Prague, Czech Republic

Sunrise at Prague Old Town Square, Czech Republic

It’s a party city—or so I’ve heard. And it’s part of the Visegrad group. I’ve been checking these special countries all off my list one by one, and Prague puts me at three out of four. It wasn’t even a deliberate decision on my part, I just got tired of the West, in all its shapes and forms.

The Czechs seem to be in a nice spot though. They got some prime real estate right smack in the sunny center of Europe. The grim dark grey gloom of Poland and Russia give way to blue skies and scattered groups of drunk Millennials sprawled out on green lawns by the historic landmarks during all hours of the day.

And, it doesn’t have a massive Roma problem like Budapest. You pick up on that very quickly.

Other than that, I’ve heard something about the city being famous for alchemy, its beautiful castle and while no one else seems to know it, I happen to have read that the first sighting of the Golem was here as well. “Nuh-uh,” they say, but a quick google search on my phone confirms the Golem story, and I show a picture to the two American girls. They say, “oh wow,” and nervously titter.

I’m kicking myself inside just as I finish forcing out a laugh as well.

I thought it would be funny and conversation-worthy, but I get the sense it creeped them out. We’re wandering in the historic Jewish Quarter, by the cemetery when I bring up the Golem. The sun is already setting.

All in all, a bad idea. And I’ve long ago noticed that normal people have this sort of voodoo-like approach towards Jewish history. Throwing a never-ending pity party makes people involuntarily shy away and reflexively shudder at stories about the Jews, regardless of context. See, these girls are as anti-anti-Semitic as they come, but that doesn’t mean they don’t think of black and white pajama-clad skeletons and twisted bearded men shuffling around in strange robes when they think about the Jewish people. That’s just a vibe killer, plain and simple.

I should have known that. I should have kept it light and funny. Irreverent and pointless. American-style.

Speaking of the West, at this point, I prefer to stick to the East because the commie blocks and terrible weather depress me far less than black faces.

East is good. West is bad. That’s the shorthand I’ve got in my head. But I still haven’t made up my mind about Prague.

I’ve got a set of golden scales in my head, and I load them up with weights, weights that I pick up all along the main road leading down into Prague’s Old Town Square as I take in the sights, smells and feels. And I let the scale dance back and forth, “East or West” about any city I visit now.

Up ahead, the pavement becomes cobblestone and the road shrinks. It is so clogged that you can’t march at your own pace anymore. All of a sudden, you putter to a stop and now you’re waiting to squeeze past fat British tourists and gaggles of Indians in saris buying traditional bread chimneys from the vendors dotting the medieval road.

Both groups glare at you as you shoulder past.

The atmosphere seems hostile, and you’re not sure why. Stopping to take a leak at an idyllic café tucked into a medieval courtyard, you look up into the mirror as you’re washing your hands and realize the problem.

You’ve got this Eastern European scowl deeply imprinted on your face that you’ve forgotten to take off.

A few splashes of water on your cheeks and then you begin to massage it away. It’s hard at first. You’ve got this gaunt look to you and it takes some effort to make any progress at all.  First you try curling your lips at the edges so that it looks like you’re smirking. It feels like something’s cracking in your face, like the spring ice beginning to thaw. You keep massaging your cheeks as you let the smile spread wider and you flash your teeth at the mirror.

Better, but still not quite there.

Your eyes are staring too much, they look too intense, and there’s too much white showing between your skin and the blue iris. Worse, the skin around your eyeballs is too smooth and as a result, it doesn’t match the smile you’ve just managed to cobble together either. So you try squinting to break the stare, and get some loveable wrinkles going while pulling down on your forehead with the palms of your hands.

Only then does it start to come together.

“Smile with your teeth and relax your eyelids. Let them droop a bit so that you look sleepy and harmless.”

The old routine comes back.

And then after a few beers, and rearranging the weights on the scales in your mind a bit, you’re ready to go.

After a couple of days in Prague, just like anywhere in Europe, everything begins to fall into place. You’ve got the measure of the city. As usual, you’ve got the tourist center in the prettiest, most historic part. The best and most expensive places are there, which, naturally, means you won’t find a single local except maybe on a weekday, or working as a waiter, but that’s about it.

And at night the drug dealers and pimps come out. All African…which is strange, you must admit. You can forgive the masses of brown tourists clogging up the streets—they’re just visiting, after all. But are the Africans selling drugs to save up for their ticket back home to Africa…or Berlin? At night, you could be forgiven for forgetting that you’re in one of the vaunted Visegrad countries.

They are scattered all over the squares of Old Town. They mill around in the dark, clad in bright leather jackets and shining white shoes, wearing wool hats even though the weather is absolutely perfect.

“My fren, my fren. Discount, discount now. You give this and you get drink. Inside I show you. Cohm dis wae. Best girls.”

They try to wrap these paper and plastic wristbands around your arm as you try to wave them away. Or they just follow you around, heckling you till you start tensing up, and your disarming smile becomes more like a fear grimace or a baring of fangs. You stop at the cross light. The headlights of the cop car temporarily bleach your teeth and make the Africans’ yellow eyes sparkle.

They cops don’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary about dozens of Blacks selling hard drugs as they roll past. So you take their example, and you start moving along as well.

A glance over your shoulder from time to time just to be sure. You accidentally make eye-contact and—damn it—they take it as encouragement to keep up the chase. Like stray dogs with their tongues hanging out, they pant out promises of cocaine and hookers until they’re padding alongside you.

“My fren, you come this way!”

But past the cobblestone, the packs of Blacks clear up. And it’s a straight shot back to the loft I’m staying at in District 2, right on the outskirts of the downtown.

I get in late and realize the problem as I hit the bathroom for a shower.

I’ve forgotten to put my scowl back on.

The Eastern European scowl that keeps the packs at bay. See, it turns out that Eastern Slavs have developed a reputation in Europe for being hard. They baffle the Blacks because they’re the only Whites who never smile. They call them all “Russians” and they keep their distance.

And naturally, the Western Whites keep their distance as well.

That goofy, weak look smeared over your face like peanut butter is a necessary facet of life in the West. I know it well, and don’t begrudge the Westerners their traditions and coping mechanism.

But the next night, I’m out with my American friends and they’re already attracting attention.

At this point, it would be a bit too late in the story to introduce any new characters, but Bruce merits an exception, because I’ve been looking forward to partying with this guy for months now. See, Bruce’s whole life has been one big rave, listening to his stories that is. And believe me when I tell you that he revels in that image.

Looking at him, you think one thing: party boy.

Hanging out with Bruce and the two American girls he’s brought along means having a good time. Partying is serious business, and Bruce gives it the respect that it’s due. I think it’s the only thing in life he takes seriously, other than his workout routine—which is absolutely holy.

It makes sense that he has this attitude. Bruce was born into wealth, but then he and his family experienced a fall from grace. From what he tells me, cocaine and an easy lifestyle almost destroyed the second generation of scions from his family. He is now the third generation. It’s almost as if he’s experienced the peak and nosedive himself and now he’s done. Lived and felt it all. He possesses almost Zen-like blasé disregard towards money and status.

And the Africans can tell what a party boy looks like as well. I catch up to Bruce, and his wrist already has that gaudy pink plastic band wrapped around it. He’s already being led by the African to the side.

The two Blacks reach for another band.

“Very good, my fren. Very good, huh?”

Bruce grins back at them. He hates them just as much as I do.

They keep their distance from me though. No one reaches for my arm. See, Bruce is bigger and buffer, but he’s smiling and worse, the American girls have actually started talking with them.

This floors me.

I mean, these Americans are from Baltimore. How do they not know the score by now?

But then I remember how good Americans are at “preventative politeness.” The women especially think that by being excessively nice, they can talk their way out of any situation. This strategy only works with other Western Whites though—they start picking up on the excessive politeness and get…shamed? Or possibly reminded that there are social conventions at work here. Social faux pas that they might be committing. It’s like a subtle reminder that Western White use on each other.

“Don’t get too familiar with me, there are rules here.”—that’s what politeness administered in high dosages gets across.

It’s almost as if the excessive politeness of the defensive person reminds the more direct party of the existence of haut manners, and they perform a mental check on their own behavior and decided to “polite-n” it up to match the other party. At which point, the original polite party can use that politeness to excuse themselves from the situation, or guide the conversation into safer waters.

But it never works on Blacks.

They don’t pick up on that subtle stuff. They just take politeness as an invitation to keep on pushing. The fabled Black directness is at play tonight as well.

Three pink bands already on three white wrists. I snap out of my thoughts because one of the girls looks up at me, puzzled, unsure if something is wrong.

I guess, I’m not picking up my politeness levels. They’re already on a far higher frequency, and I’m not meeting them there. Their brains are no doubt confused and telling them that I’m in fact being rude to them. It probably doesn’t seem possible to them that a White guy could openly show disdain for Black behavior, in the street, right then and there in front of them. I’m being rude, even though they’re the ones about to con us.

I must have been glaring again, with my lips curled downwards and my jaw tensed so that the bones on the end of my jaw line showed.

The token Arab is already muttering something under his breath and there’s four of them now.

“Let’s just check it out,” the girl says. I give a little, force out a grin, and I take the proffered band myself.

At the very least, I’m not letting the African put any friendship bracelet around my wrist, that’s for damn sure.

They escort us to the entrance. It’s not far. It looks glitzy and sleazy, just as I expected. Inside, the place is packed with British tourists and older Boomer types from all over the world. There are also some Arabs that have rented out a room, the entrance is covered by hanging beads, but you can make out naked women’s bodies moving around inside. Some Africans with thick gold watches and chains around their necks have rented out the room next to that. Strangely enough, they’ve chosen a Black girl for the night.

To be fair, there’s some decent-looking women twirling around the poles in the soft pink and purple light in this place. And it definitely seems to be a place that Western tourists are visiting in droves.

Prague is a party city after all—which basically translates to a stripper/prostitute city. White people and their euphemisms and all that.

But the free drink they promised? Turns out it’s actually just a ten percent discount, “fren” and there’s a steep cover charge at the door.

Nothing that surprising about all of this. It was obviously a lie. The “cool place” promised was obviously a strip club or a brothel. Yes, it was obvious, but then, it would be harder to turn down those nice Africans in the street than to realize that before coming here.

This is the Western mentality, no other way to describe it.

We stand around for a bit before Bruce finally says what we’re all thinking: “we should probably go.”

I shrug and play it cool, “yeah sure, I don’t mind heading out in a bit” and I studiously stare at the hot pink bra of the stripper passing by to make my point.

As we’re leaving, I start telling Bruce about the whole attitude difference between East and West. But he doesn’t want to hear it.

“You’re looking for something out there,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere. You’re talking about running away.”

I start to object, but he continues.

“I hate Blacks as much as you do, but you don’t need to show it.”

I shrug and demur, but I notice that this time Bruce is more firm with the Africans at the door. They’re unhappy that we’re leaving. They see their kickback leaving without emptying his wallet.

“No, thank you.” He says and there’s an edge in his voice.

I begin to hear the echoes of the Kipling poem in my mind about “long arrears to make good”—whatever that means, but also about how, “There was neither sign nor show” although I can definitely see that Bruce feels like he’s been taken for a ride and he’s starting to get testy.

I find myself wondering what it will take to see the Saxon begin to hate.

We shake off the last persistent African offering us drugs near the famous astronomical clock tower in the old town and we’re in the homestretch.

At this point, it’s so late that if we stay up a bit longer, it’ll just get light again. The girls have lagged behind, tired from all the bar-hopping and it’s just us. The tension has died down and we’re sobering up.

“I feel like you’ve got a lot of potential,” I tell Bruce.

The confident swagger in his voice is gone and he feels genuine all of a sudden, neither party boy, nor excessively polite. “I know, I’m just not…yeah, I know.”

I usually never talk directly to Americans like this. I’m a bit drunk and tired, I guess.

“You could do great things, you know.”

He doesn’t object or rib me for being too serious.

“Yeah, I think…yeah.” He says.

“Partying gets a bit old,” I say. “Sometimes you start thinking about something more.”

“Yeah,” he agrees again.

I know I’ll kick myself when I sober up again. This isn’t American-style. This isn’t light and fun.

But he seems into it.

“And you?” He asks. I shrug, but the scales in my mind have already finished dancing and have settled firmly, one arm of the scale deep in the dirt and the other pointed sky high. The verdict seems clear to me—Prague will be the furthest West I’ll ever go ever again if I can help it.

“Maybe I’ll visit soon,” I say.

He likes that.

Bruce is a good man all in all. Loyal to something that he can’t quite express. But it’s there, lurking underneath the party boy exterior. All the more remarkable is how rare it is to find that kind of quality in people of his caste. He’s a cosmopolitan, but he’s not rootless. In fact, he feels a profound attachment to his home, and he wants to do something to save it, even though he doesn’t know how. I used to think it was just fear of the new and the unknown, or just laziness in people like him…but now, I realize that we can’t all go East.

“Maybe you’ll visit me instead?” I counter-offer.

“I don’t know, maybe.” He deflects.

Truth be told, this is probably about as East as Bruce is willing to go.

And so it had to be here then. Perhaps Berlin would have been more symbolic, but Prague seems to be the new line. I’ve heard that they’ve got a fence along the border, but it seems that it’s a bit patchy in places if the downtown is anything to go by. It’s a shame that the Soviets never left them a proper wall. That would have kept things on ice for a couple of decades more. But as things stand now, I wonder if this place can really put up a proper stand. I would write some more about it, but really, it seems like just more of the same.

The sun is already peaking out as Bruce shakes my hand, we yawn and then say goodbye. I ask him what he thinks. He just shrugs and says, “hey, it’s better than Baltimore.”

13 replies
    • Charles Frey
      Charles Frey says:

      Undoubtedly, since Bill Clinton visited friends at Party Headquarters there, after one of his sojourns in Moscow; having borrowed the train fare from two coeds at Patrice Lumumba University.

  1. RoyAlbrecht
    RoyAlbrecht says:

    I find myself chuckling at this rant.
    TOO has of late given way to writers who seem to muse a lot, so I am taking the liberty to join them…, if I may.

    At the same age, about thirty years ago, just before and during the time of Peristroika, I was in the same part of the world and doing a little of what the writer above was doing, except that I was on the mission of a lifetime.

    It was just after the World Gymnastics Championships in Stuttgart, West Germany where, as a National Level Coach in Training I was;
    1) working for the WGC Organizational Committee before and during the competiton,
    2) while not setting up, adjusting and tearing down apparatus for the various olympic level athletes in attendence,-
    doing photo-journalism work during the actual competition for the Canadian National Gymnastics Magazine and,
    3) being blessed with the opportunity of being a kind of consierge to the Mens National Coach of Canada, Hartmut Fink,-
    who also happened to be Head of the Federation International de Gymnastique Technical Comittee, the highest ranking official for the FIG in the Americas at the time;-
    during intermissions and other official, after-hours gatherings,
    I was liaising with various national coaches in attendence, while setting up an East Block and East Asia tour of National Gymnastics Training Facilities.
    My objective was to train with, live amongst and study the various training techniques of those nations’ athletes while taking note of the design features of their custom built training apparatus.
    In exchange for food, logings and a small stipend, I would teach their athletes English as a Second language (ESL).

    Moreover, having just returned from an undercover photo-journalism assignment to infiltrate and investigate all the High Performance Training Facilities in the now Ex-German Democratic Republic…,
    the report, film and all, was by then complete and was handed over to the National Coach of Canada at the competitiion.
    This upcoming tour was also in part being facilitated by the National Coach of Canada.

    By then, having toured almost all of Latin America on a bicycle for over a year and a half and grasped a rudimentary knowledge of French and Spanish, I was already a seasoned traveller and had discovered that traveling as a minimalist, one could reduce costs, extend range, increase adaptability while maintaining fitness by doing so on a professional, loaded-touring bicycle.
    Many Advanced Scouts in Aeroborn Paratrooper Divisions used the same modality of transport at the time to increase range and load capacity on the same caloric intake as a foot soldiers while maintaining a stealth profile.
    So while not evading communist gang-stalkers or undertaking high-risk black market money making schemes…, or other self-styled Bond-like antics…,
    by virtue of a rather advanced, aerospace-tubing framed bike, I too was able to…, shall we call it…, “…schmooze…” with the masses.

    But unlike the writer above, who seems to have undertaken a pub crawl from one European Capital to the next in order to assess the debased state of the (once?) White World, I was busy connecting the dots of the Jewish World Order of Opperational Control…,
    one of my many…, may I call them…, “hobbies”, at the time…

    Since drinking, smoking, drugs & alcohol, loose women, incorrect diet, and other…, “non-Olympian” behaviour were strictly SELBST-VERBOTEN at the time,
    I had to find other ways to amuse myself.

    To this end, a voice inside and a power above was telling me that my hobbies…;-
    Physiognomony, World Religions, History & Languages, Asceticism, Tri-athletics, Architecture (both marine and terrestrial), Vedanta Yoga, Poli-Sci, Kommando Tourism, Homeopathic (Folk-) Pharmacology & Medicine, and Economics were things I must do…,
    for my future was somehow intertwined with these tasks.

    Many years earlier, due to the inumerable saboteurs I had already encountered that were “…littered throughout…” the (((Western))) Establishment,
    although unwilling to admit it to myself,
    I already then had a looming feeling that achieving
    ‘…success…’ within the system would never occur for me.
    So over time I adopted a ‘take no prisoners’ approach to life.

    My motto became;-

    “Live life as if tomorrow would never come. Take not even a single photograph. Instead, sear the memory of the moment so deeply into my mind, that when the day came and I could do nothing else, only the most memorable events, like cream floating to the surface, would be recalled and written down for posterity.”

    So now, refugeed in Iceland and entering the dawn of my life,
    I have nothing left to do and nowhere left to go but to write and prepare to die.

    • Charles Frey
      Charles Frey says:

      Roy, what the hell is all this talk about nowhere left to go and preparing to die ? You did not mention having travelled the entirety of the Trans Siberian Express. I am 79 and a few weeks, and that is exactly what I shall do next spring after two weeks with friends in Moscow. And certainly with merely second class train travel, so as to get the real feel for the culture and its wonderful people. Whoever knew the Armenians had a subway system in their capital Erevan ? [ And superb women ].

      You mentioned physiognomy as one of your hobbies. Have a look at those wonderful specimens along the route, as observable on a multitude of you tube travelogues.

      Unlike you, I never got further south than San Jose in Guatemala, and not on a bike, but in a 68 Volvo with a pistol under the seat, and in a convoy of four. But I got handsomely paid as a tour conductor taking thousands of members of the NRTA/AARP around the world to more than eighty countries; repeatedly. German is my native language; Russian was a minor in university; enough French came through wonderfully unforgettable problems with beautiful Quebec girls, and I speak some English, even if at times it is discernable as coming from translation.

      I’ll be damned if I ever feel resigned to die on my couch.

      Kopf hoch Junge ! at least you escaped Hamilton, Ontario: which, on second thought, ain’t the worst place in the world either, along the lake.

    • Fredrick Toben
      Fredrick Toben says:

      Excellently written, Mr Albrecht – I can relate to your personal moral and intellectual self-imposed discipline because all you did was listen to your DNA memory and follow that impulse through your peregrinations. Now, if not already, immerse yourself with Wagnerian impulses because through his operatic works, Richard Wagner also teaches us how to die! And don’t forget, if not done already, elaborate on your personal experiences by writing that book!

    • Barkingmad
      Barkingmad says:

      You are in Iceland? Are you anywhere near Bobby Fischer’s final resting place?

      http://www.traveltorgeir.com/2016/09/05/bobby-fischers-grave/
      https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/features/3635401/Bobby-Fischers-final-bizarre-act.html

      Bet you could write a book about your life, ideas and travels and make it interesting.

      Most white people don’t want to talk about death. I’m not ancient yet, but am having an increasingly difficult time with, you know, the situation. 🙂

      • royAlbrecht
        royAlbrecht says:

        @ Charles, Fredrick & Barking:

        Thanks for the replies, esp. Dr. Töben´s…,
        they mean a lot to me.

        Iceland is place where, although one is free to express the truth about the (((Race of Perpetrators)))…,
        no matter how ‘politically correct’ yet hated by the masses that truth may be…,
        one is not persecuted or prosecuted for it.

        On the other hand,
        one can be constantly surrounded by people here, yet never have meaningful contact with anyone.

        Bobby Fischer, –
        may he be well armed and doing battle for us in the afterlife, –
        is buried on the outskirts of Selfoss,
        a 45 minute drive from my location.
        The links provided by Barking are lamestream media links and are full of lies, obfuscations and misrepresentations.

        If you want to hear what Bobby Fischer thought…,
        in his own words…,
        listen to icelandic radio digitally archived interviews. He is absolutely spot on regarding the JQ on all counts.
        This is why the media is slandering him so backhandedly in his grave.

        Working on the book is much more confusing than I ever thought it would be.

        Learning the ins and outs of e-publishing, e-commerce, publishing law, order of opperation, art, etc…,
        finding an ISP or Web host that will not bow to Jewish pressure,
        starting ones own e-publishing company to avoid the legal traps of rights, profit sharing and ownership,
        and then coordinating the publication with other events like book tours in places where one does not risk imprisonment for speaking truthfully about the (((Race of Perpetrators)))…,
        are all mind boggling tasks for a guy who has always just loved writing and left the rest to someone else.

        As for the Trans-Siberian thing…, how about an e-assisted world cycle tour in search of prehistoric White DNA in non-White races…,
        or any other worthy theme, and making a documentary?

        I have been making and saving lots of money recently! Unbelievably easy here.

        These days Swiss Drive Electric Hubs and Recumbant Technology make
        long-distance,
        loaded,
        cycle-touring-cum-mobile film production,
        even for people with physical disabilities,
        a reality.

        It’s an attractive option as it makes for hassel free
        rail,
        marine (ferry, relocation cruises, fishing/sail boat crewing),
        bus or hitch hiking in far flung places or
        even air transport
        easy,
        affordeable and paperwork hassel free.

        With a few (3-5) hundred kilometers daily range on two full charge cycles
        (overnight and one two hour lunch break)
        a possibility,
        it’s a great way to schmooze with people while traveling relatively self-suffiently,
        affordably and
        comfortably.

        Having money suddenly opens doors that were previously closed to me…, the question is:
        What is optimal?
        My head is spinning!!

        • Barkingmad
          Barkingmad says:

          “Bobby Fischer, –
          may he be well armed and doing battle for us in the afterlife, is buried on the outskirts of Selfoss, a 45 minute drive from my location. The links provided by Barking are lamestream media links and are full of lies, obfuscations and misrepresentations.”

          I have the gen on Bobby F. and have, for years. I linked to those 2 sites only because they had to do with Bobby’s place of burial. Clever dog, he was, making sure there would be no interference with his desired place of burial. Imagine, being laid to rest in a Christian churchyard, the ultimake poke in the eye of his enemies. I think that his rage toward various parties might actually have been just about money, though – when he went to play Spassky in ’92, disobeying the sanctions, they seized his memorabilia, which was supposedly worth a lot. That is what started it all for him, I think. Maybe others know more, I’m going by memory.

          • royAlbrecht
            royAlbrecht says:

            1) His rage, whenever it did show itself, was IMO, on balance, quite justifiably expected.
            2) According to his Icelandic Radio interviews, he was already battling with the Jews before they went for his money. And the bulk of what they did steal off him they took when they froze his bank accounts and relieved him of his savings.
            3) I think he did a lot of damage to the Jews, even though he fell for the Holyhoax story.
            If you have not heard his many interviews on Icelandic Radio, you might want to listen to them. He makes Dr. William Pierce sound like a pussy cat! Talk about scathing, pointed and vitriol filled!

  2. Ole C G Olesen
    Ole C G Olesen says:

    I have been in Prague during Novotny .. and I have been in Prague during Dubcek
    …and I had 10 hours to kill ,, passing through Prague.. some Years ago
    I did NOT like what I saw !
    From being a jewel of genuine medieval Architecture with a magical feel,
    because there was no Capital available to destroy ancient beauty ..like in the West
    it had transformed into a MacDonald, Coca Cola Souvernier Boutique with uggly
    ” moderne ” concrete architecture immersed between ancient beautifull brick buildings
    I did not see the Sex and Drug Scene , as described , but I remember
    dimligheted clubs with dark red velvet chaiselongues , solid tuxedo clad Consierges
    whom nobody messed with , live high quality Jazz and Dancing music
    and beautifull available women , a sceene right out of Cassablanca
    Not that one needed to go there as 1000 of beautiful ordinary girls
    were hoping to make Your aquaintance , You … from the magical rich west
    were “Freedom” and “Affluence” could be picked up effortless… so were the fantasies
    I remembered Youth , inspired by dreams of ” Freedom & Democracy “working underground
    against the ” System ” so oppressive … they had ideals and something to fight for …
    Vaclav Havel types with whom it felt good to discuss and have a Dvanastku
    It was beautifull , un molested by modern consumer culture …..
    there was a feeling of solidarity among common people … against an oppressive ” System ”
    In reality people there enjoyed all that which makes Life worth living ,

    Last time i saw it .. all that was gone ….gone …due to broken ideals
    which had been nothing but Illusions …. destroyed by the profit hungry
    corporations from Globalistan and their Henchmen in Politics and Media
    and because material consumption carries You only so far and no further ,
    and in the end is rather empty ..
    It was a sad realisation for someone like me who has been anti-Marxist,
    anti.Bolshevik , anti Sovjet all his life .. and still is .. 🙂 ..

    On the positive side is that I today KNOW that the whole thing was a Conspiracy ..
    from the very beginning .. and still is ..
    and I think i know the perpetraders .. and can proove it .

  3. bruno
    bruno says:

    I found this piece to be very unusual for TOO (which is an excellent source of communiqué). I would like to give a different perspective. It’s difficult for me to comment at this time because I contacted Gillaim-Barre syndrome. It’s difficult to type and of course using dictation results in numerous mistakes.

    Nevertheless, I will make a brief effort to type a few words. I know what I’m talking about as I’ve resided in Eastern Europe for several years. I was never in any environment similar to the author of this piece. Essentially both my working and private life consisted of journalists, scholars, authors, politicians, employees within the so-called Academic world, editors and a few movie directors. Amongst my best friends were a director of a think tank, parliamentarians, a German general of Eurocide II and a Rep of the Russian Senate. My labour and enjoyment consisted of extensive travel within all the states of the “Workers’ Paradise.”

    I have ventured into perhaps more European museums and libraries than can be imagined. I have intermingled with the peasants, slept in the finest hotels and also in Barns. I was able to function in major Slavic languages but also mingled with students from around the world. Consequently, it is more than probable, that I forgot more about the area under discussion then the author could ever imagine. Of course, I never rubbed shoulders or was in the a vicinity such as the author (with drug dealers or bar hoppers).

    During the several years of residing in political states from East Germany to Russia it was easy to envision what the author refers to. Buildings were constructed in a Stalinist mentality -think of Kiev or Warsaw’s palaces of Kultura- and also the paint had much to be desired. However, there is another very important variable. You see, one could ambulate for days, weeks and months without ever seeing what some refer to is diversityites.

    If it had not been for the revolution I would have stayed in Eastern Europe and resided in Warsaw. If not in that city my home would have been in either the Baltic states or Byelorussia. During that era very few trips were made to London. This was because of London’s changing unpleasant demographic evolution. It had nothing to do with any hates, it was just that one felt more comfortable in East Germany, the Baltic states or among Slavs.

    When returning to America approximately one year was spent going coast to coast searching for adequate employment. A few universities and several small colleges insinuated that I was overqualified for the position that they had advertised. Before settling down I had visited old haunts such as Detroit, Chicago, Philly and other areas. I was shocked at the deterioration and the reduction in what was once civilized kultura. I did see that entire areas had darkened in Amdom’s unofficial official City States. Eventually I resided in a Lily white atmosphere.

    Since the time referred much in the West has changed. I retired about 25 years ago and have moved to a warm climate. The dream was to return to Warsaw. To facilitate the noted goal a retirement home was purchased. I would be a Snow Bird (reside in either Europe of Mid West US and spend winters in the SunShine State). Like countless others I ventured back to Mother Europe. Today there are numerous colonies of English, German and other non-Slavic people. Those that I conversed with indicated that they sought to be in an environment with people similar to themselves. This did not mean they held animosity or hates towards others. Your see, despite media propaganda most folks desire to be with those similar to themselves. As for multicultural enrichment very few Europeans bought into that propaganda ploy. This then, is the other side of this article’s coin.

  4. George Romanian
    George Romanian says:

    It saddens me to see that even race-conscious people are using “Roma” when talking about Gypsies. I am Romanian, and I was a teenager when this preposterous, confusion inducing denomination was imposed by the usual suspects and their shabbes-goyim. I was furious then and couldn’t understand the lack of reaction from our government. Until the 90’s, nobody heard about Roma people, even Tsiganis were surprised at that time.

  5. Gnome Chompsky
    Gnome Chompsky says:

    I enjoyed the article, also (in particular) the comments from Geo. Romanian, bruno, and Ole C G Olesen.

    Among Milan Kundera’s many great novels (alright, a little sleazy at times, as was Czech cinema under the CP, the differences in Warsaw Pact countries and Yugoslavia and Albania, of course were much greater than the image now but Kundera is certainly one of the greatest writers from Eastern Europe in and after that time) .

    I still have several of his books. In Nostalgia, he describes a Czech emigre returning from Paris and being shocked to see, for, example, a circle of linked hands, on a big sign, wonders why a black, white, and I forget the other colour hand are linked in a triangle, when almost everybody in the then Czechoslovakia was white.

    Kundera’s post-leaving Chechaslovakia writings also have similarly pithy observations on France, the place of his refuge in the first place.

    Much more, like a German guy taking much pride in wearing a loud and stupid T-shirt proclaiming ‘Kafka was Born in Prague’.

    Having read Adam Komiaga’s article, the early descriptions seem real, but then becomes more like a metaphor, and not a good one at the end. So, the girls were simply ditched to have the subtly male-bonding climax?

    I do not believe that the part after the stupid nightclub could be real, and, if it is, it was very bad behaviour.

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