The customer service in the pub has the air of a war crime trial.

When I inquire whether there was any free tables, the waitress asked me if I'm blind.

The bartender stops just short of throwing the beer at me.

I sit as far away from him as I can, but even from across the room his eyes watch me with

utter contempt.

You feel far from welcome, but the beer is delicious and the food prices aren't as bad

as the city center.

It's a hot day, but it's cool on a ground, much like all the other drinking establishments

and Prague.

The pub is beneath the street level, vintage beer advertisements from the fifties hang from

the centuries-old stones, and on the far side of the bar next to a foosball machine sits

a beat-up jukebox, who likes flash on and off as if inviting me to check what's inside.

I order the fried cheese and another beer.

The waitress audibly sighs when I choose French fries as my sign, but my request for another

beer is taken in better spirits.

The food arrives twenty minutes later and I don't regret my order.

There's something heavenly in the combination of pills and cheap cheese and potatoes.

As my mind grows sluggish with the approaching food coma, my eyes drift back to the jukebox.

The lights flash from the edges of the machine to its center, the jukebox beckons and I consider

its mystery.

The jukebox is digital, but still relic.

Islands of dead pixels stretch across the smudge screen in the music section, it's provided

...