St. Patrick’s Day?

“Come on Kevin. You’re coming,” Dimple stated matter-of-factly. I was feeling ill, but I gave in and stood up from my desk. A hookah bar hardly seemed appropriate for St. Patrick’s Day, but I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t as if beer drinking needed its own day in the Czech Republic anyway.

After a lengthy walk, our group of seven arrived at the Karma Lounge. The door opened inwards to a painted hallway and a flight of stairs. We descended past murals of Arabian buildings into the lounge. The room was long, with tables lining the walls like a restaurant. The peach colored walls were illuminated by every color of light bulb and mirrors reflected the room back into itself. We actually considered leaving for the other hookah bar: the calm, dim room with pillowed floors would have been much more relaxing.

I was glad when we decided to stay—the music was better here. Lots better. Arabian music pulsed through the scented smoke. Intricate beats reminiscent of techno and hip hop with Persian melodies soaring over the top pounded the room, making even the heavy tables vibrate. The music wasn’t the only reason I wanted to stay. One table away sat a dark haired girl that captured my gaze and held it hostage. I was in something of a spellbound stupor when Dimple asked me which of those entrees I thought she should order. I peeled my eyes away from the Veela* like Velcro pealing from fleece. “The falafel,” I said absent-mindedly, hoping it had been one of the items she had read to my distracted self. The belle eventually left, and I was once more aware of my surroundings.

Gul, an English medical student from the dorm wandered out of the bar and sat down with us. Gul was a regular, and the DJ stopped over to chat. This DJ was apparently one of the Czech Republic’s foremost comedians and had acted alongside Hillary Swank. He was curiously friendly, and laid one hand on my shoulder while he shook my hand with his other. He walked behind me and began rubbing my shoulders as he continued talking to Gul.

The DJ returned to his laptop and a belly dancer began to swirl from table to table. She drew a pink veil through the air behind her to the beat of a more traditional Middle Eastern tune. The crowd clapped to the music and cheered when she finished.

Several of us joined in an Arabian line dance. We all held hands and snaked sideways dipping and kicking and swiveling. Eventually the line disintegrated into one big dancing mass. It took a while to break down my conditioned aversion to doing anything other than swaying from side to side. In eastern dance it doesn’t matter what gender you are: both sexes raise their arms and move the feet, hips, shoulders, arms, and hands. It was real dancing, and it made for one of my best nights/mornings in Prague.

*Read Harry Potter