On your way out the door of your Prague pension, you spot the receptionist. As usual, her baseball cap is turned backwards. You smile. She smirks. The door is stuck. You pull and pull. She says something you don't understand. When you turn, she hits the air with both hands. The international language of push.

You leave, humiliated but more curious than ever. In between moping about Donna, you assess the sexual orientation of your pension's all female staff. Tonight, you will know. In one hand you clutch the address to a lesbian bar. In the other is your list of basic Czech phrases. Good evening, please I would like a drink. You repeat "Dobry vecer, chtela bych pivo prosim" as you walk down the street, down the hill toward the bar. The downhill becomes steeper and steeper. The bar is clearly marked "A." You are about to see your people, the Czech version. You stand in front of the closed black door. You are nervous. You straighten out your shoulders inside your jacket. You practice your phrase a few times. Good evening I would like a drink. The door is locked. You knock. A small woman with short black hair opens the door. She appraises you and nods in the manner of lesbian bar bouncers the world over. She ushers you in by the elbow and down the long staircase which opens up to the first room of a bar. At the bar, she hands you a card with 25. written on it. You try to hand her 25 crowns but she waves you away and says something else you don't understand. All the women around a large round table stare at you. Through the doorway you see another, darker room where music plays and the colors change.

The woman behind the bar with dyed blonde curly hair points to the bottles behind the bar. Then she points to the paper and then to you. You nod. Your beautiful phrase crumples in your throat. She waits. Her eyes times the eyes of the women at the big round table multiply into a menace. The pressure threatens to crush your delicate hold on Czech syntax. She says many words. You recognize wine. Your shirt sticks to the glaze of sweat on your back. You hesitate, hear yourself draw breath, concentrate. Absinthe prosim. The words come out loudly. You hope they are clear. She pours from a tall green bottle into a large shot glass. Water, you need water. A stream of useless Czech words pour across your brain: chleb, klic, chtela bych, kde je. None of them are water. You struggle a fistful of crowns onto the counter. She points to the paper again and more words pour from her mouth. You nod. You do not understand. You enter the dark room. Every table is full. No one glances at you. A disco ball spins colors around a small dance floor. You feel large and confused.

Finally, you ask a woman sitting alone at a table by the door if you can sit. She shrugs then turns back to stare at the empty dance floor. You stare at the other tables. There are groups of lesbians, couples of lesbians, and one more single lesbian alone at a table in the small room. But none of them are the women who work in the hotel. An unreasonable disappointment fills you.

Strange abstract paintings decorate the walls. The place is dowdy as a basement rec room in a shabby suburb. You sip your absinthe. It bites back. You stare at the back of the woman's head. Absinthe is made from wormwood. You have heard that it enables one to commune with the spiritual and creative essence of the universe. Your guidebook, on the other hand, claims that it will cause you to lose control of all your bodily functions simultaneously. You sip and wait. The woman turns and speaks to you in German then English. When you reply in English she appraises you before asking: English or Dutch? You wonder what she would be like in bed. You wonder if our spiritual and creative essences will commune. Or if it will end, as things always do, dramatically, and badly. It begins. She introduces herself and you smile and shake her hand. Transcendence or catastrophe. You are ready for either or both.