Holiday snaps: Prague 2008

We end up in the pool hall. We always end up in the pool hall when we come to Prague, those are the rules. Dave, who is a creature of habit, has been coming to Prague for years, and coming to the pool hall for years, and so when you visit Prague with Dave you go to the pool hall. It’s just how it works.

It’s not as if the pool hall is the only attraction by any means; there is an awful lot to like about Prague. The old town is still the stuff of films and postcards despite all the best efforts of marauding British revellers to mar its beauty. Narrow twisting lanes lined with jewellers, bars and intriguing looking restaurants are everywhere, the sort of maze that could completely take the stigma out of the concept of getting lost. The Charles Bridge, despite all the caricaturists and hawkers selling tat, is still a gorgeous, if crazy, thoroughfare. And of course the castle and all the steep, stunning streets which run down through Mala Strana towards the river have the sort of appeal that even cliché cannot detract from. The streets are thronged with tourists all taking the same photograph, but who could honestly blame them?

Walking across the bridge earlier that day, Dave and I had got stuck behind a phalanx of elderly people in some form of uniform, bright blue clothes like overalls with orange sashes round their necks. All of them were wheeling trolleys of some kind, but we thought nothing of it. Anyway, it meant I got a chance to pay attention to the jazz orchestra camped out on the bridge, on the side nearest to the old town. They played tirelessly, a mixture of standards and songs which, while unfamiliar, had tunes so right that I had to stop to realise that they were new to me. Dave ended up having to drag me away, because I could have watched and listened for hours. The trumpet player was in a wheelchair but had a pair of lungs that put mine to shame, even years after I stopped inflicting all those cigarettes on them.

We strolled up Nerudova, itself one of the prettiest streets, before taking a detour to look at the outside of the Church Of Our Lady Victorious. It’s a stone’s throw from the Ed Hardy shop, which is the sort of contradiction Prague excels at.

“What’s in there?” I said.

“A statue of the Infant Jesus Of Prague. It’s downright disturbing.”

“Shall we go in?”

“No, it’s not worth the money. Besides, you can see quite enough of the Infant Jesus in the shops round here.” said Dave. He quite enjoys playing the tour guide, and I am happy to indulge him. So instead we crossed the road and looked through the windows of a gift shop, filled with porcelain statues of the holy toddler in every gaudy colour combination known to man.

“Jesus.” I said. Dave smirked, and I could tell he was fighting the urge to counter with one of a dozen of obvious comebacks. I took some photos of the figurines, experimenting with my new lens because this holiday was its first proper outing. I quite enjoy playing the photographer and Dave is happy to indulge me.

“Shall we head for the pool hall?”

I smiled. You can’t fight progress, which in Dave’s case means progressing in the direction of the pool hall.

Heading back to the bridge, we noticed quite a congregation in a little square to our right, so we made a detour to investigate. Our blue-uniformed friends from earlier on were there, in a big group with many others, packing away instruments into cases and folding up sheet music. A crowd, which had assembled to watch them, was starting to dissipate, like the smoke at the end of a firework display. But there was time for one last hurrah - they all lined up for their official photographer to take a picture of them all, a motley crew of blue smocks, waistcoasts and naval uniforms. One was holding up a placard which explained everything: SHANTYFEST PRAGUE, it said. I was simultaneously thrilled that such a thing could even exist, and devastated that I had missed the show. The man put down his placard just as I trained my lens on them, and sheepishly he picked it back up and held it aloft just for me, the unofficial photographer.

“Shantyfest sounds like the best thing ever. We should see if they have a website and go next year.” I said as we escaped over the Charles Bridge in search of the real world we had temporarily become disconnected from.

“Why was one of them carrying a mop?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

The pool hall is just off Wenceslas Square, and is a well-kept secret. It’s at the bottom of a dead end street with nothing else of note on it and it’s hard to imagine anyone finding it by accident. You open the door, head down the steps and take your slip from the unsmiling man behind the desk before going to your table. If you lose the slip, terrible things happen to you when you try to pay at the end. I have no idea what they are, but the threat of them ensures that I will never find out. If George Orwell had faced the man behind the counter at the pool hall, he would have scrapped Room 101 entirely.

Inside, the pool hall is just incredible. It looks like it used to be an old ballroom; massive high ceilings which are crumbling and threadbare, with ornate chandeliers hanging from them. The crowd, when there is one, seems to be mainly locals, often teenagers. There is an incongruous bowling alley down one side, which I’ve never seen anyone use, and apart from that it’s just rectangle after rectangle of green baize. We walk over to our appointed table, one of the only ones lit from above, and start to set up. Two huge foaming pints of pilsner are collected from the bar and plonked on the nearest side table and I know we’re going to be here for a while. Dave’s friend Gannon, who teaches English here and is ostensibly the reason for our visit, will be with us any minute and then we will spend a comfortable few hours doing what men do; lots of competing, a bit of posturing, a fair amount of drinking and general complaining about our poor luck or the unmerited success of others. Our chattering mixes in with the clacking of fluke shots, in-offs and half-chances.

I am terrible at pool but I play because it’s fun, and because I am in Prague with Dave and those are the rules. And besides, the feeling of fitting in far outweighs the feeling of being useless. In any case, if Dave wasn’t going to win at pool he wouldn’t play, because that’s the sort of person he is. I know that because I am that kind of person too, at least most of the time. I start out well, but as the afternoon wears on Dave finds his rhythm and I lose mine, and Dave flourishes after a few pints and I don’t, but best of all is that by about half-four I find I really don’t care whether I win or not. Instead I make the most of my rare flashes of competence, and laugh at Dave when Gannon trounces him, and head to the bar and bring back fresh full glasses. It’s a summer afternoon, and I know that Prague has all sorts of things to offer, but I wouldn’t be anywhere else.

I leave them bickering about who is having the worse run of form, like old women complaining about their ailments, take my Czech crowns and head to the end of the room, to the jukebox. It seems to have pretty much every song ever released, which means it takes the best part of a century to spend the money that I’ve put in it. I toy with all sorts of novelty hits, or songs I know that Dave and Gannon would like, and then my eye chances upon something I really want to hear. I queue it up first, rush through the rest, and walk away. And then comes that moment I won’t forget; as if by magic, with the afternoon sun shining through every window on the far side of the hall filtered out by the tattered gauzy curtains, God Only Knows by the Beach Boys rolls out across the room, rich and warm and glorious as I return, perfectly backlit, to my friends at the table.

And I’m happy. I’m as happy as I could possibly imagine.