I am working for three different language schools and they keep assigning me work. Apparently, the schools, like the bank I started an account at, liked my address. My Prague flat is perched in a perfect location in Mala Strana.
I have a view of Maltzeki Namesti, which I am told by the building owners, was in Amadaeus. I walk to Kampa park and the Vltava or the Charles bridge in two minutes. Last week there was a crew filming a movie down the street.
Sofia, Bulgaria has gotten on my list of places to see, further East, like Romania and Budapest. I want to go so many more places now, but have run out of my savings and now have to earn Czech koruny.
I look out the window at the rain and the wet burnt orange color of the tiles on the roof of the house across the square, and think of how sweet and fragile the magic of a late Sunday afternoon. The summer drizzle had kept the most annoying hordes of tourists away or indoors.
The small voice of a child speaking some unknown Latin-based language I cannot quite identify, but feel as if I should be able to, floats in the echoes of the nearby alley. That usually means Portuguese in my experience, but sometimes Greek throws me too. That’s okay because the child has moved on along with her family, pink baseball hat disappearing behind mother’s black umbrella.
The birds don’t mind a thing. They still have generous helpings of cast off bread to feast on. They emerge from hidden crevices the intertwined bodies of the statues create, pluck their target helping of garbage from the street and swoop to the overhang of the nearby rooftops.
I wonder, as the leftover food they live on becomes more and more refined sugar, starch and full of preservatives, will the birds start to become as lumpy and clumsy as the tourists who discard it?