With each passing year, Tufts kisses goodbye several dozen semesters worth of tuition to those juniors seeking a semester abroad.
This year, two such deviant Jumbo darlings packed their bags and headed for the Old Country, seeking an alternative to la dolce vita of Roma or the beret-clad Sartre students of gay Paris.
Bridget Reddington now calls Vienna, Austria, her temporary home, while Kate Peck resides for the semester in Prague. Enjoy their pen pal exchanges each week and get a glimpse at life across the pond amidst musical impresarios and the shadows of the Iron Curtain.
Dearest Bridget,
Forget the classes, ignore the monuments, and cancel the tours. Boston has nothing on Prague's club scene. I can't wait to introduce you to Karlovy Lazne, the largest club in Central Europe. This place somehow embodies the scant month I've spent in Prague, with telltale signs of Czech culture and the Eastern European youth scene. I'll do my best to describe it, but eventually you must see it for yourself. Here's a play-by-play.
To start off the night, pay a reasonable cover charge and enter on the ground floor where you can check your e-mail at a bank of computers free of charge. I'm not sure what I'd want to e-mail, but maybe you could let your friends know you're about to get wasted and to look in on you in the morning to make sure you still have your wallet and all of your organs.
Then make your way to the crowded bar and pay only slightly too much for a cocktail or beer - or both - and squeeze onto the dance floor. Dance to hip-hop and top dance tunes spun by a DJ who mixes flawlessly and is protected by two security guards, because if this music stopped there would no doubt be a riot. Shout to your friends that you want to go upstairs when the middle-aged pony-tailed Slovak behind you starts to do the running man.
Once you find the stairs, head up and get another drink at the equally crowded bar where the bartenders get grumpy when you ask for anything but beer or straight-up shots. (But it's O.K., all Czechs pretend to be angry; it's part of their charm.)
Then drag your suspicious friends to dance to house and techno. Don't worry - this DJ, with only one security guard, doesn't mess with any of the "mm-sic mm-sic" nonsense. None of the Europeans do, so don't be alarmed when I add "electronica" to my Facebook favorite music section. Move back to the bar when some Scotsmen, spinning so that their kilts look all pretty, bump against you one too many times. Wait in line for a shot of tequila.
When your legs get tired, struggle up another flight of stairs, prop yourself up on the bar, and listen to the '80s mixes while sipping a suspiciously watered-down vodka tonic. Ignore the Aussie staring at your butt and sing along to Blondie.
Another flight will take you where you can't seem to find the dance floor, only people vaguely swaying about to mellow ambient sounds. Sit on the velour beanbags and try to stay upright, but quickly move when the Aussie enters the room. You didn't want to think about what that beanbag has been through, anyway.
Rally. You can do it.
Worm your way back down to hip-hop on the ground floor with your friends and shake that laffy-taffy. Leave when a strange man grabs you from behind, but not before you gouge his grubby hand with your nails.
Vow to return next week, but with a large gay man or fake engagement ring (a bit like holy water to ward off the Euro-trash). And don't worry, there are plenty more clubs like it to explore when you finally visit.
Miss you!
Kate
Bridget Reddington and Kate Peck are juniors majoring in English.
