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A Bohemian Odyssey

by Craig Mracek

337 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0431; ISBN 1-55369-618-2; US$27.50, C$35.00, EUR22.80, £15.80

A fascinating true life adventure through the burgeoning wilds of Bohemian Society as it emerges from the doldrums of a monotonous Communist past.

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about the book      about the author      reviews      sample excerpt - Chapter One      catalogue info

About the Book "A Bohemian Odyssey" is the true story of an American trying to blend into the newly liberated society of post-communist Bohemia as that society undergoes a metamorphosis of its own. The story takes place from 1990-92 and is told through the author's interactions with the people he encountered in the Bohemian City of Pardubice shortly after the Velvet Revolution. It focuses on the challenges of daily life - making friends, finding romance, understanding culture - and the personal growth that accompanies doing this in a foreign land. These activities are told through anecdotes, both humorous and tragic. The Bohemians are famous for being an unconventional people. This story bears witness to the surreal event of such a people, oppressed for 50 years, suddenly tasting freedom. What does "free" mean in that circumstance? This book chronicles the Bohemians as they attempt to find out and build their culture anew. Follow the author's day to day experiences from teaching gifted language students to frolicking with Bohemian musicians in mountain cabins to posing as a journalist in order to infiltrate a women's prison. There is every range of emotion in the story. Joy, sorrow, anger, elation, and frustration are all parts of the experience. Likewise there are some unbelievably engaging characters, from an odd doctor who believes his hands have special healing powers to a comical, scheming entrepreneur who is part Ralph Kramden and part Ronald Reagan. There are also hippies, Communists, Mafioso, beautiful women, and a circle of dear Bohemian friends.

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About the Author

 

Graduated from Rutgers College, 1987 (Phi Beta Kappa). Former writer for the Forbes Newspapers (winner of three New Jersey Press Association Awards - Feature Writing, Public Service Writing & Responsible Journalism). Resides in New Jersey, USA.

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Reviews

"I read Craig's book a few weeks ago and enjoyed it tremendously. It was a hard book to put down once I started reading it, as I couldn't wait to find out what happened to the characters next. I grew so familiar with the people in the book, I contacted Craig to find out how and what they were doing today. Many times I laughed out loud, annoying my husband who finally started to read the book himself to find out what was so funny. The book was an honest and humorous view on post-communism life in Czechoslovakia as relayed by a young and somewhat 'wild' American man. Some of Craig's experiences left me horrified and in hysterics at the same time, and I have come to admire Craig for his ability to laugh at himself through incredibly difficult circumstances."

-from Janette Walby in South Plainfield, New Jersey (8/20/02)

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"The author of A bohemian odyssey is a great story teller and has a great story to tell. His adventures and experiences are depicted well and with great enthusiasm. Mr. Mracek paints the scene and you can imagine yourself there. He has an excellent way of expressing himself."

-from Debbie Eggert in New Mexico (8/21/02)

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"I don't usually read books of this genre, but was very pleasantly surprised. The author combined his own experiences with the history of Czechoslovakia in a way that makes you feel that you have visited the country and met all of these wonderful people."

-from Michael Johnson in Newtown, Pennsylvania (8/27/02)

"I thought the book was great! I also liked the fact that you included some Czech history along with your story. Two thumbs up from me!!"

from Natalie Abuschinow in New Jersey (9/10/02)

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"I just finished reading this book and I loved it!! I didn't want it to end! I enjoyed reading about the history of Czechoslovakia as well as the many characters encountered by the author. The author was so descriptive that I felt I was right there with him. I felt every emotion that he felt. There should be a sequel to this book so that we can find out what's happened to all of these characters over the last 10 years!"

from Maureen Balint in Edison, NJ (9/12/02)

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"Craig Mracek is truly talented, and I hope he writes another book again soon because I will be sure to read it. His stories were priceless."

from Amy DaGrosa in New York

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"The author writes with such colourful detail that you actually feel like if you ever paid a visit to the Czech Republic you would know exactly where you were, where to go (and what bars to patronize). It's a hard book to put down - once you open it up expect to spend a few hours in your chair in front of the fire. You'll laugh, cringe, and be astonished..."

from Stephanie Clancy of Seattle, Washington

"I have a few ways of measuring how good a book is. One is the length of time it take me to read it. If I like it I can't put it down and finish it quickly. If it bores me it takes longer to finish. Before 'Odyssey' I read Grishams 'The Brethren'. It took me 5 days. I polished off Odyssey in just 3 days. Another way I can tell if I enjoy a book is if I read in the afternoon. I read every night but rarely in the afternoons. I spent a good part of Saturday afternoon with Odyssey. I was watching a little afternoon TV and found myself wondering what the different characters were up to. I actually stopped reading one night towards the end because I wanted to save a bit for the next day. It was very brave of the author to tell it all the way he did, scars and bruises included."

from Richard Dressler of Las Vegas.

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Sample Excerpt - Chapter One

OCTOBER 26, 1990. The table is crowded with innocent looking soldiers in drab green uniforms. I can't help but envision them as children in Boy Scout uniforms. My companion Lance and I had already downed several delicious lagers produced by the local brewery before being lucky enough to find open seats at the soldiers' table. They are pleasant fellows and are very interested to meet an American. One dark-haired guy in particular is ecstatic to spend the evening chatting with me.

His favorite topic of conversation is the beauty of the French language. I can't understand a word of his Czech so Lance has the tedious duty of translating for us. This soldier pesters me all evening long to speak French. I am capable of rattling off a few sentences. The soldier is delighted with each phrase yet his appetite is unquenchable. Across from him sits another soldier, a pasty-faced blond boy of about nineteen years and he is intoxicated. Another soldier is next to him and he looks to be a year or two older than the blond fellow. At the end of the table sits a muscled, mustached sergeant who has quite a few years in age on these young lads. All of the guys are friendly and engage in informative banter with Lance and myself.

Half-liter glasses of beer dot the table as the dark-haired soldier continues to plead for a few more words of French. The pub door opens and a gypsy strides in carrying a spinning top and smoking a cigarette. His clothes are disheveled and his hair is mangled. He stinks of cigarette smoke and body odor. I get the impression that he has not washed in days. The gypsy wastes no time surveying the room and heads straight for our table and the naive boy soldiers.

Lance quickly professes our disinterest in him but the inebriated blond soldier and the French lover are foolish enough to listen to the gypsy's pitch. The gypsy explains that he will spin the top on the table. It is a thin multi-sided dredle looking instrument with a different number on each side. The soldiers have to bet which number will face straight up when the top finishes spinning and falls on its side. A winner receives his money back plus 100% return.

Lance and I laugh as the two soldiers lose 50 Czech crowns (approximately $2) in less than a minute. The price of a beer is about 4 crowns and a meal can be had for 8 or 9 crowns. Needless to say the soldiers are out of money for the rest of the evening. The gypsy, having swindled what he could, unceremoniously departs leaving the two soldiers in a drunken haze wondering how they will pay their tab. The look of disbelief on their faces is too much for their sergeant who sits at the end of the table laughing with Lance and myself.

A few minutes later the drunken blond soldier engages in a bitter argument with the older looking soldier sitting next to him. Lance explains that the older man has only eleven more months of military service to complete before he will be discharged. Military service in Czechoslovakia is mandatory and the average man serves two years.

The blond guy is new to the army and therefore has a longer time to serve. Lance explains that length of service yet to complete is the biggest stigma a soldier has to face. He is considered lower than anyone who has less time remaining before being discharged. The older of the two soldiers is emphatically informing the young blond of how worthless the boy is in the eyes of all people. The French lover just shrugs at me attempting to express chagrin as the other two yell and bang their fists on the table to punctuate their points of view. The sergeant sitting at the end of the table is unable to make them drop the subject. The bartender even tries to quell the argument by telling the soldiers to leave because the pub is closing. Lance and I excuse ourselves to visit the bathroom.

I am indebted to Lance for inviting me out on this evening of drinking. I have been in Czechoslovakia since the end of August and I am finding it difficult to make friends. Lance and I are both English teachers at the language school in town. I left my position as a staff writer with Forbes Newspapers earlier this summer after Malcolm Forbes died and his son took over. The recession was resulting in downsizing and we were not immune. It quickly became an undesirable place for me to work and an offer from the Czech consulate general's office to assist them in their burgeoning democracy was most attractive. The money would be minuscule by western standards but I would have lodging, health coverage, important work and an opportunity to immerse myself in a different culture at an extraordinary moment of their history.

My first job is teaching English at a specialized language school for elementary students. They are the brightest children in the city of Pardubice, which has a population of approximately 100,000 people. The students had to pass an entrance exam just to be admitted to the school. This was true even during the communist regime. Lance, an avowed Communist, had been a "social studies" teacher, which meant he taught classes on the benefits of Marxism. After the Velvet Revolution freed the nation from Communism, he was forced to abandon that position and is currently studying to reclassify himself as an English language instructor. So, he and I are workmates. I have been here for two months and it is not easy to make new friends. The language barrier presents the most obvious problem. In addition, the other teachers at the school are older women with families so there is no chance of us going out for a drink after work. Lance is also married with a young daughter but he is about my age, 26, and he feels sorry for me. He appreciates my coming to Czechoslovakia to aid in his country's stride toward a western way of life and he offered to take me out for a drink.

"Let me ask you, Craig," he said in a thick communist bloc accent, "can I take you to a traditional Czech pub for some beer tonight? You know I cannot go out often because I have a wife and child but I would like to go out with you tonight as I know it must be hard for you to meet people."

I gladly accepted and we found ourselves in the Zlata Stika (Golden Pike) Pub, which is part of a larger hotel and restaurant. The place is quite old and rather quaint.

As we enter the toilet at the Golden Pike, I am overwhelmed by the stench of urine. The bathroom is filthy with dirty shoe prints covering the wet floor tiles. There is a decrepit looking inner door leading to a small stall with a toilet bowl. The walls of the main bathroom are actually urine troughs from the floor to chest level before turning into actual walls from that point up to the ceiling. The walls are covered with scratch marks, every one being a number or a diamond shaped drawing. Lance explains that soldiers carve the numbers into the walls with each number representing how many days the soldier who carved it has left to serve before being discharged. The diamond shape is meant to be a vagina. I would find in the days ahead that this is an extremely common practice as virtually every public toilet and elevator I enter has similar markings. As we urinate and discuss the evening's events, a scruffy looking guy pissing in the corner hears us speaking English and leaps into the middle of our conversation.

"Hey you are American," he observes. "Where are you from in States? My uncle lives in Iowa. My name is Charles. Come join me and my friends. There are many of us sitting at a table in the other room. Some of us speak English. You're working at the language school? I was a student there. You must come to our table. We will be waiting for you."

This guy Charles is aptly named, he reminds me of Charles Manson. He wears dirty dungarees with a bunched up sweater. His brown hair is sticking in all directions and he has a two or three day old growth of scraggly hair on his face. His offer is not tempting despite the fact that he speaks English quite well and there is the promise that others at his table are also capable of conversing with me. Lance likes the thought of joining him but the guy gives me the willies.

"I think it is a good idea though," Lance replies. "The soldiers are getting ready to fight with each other. I can tell from their conversation."

Nevertheless I am adamant that we rejoin our soldier friends. Lance acquiesces and we leave the bathroom to find the drunken blond soldier and his older counterpart in the midst of exchanging shoves. The sergeant and some other soldiers are trying to break it up and it is obvious to me that we will not be having any more fun with them. Lance turns and looks at me and I know we are joining Charles and his friends.

The door that led to the pub section of the Golden Pike was located on a street corner. Upon entering we were faced with a bartender pouring beer on the left and to the immediate right some thin metal tables upon which people rested their beer which they drank standing up. Progressing straight ahead we were faced with a choice between a room to the left or a room to the right. Lance and I were drinking with the soldiers in the room on the right. Charles and his friends had gone left when they arrived. This room is divided into two little adjoining rooms. They are in the first of the little rooms nearest the hallway leading to the bartender.

There are about twelve people at the table and I am happy to see that the others are more presentable in appearance than Charles. One fellow is a big blond named Terry. His girlfriend Mona is a tiny little thing with a pretty face, long brown hair and an endearing smile. Another young fellow, very conservative looking, sits across from me and he has two women sitting next to him. One is his girlfriend, a bubbly blond named Caroline, and the other is taller with darker hair. A tall, lean, sandy haired guy named John is wearing a sports coat and Charles makes it clear that John speaks English very well. Finally, there is one more fellow named Jeff. He has a thin, drawn face with John Lennon glasses, long stringy hair and an evil, droopy goatee. According to Charles, Jeff can understand everything I say but can't speak back.

"He studied German," is Charles' quizzical explanation.

I am pleased to find that these youngsters, they are all about six years younger than Lance and myself, are unassuming and extremely nice. They are interested in hearing about where I come from in America and my impressions of their country. They volunteer their views on life and the struggles their country faces. Just as the conversation starts to flow we are informed that the pub is closing and we have to leave. It is only 10 p.m. and I am a little shocked. As we walk out of the front door, the conservative looking guy with the two girls says goodbye and begins walking away. Caroline calls out in Czech, "it was nice meeting you English speaking guy" at which they all laugh.

It is my impression that we are done for the evening but the boys are anxious to talk and suggest we go for coffee. We walk about fifty feet from the pub entrance on the street corner to the main entrance of the Golden Pike Hotel. We pass through the front lobby and walk straight past the check-in counter, turning right into a large ballroom stocked with tables. A band is playing old fifties tunes sung by a woman who obviously knows no English and is attempting to sing phonetically. We grab a table and continue talking.

I am dumbfounded when we are served beer because this is the same building which houses the pub, albeit another wing, and the pub has just stopped serving. This is the Communist way. Rules without rules and no rules with rules. No more beer but walk to the next room and you can have all the beer you want. It is bizarre to me but the others are unaffected by it.

Charles tells me about his uncle who lives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Uncle Max visits Pardubice on occasion and Charles is eager to visit him in America. Somehow we turn to music and it is evident that we all have the same taste, particularly Beatles era material. The night progresses and we down more beer and sing songs and have ourselves a merry time. John, the well-dressed guy, is proficient in English and explains that he has attended private lessons since he was a child. Charles notes that John is an accomplished piano player but John seems a bit shy about his abilities, insisting his English is only adequate and his piano playing far from accomplished.

We finish the evening with Charles inviting me to accompany the gang to his grandfather's "Weekend House" in the Giant Mountains in the north of the country on the border with Poland. I gladly accept and make arrangements to meet them on Wednesday. Lance and I leave the bar and begin walking home. He is very drunk and keeps wanting to sing "Hey Jude" as we walk the streets. Lance explains that these boys we have met are underground musicians who meet in pubs to play Czech folk songs as well as risqué songs and rock and roll songs.

"It was a popular form of diversion during the Communist regime," he says.

Along the way, Lance and I have a heart to heart discussion. He reveals his fears about the future and they are quite different from every other fear expressed by the people I have met in Czechoslovakia. He is not worried about the transformation to a capitalist economy, nor does he share with others a sense of shame for his country's standard of living. He has all the fears of a Communist Party member in a newly liberated democracy.

He remains a party member because he believes in Marxism, he says. He realizes Communism was a failure but he is confident that, if it were done properly, it could serve as the best form of government. I am torn by his comments. The terrible abuses of Communism are of course repulsive to me. Yet I believe he is sincere in his affinity for the philosophy of Marxism.

I respect Lance's position on many levels. If he were a fair weather Communist who joined the party for the opportunistic purposes of getting ahead, he would be loathsome to me. That would mean he was subjecting others for his own personal gain. Lance, however, remains a party member even now when it is absolutely the most unfashionable thing to be at this moment in Czechoslovak history. He is a man who stands by his convictions and that is admirable in my estimation.

As we walk he confides in me that the other teachers at our school despise him for remaining a Communist. He says he will probably have to quit the party but it is against his will.

"I have a young daughter," he explains. "For my family's sake I must quit. The stigma is too great. I fear for my job."

Apart from his ideology, he is a very nice man. He doesn't try to force his beliefs on me. A Communist yes, but a good man nonetheless.

We walk home slowly and the discussion turns to my luck in meeting Charles and his friends. These are young guys who can converse with me and who share my interests in music, sports and other things. Little am I to know that these men would become my greatest friends and would take such fine care of me that I would forever cherish their kindness. They will teach me the meaning of true friendship. It strikes me later that I had shied away from meeting them based on Charles' onerous appearance when in reality it was the greatest stroke of luck in my life to have met him, of all places, in the bathroom of the Golden Pike. Charles is to become my very best friend in the entire world.

Lance and I walk the short distance to my home, passing through Pardubice's gorgeous old town square with its Londonesque street lamps and unique old buildings. He is feeling no pain and attempts to pull me into every drinking establishment along the way but I am content to end the evening. After all, I have just found what I am in such desperate need of - FRIENDS!

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Catalogue Information

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