As chronicled in Pt. 1: “Zombies in Czechoslovakia,” during the fall of 1991 I hitchhiked to the Czech border and boarded a train to Prague. My plan, once I arrived, was to stay a couple of days in the city with my college roommate’s brother, Patrick Dominguez, in his flat outside the city, and then return the same way.

The train I arrived on entered a dark industrial area that seemed to have nothing in common with the glossy photos and reviews I had seen of Prague’s main station. Instead of castles and towers and tourists and restaurants, there were just dark alleys and empty factories. It took me quite some time to ascertain that I had arrived to the ‘other’ train station used mostly for freight and commerce (Praha-Smichov). I had a very long walk to the city in the dark through some sketchy areas which took me the better part of two hours.

However, upon reaching old Prague I was inspired by the architecture, lights, people, and spirit. With the end of the communist regime had emerged an outburst of love, light, and art in Prague. Couples were literally making out everywhere. It seemed like kissing had been banned for 50 years. I was jealous. I traded some black market currency at 10X the official rate and then spent just shy of $1.00 for two bratwursts, two french fries, and two large beers. I was RICH!

I reached the end of Wenceslas Square and tried reaching Patrick from a bank of pay phones but figured it was too late and after a couple of failed attempts spent some of my very limited resources staying in a local hostel the first night for a grand sum of $2.00.

The morning of the next day and I was up and back at Wenceslas Square at the payphones trying to call Patrick yet again. Each attempt to dial the digits he had shared with me resulted in a recorded message in Czech I didn’t understand despite placing a decent amount of Czech change into the phone.

During these failed attempts I had noticed a sketchy middle-aged man in a leather jacket and sweater who had been loitering around the phones for a while smoking cigarettes and looking my way upon occasion. I didn’t like his look and true to form after my failed attempts to call he approached me. “Can I help you?” He said in passable English.

I decided to relent, “Well I’m trying to reach a friend to stay with, but I cannot seem to get through - do I need to dial a special digit?” He took the phone handset from me and asked me for money to put in (I was skeptical but did so) and he dropped in the coins and re-dialed the number and then handed the phone back to me. I listened and eventually it rang - for the first time - and then I connected with Patrick’s answering machine. I was excited and left a message telling him that I was in town and where I was hanging out and where I might have to stay again (the hostel) if I didn’t reach him and that I’d reach out again in a few hours.

I thanked him and he introduced himself. He told me, “you must dial 420 first!” His name was Beto and he was from Bulgaria. He was wearing multiple glittering gold rings, and gold chains and I disliked him immediately. He then began that typical line of questions “What you do here? What you want? You like girls? You like gamble? You need change money?” I shushed him off and said no thanks and walked away. He shouted over my shoulder, “I’m here all day - if you need help again - I help you!”

I walked to the clock tower and to Charles bridge. I sketched, bought coffee, and returned to the payphone bank surveying to see if “Beto” was around. I didn’t see him. I used his trick to dial Patrick and again received only his answering machine.

Naturally, minutes later Beto appeared again with his cigarette dangling outside his mouth. He said, “No luck?” Come with us, we buy you lunch.” Suddenly his partners materialized - a super skinny blondish man he calls “Money”, then “Boss” and finally the skittish young “Romi.”

“We are Roma, well part Roma - Gypsy - from Bulgaria,” he says, “we here to make money for our families. Come - let’s have lunch. Trust me.” Well, I didn’t. But I went anyway.

Lunch in public seemed harmless and we ended up on a rooftop terrace high above the plaza. The setting was lovely. The boys were constantly laughing and apparently betting with each other. Beto told me, “Money bet you would come to lunch and we lost!,” then he whispered conspiratorily - “Money handles the money” rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together and laughing. They ordered pizza and beer and appetizers and I eagerly ate what showed up. “Hungry boy,” Beto said patting me on the back. “OK - what is your plan if your friend don’t answer?”

“Hostel again” I answered. Betto says, “No no no, you stay with us, Hostel is dirty. We go to nice dinner, you meet girls, we gamble we make money - everything is perfect.” All of this sounded exactly terrible and I made my excuse to leave. “I must call my friend again - hopefully he is home.” “Sure, of course,” said Beto and when I offered to pay for dinner he says, “no no - you are our guest.” Then, “You have a small change for the phones?” I said no and he gave me a handful of change, “find your friend - we see you in the square later or maybe sooner.”

The sun was setting as I yet again dialed Patrick. Once again I got the answering machine (I learned later that he was out of town visiting his girlfriend) and heart sinking I sat down on a park bench considering my options. Across the square, I could see my gypsy friends entertaining some foreigners with some dice and card tricks. I wandered over and Beto and Money winked and worked the tourist out of a few Euros. The tourist left and Beto says, “so… you stay with us?”

My mind was a whirlwind but I decided “what the hell” and I said yes. “OK,” he said, “we go home now, but tomorrow a big day!” We boarded a tram which he paid for and went well outside the city to the kind of sad cinder block eastern European flats you see characterized on TV. We walked down an echoey hall to their nearly empty flat with only most furniture and two rooms and two beds and they began drinking, smoking, and watching a soccer match.

Sensing my discomfort Beto told me, “OK - here - this is your room, you can lock it - I bring you water, a drink if you want, and you can sleep - we stay out here.” I was pretty freaked out with all the yelling over the game, and the strange situation, and I retreated to the bedroom, pulled a chair in front of the door, padlocked my backpack to the bed, and quickly collapsed into sleep despite all the noise. The boys stayed up late but slowly my fear receded and I slept deeply, waking in the quiet of the morning.

Slowly I unlocked my bag and then opened the door. All four men were sleeping in the same bed so that I could have my own room. I started to re-evaluate my position and returned to my room.

An hour later and Beto knocked with coffee. “OK! Today we show you Prague”! And off we went. I left my bag in their house unlocked. At this point, I was all in.

Why Am I Still Alive Pt. 20: Living With Gypsies (Roma) in Prague - Part 1