Every Sunday Jan would wake up around 9 and clean the bathroom in his underwear. I won't comment on how uncomfortable the habit or the complete lack of ass (no shape, like looking at a flat plaster wall) made me, and sometimes I wonder if it was deliberate. As if Jan knew that the only way he could clean in peace was to make himself effectively unapproachable to his modest American renters.

But most Sundays I found myself peeking into the bathroom anyway, fat protruding bottom lip bitten back, guiltily asking “Can I help?”

Jan would look over his shoulder-- seem momentarily confused by the question-- and then reply with a slight mellow sadness “No, that's not necessary.”

“But I want to, we all use the bathroom. It's not fair if only you clean.”

“It's fine.” he would start gathering up the cleaning supplies. “See? It's done.”

Jan kept all the cleaning supplies in his room as if he were protecting them from vandals and looters. It wasn't just a simple matter of going in there and getting them, you had to sort through Jan's personal things which were carefully strewn about like camouflage.

The kitchen products were a bit easier to attain. Or maybe it was just easier to find something suitable within the kitchen-- dishwasher soap, baking soda, sponges and Brillo pads-- that could be used to clean. One Sunday Jan accidentally left the mop and bucket out. That night, alone and bored in the apartment, I set to work.

There was an inch of caked on grease courtesy of Andrea's last seven course meal on the stove. Stains on the counter, slick oil trails on the side of the refrigerator next to the stove, ugly gray blobs of dirt ground into the tile floor. Jan had these awkward pack rat like hordes of imperishable food stacked up in orderly piles on the washing machine: teas, crackers, an untouched Easter bunny, a gingerbread pig with the words 'Happy New Year' written in frosting, along with bicycle parts, tapes, rubber bands and various bits. Everything had a layer of dust thicker than that on mausoleum burial offerings. We had a kitchen scale that hadn't been touched in quite some time and badly needed to be recalibrated.

My description makes the place seem dirty. It wasn't. Jan was an obsessive cleaner, who obviously didn't trust Andrea or I to know anything about anything. It wasn't dirty, it was just there were certain things that were untouched, skipped from the routine, things for which the memories disturbed bore a far more painful frustration than the dust they collected. And of course the normal maintenance cleaning couldn't possibly keep up with a cooking routine that produced three separate adult meals every night.

Jan came in as I was half way through mopping the floor.

“You are cleaning.”

He said this like he was about to nitpick the finer points of my job-- a meek gasp and hushed shudder of guilt-- but he didn't. His eyes roamed around the room, noting the refrigerator, the restored white stove, the dishwasher loaded and buzzing, before wandering out and into his room.

I cannot say he looked pleased. After that I took great pleasure in finding new and unusual things to clean in the tiny apartment. In a way I suppose it was a strange form of terrorism. I didn't mess with his stuff. I didn't move anything or throw anything out. Once and a while I would sneak into his room and abduct the more conventional cleaning supplies but I was extremely careful not to look around and to put everything back where I found it.

If by chance Jan caught me cleaning he would sigh-- more embarrassed than annoyed-- and remind me “You don't have to do this, you don't have to clean.”

And so a silent joyful war of stubbornness broke out. Like most wars it quickly progressed beyond the scale and scope we originally intended. I dunno, I didn't want to attack Jan's every kindness, but kindness unleashes guilt and humiliation when it cannot be returned.

From time to time we would go out. This started off simply enough: Jan would give me a ride to work, then as an excuse for Jan to run all the little errands he shamelessly put off, then it just became hanging out in earnest. We would stop at Tesco and Jan would buy me a candy bar (and when I say buy I naturally mean snatch it out of my hand while we're waiting on line and refuse to let me pay).

Or when we would go to Anděl cinema, Jan would step up to the teller and conduct the whole business transaction in Czech. In a sense this is natural: he's Czech, we're in the Czech Republic, what language should he speak? But the other side of that is that by taking control of the situation he put me in a position where I could contribute nothing. Everything was done for me.

“I can't let you pay for me!”

“It's no problem,” he shrugged.

“Come on, it's like 15 bucks a ticket. Let me pay you back!”

“I invited you.”

This was his usual response, suggesting that it was just common courtesy extended to a guest. Which would be fine except that when Andrea or I extended the invitation to him he continued to insist on paying. This wasn't just chivalry, Jan would resort to sneaky, underhanded tactics to ensure he had the bill by the end of the night.

“Fuck,” Meghan had said when she heard of it. “Why are you complaining?”

“I don't want to get caught in a bad situation here, I like him.”

“But he's volunteering.”

“Yeah but you know, why is he volunteering? I don't want to take advantage of him. I don't want there to be a misunderstanding.”

“Is he cute?”

“Meghan!”

“Is he cute?”

“I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

He was cute: tall, lanky, decidedly boyish with a sort of helpless slovenly quality. Sharp eyes, and a messy overgrown goatee that I could never decide was grown out of style or sheer laziness.

“If he's cute I hardly see why you should worry about leading him on.”

But I did worry.

Back to Anděl Movie Theater,

“Jan, don't be ridiculous.”

He smiled, clearly enjoying how easy it was to get me riled up. “What's ridiculous? Me? Me ridiculous?”

“Yes!” I attempted to shove the money into his pocket. He yelped and scurried back, and unamused scowl mopping up his face.

“Stop that, it's really fine.”

New tactic.

“All right, but we have an hour and a half before the movie starts, at least let me pay for dinner.”

Reluctant moments ticked by on the Anděl clock face. Outside freezing rain was shooting down in wild little spurts and pools of umbrellas, blacks and reds and the occasional gray flowed through the square and across the heavy checkered path of tram tracks. His eyes twitched awkwardly: looking up at the food court then back down, regarding me cautiously.

“...Okay.”

“Great! Let's go to TGI Fridays!”

There are two TGI Fridays in all of the Czech Republic. One is in the most touristy area of the city: the 18th most expensive street in the world, Na Příkopě. Na Příkopě is on the bottom of Wenceslas Square and hosts rows and rows of shopping boutiques. Perhaps Pařižská has more impressive brands: Louis Vuitton, Prada, Chanel ... but then no one shops on Pařižská. Who would go to Prague to buy Chanel when Paris is just a short flight away?

In Tom Cruise's remake of Mission Impossible, Na Příkopě is the street where Max's big black car abducts Cruise. Funny thing is the secret hide away they take him to is less than five feet away from the pick up site. Apparently weapons dealers have nothing better to do than drive secret agents around in circles through the most tourist infested part of the city under the guise of stealth.

Anděl by contrast is the center of the new Czech metropolis. Clean, bright, modern and utterly devoid of gothic spires, it is the gateway to Prague's largest and most diverse district: Prague 5.

Prague 5 is difficult to describe. There are parts of it close to Anděl that are gorgeous and quiet, seriously detached from the drunk meanderings of Old Town and New Town just a short distance away. Then there are parts of it where paneláks stomp up the mountains like ugly little terraces. Still then there are parts, a quick bus ride away, that are down right rural. Pocked only by the occasional military base turned office complex, the dull gray country fields rival the dull gray urban gout in their expansive hopelessness.

Anděl is just a short walk along the river from Malá Strana and in my mind one of the very few “Czech places” that actually deserves the title. With the largest shopping mall in Central Prague located just across from the Metro station (larger shopping centers are found on the outskirts of the city at Zličin, Chodov and Černý Most), Prague's glass Apple Store, a Staropramen brewery, and dozens of glass and fiber optic office buildings, it is one of the few places worth going to where the Czechs living normal lives outnumber everyone else.

Not surprisingly, Anděl is the place you go to get everything offered on Na Příkopě for at least100 kc less. Including hamburgers at TGI Fridays.

“Where?”

The sound out of Jan's mouth was hollow and curved.

“TGI Fridays. It's an American chain.”

“There's one here?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Across from the tram stop. Next to the yellow building?” I pointed it out as we shuffled past the station. The drizzle was trickling out and we were slouching to avoid raindrops.

“It's an American restaurant?”

“Uh-huh.”

“There's nothing there, just normal restaurants.”

I frowned. “...you know, my people do more than fast food.”

“I know.” He was getting defensive. “I've been to America.”

Right, he had mentioned that, cryptically revealing as little information as possible. “Why were you there?”

“I was visiting my friend.”

“Who?”

“Really? Do all Americans know each other?” 

He mocked me a little. I frowned and resisted the urge to kick him.

“That's not what I meant.”

“Then?”

“I'm curious.”

“His name is Jason, he's from Kentucky.”

“Where did you meet him?” Had Jan hosted other Americans before Andrea and me? Was he a penpal or an exchange student?

“I just did.”

I didn't push it, not because I had learned some fraction of courtesy in this regard but because I was momentarily distracted by the window of a knick-knack store. I stopped.

“What do you think of that?

“What? The wine opener?”

“Corkscrew. And yeah. I'm still trying to figure out what to get Andrea for Christmas. She is a bit of a wine connoisseur.”

“Oh. I don't know. She might like it?”

“Maybe something for cooking. Botanicus has some delicious flavored oils and stuff. She's the last person on my list now that I have your present.”

He raised his eye brows and blinked three times, foggy pupils contracting as he quickly translated the words.

“You got me a present?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“A surprise.”

“Oh...”

“Just something small, you know I like to get all my friends something.”

He didn't have much time to respond to that, we were under TGI Friday's banner before we knew it. I moved for the door.

“This is it?”

“This is it.”

“Oh, I've been here before. We call it something different in Czech.”

“What?”

“Fridays.”

..........................................

Fridays in Anděl lacks some of the kitsch of a true American TGI Fridays. Even the one on Na Příkopě is disappointingly tame. The walls are plastered with typical Americana like a pack rat's modern art scrap book just like back home. But quirky vintage Americana is understandably difficult to come by in a post communist society, and so Anděl's Fridays tries to make up for it with floor to ceiling photographic murals of the Americana and the occasional framed photo or license plate bolted to the wall. It lacks texture and the stimulation of a true Fridays. They do however have the traffic light, which I'm beginning to suspect is part of the franchising agreement for how ubiquitous it is.

Why are license plates such a hallmark of American culture that they've become a souvenir for tourists and notary stamps for “American” restaurants? It is their colors, designs, obscure state facts and slogans? The potential of vanity plates? Their compact size compared to European plates? Fridays is not the only one that imports junkyard finds for a dash of authenticity. There's a Mexican restaurant not far from my office where flashy plates from 'border states' like Maine, Nevada and Maryland hang unironically among cliché Tex-Mex art work.

“Wow, this burger is only 50 kc more than a McDonalds' burger.” Jan remarked as white plates with patties the size of DVD and the thickness of a hockey puck were placed before us.

I stared. “I can't believe you just said that.”

“What?” a mouthful of beef muffled the sound. “It's good.”

“There is no comparison. This is a real hamburger. McDonalds is McDonalds.”

“So I told it. Who would eat McDonalds when you can get this?”

Fridays shares bar space with a sushi restaurant next store. Do not ask me why anyone would eat sushi in a landlocked country, I still don't understand it. Unless Sweden has genetically modified fish with wings that fly in migrating patterns over the Vltava, I can't imagine how it's even close to decent. Nevertheless it has of late-- perhaps because of the large amounts of money Toyota, Honda and Fuji are pumping into the Republic's newly liberated manufacturing industry-- become all the rage in Prague. The upshot of this is that in between scowling, dreary eyed Czech servers dressed in red and white stripes like circus big tops, dainty Geisha girls sometimes slithered by.

“We should have invited Andrea too.” Jan remarked as he vacantly twisted a fry in his puddle of ketchup.

I shrugged. “Who could reach her? I haven't been able to and I haven't even seen her all week.”

“She is very busy?”

“Who knows anymore? That's a part of it I'm sure, she's working like 40 teaching hours a week.”

“I work more than 40 hours a week, that's not much.”

“40 teaching hours Jan, that's like 40 hours of business presentations and it doesn't include any of the research or prep.”

“Oh ... so it is a lot?”

“More than I could handle.”

Detecting the bite in my voice, Jan got suspiciously quiet. The absence of resistance further incited a sudden flush of frustration and I did something I probably shouldn't have. I leaned across the table, “Let me ask you something.”

Jan blinked, a daft breeze blowing from ear to ear. “Yes?”

“Does it bother you? Having someone sleeping on our couch every weekend?”

He looked relieved: excited, provoked, derangedly released in fact. All of a sudden all the polite shyness rinsed away and he tensed with gleeful rage. “Yes! It bothers you too?”

I nodded, sipping my soda thoughtfully. “I mean they're nice guys and all, but maybe I don't want to have to tiptoe around the living room Saturday morning.”

“Yes! I agree completely! We are not running a youth hostel.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Jan frowned. “Why didn't you?”

“I guess I figured I was just being silly. I mean they don't leave a mess, they don't get in our way, they don't make lots of noise or disturb our neighbors. I guess I felt a little guilty for letting my shyness make me so uncomfortable.”

“Guilty?”

“Yeah, you know, I can be a touch antisocial when it comes to my home.” Strangers are just more people to lie to in the one place where I should be allowed to by myself. You know, we go out everyday into a hostile world; a world that will fearfully reject us if we are honest and then try its hardest to crush us if we dare to compete. When that hostile world invades the quiet space where I can finally be myself and collect my thoughts, it's impossible not to be rattled.

I had felt comfortable with Jan almost immediately and Andrea and I had become fast friends. I felt very much at ease in the Ugly Little Communist House, but this situation was unique. Usually even my own roommates are a source of constant discomfort for me.

“I guess I just felt I was being silly.”

“No,” Jan shook his head. “It bothers me too. Especially since she never introduces us. They're just there one morning.”

“I know!”

“Andrea is a good girl, but I don't know these people...”

“Why don't you just tell her that? I'm sure she hasn't thought about it like that and once you say something ... well I know she doesn't mean to be rude.”

He shrugged, his neck craning down into his shoulders like a little turtle cautiously retreating into his shell. “You are right. I should.”

But I won't.

He didn't have to say why. I understood how difficult it is to handle a delicate situation diplomatically in a foreign language.

But even still I definitely shouldn't have done what I did next.

“I'll talk to her.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, it's no problem.”