in other European countries if they're all here posing for novelty caricature artists on the Charles Bridge and congratulating me on my hip sweatshirt purchase?

Whoa. Sorry about the anger. I just wish I hadn't "discovered" Prague five years after everyone else. (Brief snippet of convo with my father to illustrate this point: "Hey Dad." "Who is this?" "Kevin." "...?" "Your son?" "Oh, um, how's...where are you, New Mexico?" "Prague." "...Dude, that place is so 1999." "...Did you just call me dude, Dad?" "Yeah, I did. A lot has changed since you left. Anyway, I need to go. I'm watching a video I made of me swinging a Medicus 5 iron. Get me a t-shirt in Albuquerque.")

 Anyway, the first week here, I was a writing machine. I finally had a "routine" down, and a spot to go that served bagels and bottomless cups of tea, and I was working at a prolific rate, getting thing accomplished I hadn't even thought about in months. I finally finished and edited a new Writer's Digest Quiz (aptly titled: Does Your Editor Hate You?), pitched a travel story, wrote a new chapter in my novel, and started working on editing the reality celebrity short story. I was excited. My life looked brighter. Colors were more dramatic. I had even stopped noticing the intense throbbing sensations stemming from the cavities in the back of my mouth. But then it all stopped.

My friend Frank came out here for spring break from law school and my friend Stu bought a flight two days before he came and within fifteen minutes of getting a new job offer in San Francisco. And they both brought their computers, which seemed like a good idea at the time, because our apartment has Wi-Fi, and I've been spending upwards of 200 Czech crowns a day (something like 30 grand American, I think) sitting in Internet Cafes watching the "Dick in a Box" SNL skit on YouTube. Plus, my old laptop I'd shipped out here came with its computer screen smashed despite being bubble taped and in a laptop case and so I figured, well, how nice, my friends have provided me free access to put down my thoughts and get some real work done from the comfort of my own apartment. Um, right?

"Absolutely not. Don't touch my computer," Frank said, when I asked if I could type up some of the chapters I'd written down and maybe do a, you know, blog entry. "Seriously, not right now. I'm looking at famous images of New York City on the New York Times website."

"Why?"

"Because I don't have any new emails and I've already read all the articles on ESPN, obviously."

My subsequent minor temper tantrum only inflamed the situation and became a source of hilarity for all of my friends.

"Frank may I use your computer," the Big Cat would theatrically ask. "I want to re-look at some emails I just sent and think about ways I could have improved them."

"Of course. Take as long as you want. I certainly wasn't doing anything."

All of this is actually happening right now. As I type Frank is standing behind me and trying to calculate how much I owe him per minute for being able to use the computer ("I mean, you act like I won't give you competitive rates") and everyone is waiting for me to finish my work so that we can go see a "museum" or "something they don't have in Charlottesville, VA."

As anyone who has ever tried to write something coherant with a bunch of people standing around, sighing dramatically and whispering secrets behind them can attest, it's basically impossible. My productivity has tanked, I seem to be getting some sort of rash, and I can't even think of the central point of this post.

But, like Stevie Wonder said, that's what friends are for.
Right? .... Right?

Join me next time, when I attempt coherance by stealing Frank's laptop and hiding myself in the Czech movie theatre showing of Rocky Balboa, where I can finally concentrate.

P-P-Push it real good.

KA

Let me begin with a confession and an indisputable fact.

Confession: I am bad with technology. I know this is not a startling confession, like admitting that, until I was 14, I slept with the lights on in my room (also true). My point in telling you this is to beg for your patience with me as I sort out exactly how to work this blog and figure out how to read everyone's email addresses, so I can respond promptly to questions and comments, which leads me to my indisputable fact.

Fact: Right now I happen to be in an Internet Cafe in Belfast, Northern Ireland. For those of you who don't know, I am one month into a three and a half month travel writing/self discovery tour of much of Western and Eastern Europe for which I took a semester off from my MFA program and begged my credit card company to up my spending limit. One of my friends from home, Casey Hurley (oft referred to as The Big Cat because he's more or less a giant), quit his job with the Dept of Defense and agreed to accompany me on the journey, in exchange for 'walking around money' and an agreement that I wouldn't 'publicly ruin his chances of getting another job'. We've kept a pseudo-travel blog of our trip and subsequent quest for self-discovery, the likes of which can be found on the blogroll (to the left) if you have any interest in hearing inaccurate biased critiques of major European cities and embarrassing facts about myself, which Case delights in revealing. I also swear, which--when used effectively-- can be awesome.

Anyway, I apologize if you've heard all of that before, but my main point in telling you about the trip is that--from a writing standpoint-- I had very real expectations for this trip that have now changed somewhat significantly.

When I first envisioned this trip, I imagined that it would greatly enhance my magazine journalism career by adding travel writing to my resume. I pretty much thought I'd be writing stories while doing active, extreme things like dog sledding in Finland and base jumping off the Space Needle in Bratislava, Slovakia. But it turns out, they don't even have a space needle. And I would never go base jumping.

So in reality, I've spent much less time working on magazine story ideas (As of this writing, I have one solid story idea, which someone is probably in the midst of pitching right...now) and working on my novel and writing a short story about going on a date with a former reality star in Zurich, Switzerland. Perhaps it's the sheer quantity of contemplative (moody?) people sitting in cafes, or maybe, more realistically, its the fact that I don't speak any other languages and, thusly, am terrified to make eye contact that have propelled me to work on fiction, but either way this reveals an undeniable truth: with writing, you really have no choice but to go where your fickle, slightly overweight Muse takes you. And for whatever reason, my Muse is forcing me to spend an inordinate amount of time sorting out what it'd be like to go on a date with a former reality star. So I guess my point is that while it's good and productive to set goals and have expectations for your writing, you never know what the hell is going to pop into your mind, and you just have to be willing to tell yourself that it's okay to see where that goes. And if that means that you're forced to watch a sh*t ton of the British version of Celebrity Big Brother while eating a family-size package of Kit Kats in the name of research, remember, it's not you. It's your Muse.

KA

ps- thanks everyone for writing in with your support, questions and requests for pantless pics. And if you did pose a question, I'm not ignoring you. I'm not even kind of avoiding you. I'm just incompetent in sorting out people's email addresses with the NOSPAM thing inserted. But I'm learning things very, very quickly and I will be sure and get back to you as soon as possible. I just need to see if this chick gets kicked out of the Big Brother House, because she's being ridiculously unreasonable, plus I think she hooked up with that guy Matt (or maybe Chris) strictly for personal gain:)