We were recently discussing some of our personal experiences staying at B&Bs around the water cooler here at BnBFinder (Full Disclosure, we actually have a Brita in the refrigerator, not a water cooler), and my first experience staying at a B&B was great, but it’s not that interesting of a story. The room was great, the innkeepers were funny and I slept in and missed breakfast. A much more interesting story is the first time I didn’t stay at a B&B.
It was 1995, and I had just landed in Prague, capital of the newly formed Czech Republic. I was 19 and had done a fair bit of traveling, and naively considered myself someone who ‘knew the ropes’ and could bounce from country to country with little planning, and even less money. Prague was heavy in the throes of shaking off communism, and had a cosmopolitan flair mixed with a wild west energy. It was the perfect time to be young and explore the city, and I figured finding a room in Prague would be simple, as it was in the rest of Europe.
Prior to entering the free market, Intourist was the official travel and hotel purveyor of much of the Eastern Bloc, and while apparently efficient, one skill they hadn’t mastered was building a decent hotel. A few concrete hulks were located around the city, but they reminded me more of Alcatraz than the Downtown Hilton. Growing up as a Reagan era kid from New York, I let my delusions run wild and knew that if I got a room for the night at Intourist it was even money I would wake up in the Gulags smelting brass to make statues of Lenin. Remember, I’m 19.
I wandered Prague and the few people I met who spoke English explained that in the Czech Republic, hotels weren’t where people stayed. They stayed at B&Bs, most of which were located in private homes throughout the city. I had heard of B&Bs back in NYC, and the parents of one my close friends had been debating about opening one for a while, so I had a vague notion of what they were about. My new English speaking friends were fantastic. They brought me to a bar deep under the streets of Prague, located in a subterranean cave that was lit by torches, and served Absinthe and sugar cubes with 18 Century slotted silver spoons designed for the purpose. Afterwards, we piled into someones jalopy and drove out of the city, past what looked like a Czech Levittown, and up to the top of a mountain. Hanging off the side of this mountain, overlooking Prague’s castles, bridges and stars was a wooden deck several hundred yards long, filled with picnic tables and Czechs of all ages hoisting giant beers. Steins of Pilnser Urquell were the equivalent of one US nickel, and the bar also sold half roasted chickens for a dime and the best garlic pickles I’ve ever had to this day. After a few hours of being introduced to what must have been most of the residents of Prague, I was exhausted and ready for bed.
Unfortunately, I had neglected to make any arrangements and lost track of time. When I informed my new friends, who now consisted of about 175 very drunk Czechs of all ages, they began to discuss my options, loudly, in Czech. A small, well dressed man stepped forward and explained to me in halting English, that he was the proprietor of a small inn, located not far from where we were standing right at that very moment. I felt that fortune had smiled upon me, and this would be the perfect end to a perfect day of traveling. The man, who resembled Mr. Bean, walked me out to the turnoff in the dirt road that served as the parking lot for the bar, and beckoned me to have a seat on something that wasn’t quite a motorcycle, but more of a bicycle with a lawnmower engine attached. I was nervous, but we rode into the night, through the woods, dodging cars and singing Bee Gees songs, and eventually came to a ramshackle cottage in a clearing in the woods. It was completely dark, so there could have been other homes nearby, but I felt as though I had wandered into a fairy tale and had gotten myself into big trouble. Paranoia took over.
Mr. Bean motioned for me to come inside his shack. I turned and ran into the Czech woods. Mr. Bean grabbed something off a table inside his front door and began chasing me into the woods, screaming, ‘Stop! Stop! I am a hotelier!’. I ran faster, tripping over roots and branches until I decided to hide in a hollow between some trees. I saw Mr. Bean walk past me, holding a set of formerly clean bed linens in his hand bellowing, ‘I am a Hotelier! I am a Hotelier!’. At some point he must have given up looking for the crazy American, because the next thing I knew it was morning and I was covered in dew watching the sun come up over the Castle in Prague.
In hindsight, I imagine I was being young and paranoid, because I’ve never visited anywhere with people as forthright and friendly as the Czech Republic, and I still count some people I met on that initial trip among my close friends. That’s the first time I didn’t stay at a Bed and Breakfast, and the last time an innkeeper chased me through the woods with bed linens, loudly declaiming his profession. -Michael
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ite on and on, but in this case I’d like share Florence’s description of her inn:
