What's Czech for 'Hangover'?

I awoke today with a mean buzz. Normally that's good, but not when you realize you've missed your morning bus by an hour. Fuck.

That's the price to be paid for finally having that crazy Czech night out, I guess.

I got my shit together long enough to hit the Museum of Communism, which while small and in some ways disappointing, is full of information about the evolution of Czech politics, as well as a few worthwhile displays from the bad old days. A bit cheesy at best, the museum helps you realize what utter crap political propaganda of any form can be, whether it's pro-communism, pro-fascist, or even pro-American. Just choose your era or regime and apply the principles of brainwashing, and there you have it. The more I travel, the more I learn just about everyone is sick of their government's shit.

Boring political crap aside, I got home and met up with the Danes to go out for dinner, another strange juxtaposition of cultural mores. We went to the former Jewish ghetto of Josefov to go to Chez Marcel, a French Brasserie. Part of the wait staff was Czech, the rest French, so we were interacting in a crazy mix of English, French and Czech. The result? A most excellent meal, with starters and desserts and drinks, costing us less than even a casual meal in the US or Denmark.

We walked off our meals and got back to the hostel for a round of beers and to smoke cherry tobacco out of the boys' waterpipe. Only some drunk Brits had broken it, so we had to fashion a new bowl for it out of a plastic water bottle. MacGyver still lives.

Then it was off on a mini pub crawl as we made our way to the Charles Bridge. We poked our heads into a somewhat chic Mexican restaurant-bar called Bolero and had a few smooth velvet beers, and lo and behold, they had a waterpipe there. The Danes couldn't resist, so we smoked up some apple tobacco while ogling the incredibly sexy waitress and getting shit thrown at us by a group of local girls. Apparently, beaning you in the head with crap off your plate is the national form of flirting. Unfortunately, we didn't have enough velvet to make us want to chuck stuff back at them.

The next stop was a posh, black-lit nightclub with a terrace overlooking the Vltava River, complete with unobstructed view of the castle. The four dollar cover was steep by Prague standards for a place this cheesy, and we bristled at the 2 dollar beers, until we all sort of realized that after nearly a week in Czech, we're pretty damn spoiled. While the view was pretty, as were the go-go dancers, the music sucked ass, so we moved on to the night's final destination.

Karlova Lazne is Central Europe's hugest nightclub, with five levels of dancing and chill-out lounges, plenty of young dance-a-holics, and enough dollar beer to keep the whole nation going if need be. That's about all I remember of it. Dancing, drinking, drinking some more, and then drinking a bit more. I remember us tearing up pretty much each floor, getting applause for nutty dancing in the hip hop room, and passing out in a cab on the way home.

So here I am at an internet cafe in the main bus station at Florenc, awaiting my transport for the day. My burps taste like the croissant and cappucino I had earlier - all for a buck - as well as the 30-odd litres of beer I had last night. It's going to be a brutal bus ride.