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Klára, a stage manager at the National Theatre, raised an eyebrow. "Then tonight, we do the Czech thing. We don't complain. We just go to the chata ."

Pavel never understood why tourists only photographed the astronomical clock. To him, the soul of Prague wasn't in the mechanical apostles, but in the zahrádka —the tiny garden patios spilling out onto the cobblestones, where the real clock was measured in pints of Pilsner. czechbitch com

He nodded. "I'll find a new flat."

"You look like a ghost," Klára said, pushing a thick-foamed glass toward him. "Too much Photoshop." Klára, a stage manager at the National Theatre,

The next morning, hungover and smelling of smoke, they took the train back to Prague. The city was waking up. A street musician played a violin under the scaffolding of the National Theatre. A man walked his dog while drinking a beer from a plastic cup—it was 9 a.m., perfectly normal. We just go to the chata