Gangs of demons are boozing in our brain— / ranked, swarming, like a million warrior ants.” That’s a line from Charles Baudelaire’s preface to his Fleurs du Mal. What kind of pretentious literary brat starts a story with a quote from Baudelaire? My English teacher said to start with a quote. She was talking about formal essays, but I think I have the right to use one in this story. Besides, it all fits in, as you’ll see. “Then tie your quote into your thesis. Your thesis always goes at the last sentence of the first paragraph.” I don’t have a thesis, so this will have to suffice as my first paragraph’s last sentence.

       But back to Baudelaire: there was a time, before I woke up and accepted a certain amount of responsibility in my life (that is, before my 22nd birthday), when I was a very pretentious literary little boy. I sat in cafes and read French Symbolist poetry, all the while exclaiming to anyone who’d listen (and some people who didn’t) that Symbolist was a misnomer, for “all true poetry is all too REAL!” I wore black, drank Japanese green tea (disgusting stuff), and pined for the good old days before I was born. And the culmination of my bohemian rebellion came, as it did to so many Americans my age, with a trip to Prague. Hey, maybe that should be my thesis.

       “Most Americans think Prague is a brand of spaghetti sauce,” I lamented to my sister as we boarded the plane. She was bound for Venice: she refused to join me in a city she’d never heard of, and preferred instead to hang out on the Adriatic and munch her girlfriend’s box. I was not so wise. I felt it my mission to explore the fabled capital of Bohemia, the hometown of Kafka, and get drunk on absinthe. We agreed to meet up back in Venice when I had finished “finding myself,” as our mother so patronizingly put it. How could she understand my quest? “Woman!” I cried. “Do you not see the banality all around you? The tepid squalor that is your suburban existence?”

       “Well, just be sure to keep your passport in your boxers at all times—you never know with those Croats.”

       “Czechs, Mom. I’m going to Czechoslovakia, not Croatia.”

       “Whatever. Just remember to bring your father back one of those nice big beer mugs, you know the ones with the cute little silver lids.”

       Once on the plane, I had to drop the intellectual façade in order to make conversation with my sister. The whole way all she could talk about was how much she missed her girlfriend.

       “At least you have someone there, waiting for you,” I countered. “I have to find my own fuck in a foreign country.”

       “Don’t sweat it. I’m sure there’s lots of hustlers in Prague. Aren’t there lots of gay Slavic boys?”

       “Yeah, with monobrows. And they’re Czechs, not Slavs.”

       Actually, it turned out all the Czech boys had gone to Italy for the summer to avoid the tourists. If she were straight, my sister would have gotten quite a few more men than I did. Straight or gay, she got more action anyway.

       Our plane landed in Milan, so we had to take trains to our separate destinations. We said our goodbyes at the station, a masterpiece of Mussolini architecture.

       “Have fun double-clicking your girlfriend’s mouse.”

       “Have fun paying for sex.” I love my little sister.

       The train ride lasted 10 hours, overnight. My blood sugar was sinking fast and I needed to eat. Halfway through Germany I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stepped out of my second-class closet and went to look for the restaurant car, naively assuming that all trains were modeled after the one in North by Northwest. I met the conductor, a fat little Italian, three cars down from my own.

       “No restaurant, sorry, sir, no restaurant, no restaurant.” I understood him the first time, but my hunger prevented me from getting too angry.

       “Is there any food anywhere on this train?”

       “You come with me.” He led me to his office at the rear of the car. “What you like, you like candy bar? I have beer, you like?”

       I overpaid for a Mars Bar and a liter of Pilsner Urquell and sauntered back to my miserable little cabin. The bottom bunks had been snatched out from under me by two smelly hippies who insisted on smoking pot and making out for the first half of the trip before passing out. I listened to them fondle each other from the top bunk while drinking my Pilsner and reading my Pynchon. Not even a full day there, and I already hated Europe.

       At last I arrived, sometime around five in the morning. I hauled my duffel bag out to the station and pleased myself at the ease with which I found my way to the subway, and from there to my hotel. The subway was the only thing left over from the Soviets, and I took several pictures. It appeared to have been designed by Mike Brady. Maybe there weren’t that many homosexuals in Prague, after all.

       My hotel was decorated not so much in earth tones as in all-red tones, with red medieval tapestries, red stained-glass windows, and blood-red carpets. The concierge, Vlad the Impaler (actually Vlad Novak; I added that last part myself), led me slowly up the Gothic staircase (red) to my room. Sure enough: all red. I had rented a giant womb!

       “I regret that this is our worst room. We have much better rooms, if you like. Please just make the request and we will see to it.”

       I have no idea what he was talking about. For about $12 a night, I got to sleep in a king-size bed (albeit red), not to mention having my own bathroom and kitchen. I told the vampire this would suit me just fine.

       My first day in Prague I cried for hours. “I’m all alone, I’m all alone, ALONE oh oh oh . . .”

       The red phone rang. It was my mom, “just checking to make sure the Russian Mafia didn’t execute my little boy on that train.”

       The sound of my mom’s voice piped in over the Atlantic sent a new wave of sobs. “Oh Mom! What am I doing? Why did I come here? I’m starving, I don’t know where to go, my room is all red, and the concierge is a vampire, Mom!”

       There was a long silent pause that indicated the maternal fury that was about to burst out of the receiver. “Now, Michael, you just listen to me. You are the one who wanted to go to Prague in the first place. Now you just get a hold of yourself, get washed up, and go take a walk around and see what’s out there in that big beautiful foreign city. Just go out and get some fresh air and you’ll feel much better, do you hear me?”

       How is it that a 50-year-old woman who’s never been out of the country always knows what’s right for her gay teenage son? She made me promise to recover and call her back once I could “talk like a reasonable human being, goddammit.” I got up, took a shower, put on my fetching brand-new leather jacket, and set out down Belgikska Boulevard, headed for the first pizza joint I could find.

       When I had had my fill of Czech pizza (nothing to write home about), I took another walk around the neighborhood. That night I got my first look at the Astrological Clock Tower. Then I returned to the hotel. I immediately called back home to tell them the good news. “Mom! This town is so great! You won’t believe it here. It’s like Disneyland, only with whores!”

       I slept in late the next morning, then set about my mission: to find and consume absinthe. For a full six months before I’d purchased my plane ticket, my life’s ambition had been to try absinthe—the drink of the gods, the beverage of poets, the reason Van Gogh cut his ear off. I did a little research and found out that every nation in the world, save Spain and Czechoslovakia, had banned this mystical concoction. Word on the streets said absinthe made you drunk and stoned simultaneously, which for a teenage boy is like having oral and anal sex at the same time while watching The Talented Mister Ripley. And thanks to the power of the Internet, brought to the people of Eastern Europe by forward-thinking young Americans like myself, I learned that the place to drink absinthe in Prague was The Globe, a combination bookstore and cafe. Apparently, in this country, all good things come in pairs.

       I had it all planned out. I wore my pinstriped pants, velvet jacket, and beret. I brought a small fortune in Czech kronen for the bookstore. And I highlighted the tram route on my little tourist map. Like Balboa on the plain of Darien, I set out for the fountain of youthful experimentation.

       The interminable tram ride found me surrounded by Japanese tourists. I had to stand up the whole way, grasping the bar and sagging under the weight of my Technics bag. Why I had a Technics bag I do not know. I was not exactly what you would call a DJ. I think I might have found it somewhere, or won it in a contest, or something. It helped me fit in among the young European hipsters, but it also rubbed a bruise into my shoulder. Along the way I took the opportunity to snap pictures of St. Timothy’s Cathedral (which does not appear to have any entrances), as well as the balcony where Vaclav Havel declared independence from the Soviets. I do not know the details of that historic episode. For that you will have to turn to Milan Kundera. The ride took so long that I ended up memorizing how to say “Please stand clear of the door” in Czech.

       At last the tram came to its final stop. By then I was the last passenger remaining. I hopped off the tram, standing clear of the door, and started walking. And just around the corner, there it was, the Mecca toward which my brain had prayed, The Globe. Imagine me skipping down the narrow avenue as the munchkins sing, “You’re out of the woods, you’re out of the woods . . .”

       The books came first, as I prefer to suspend my indulgences as long as possible, for maximum dramatic tension. Into the shopping cart of my Technics bag I placed Philosophy in the Boudoir, the illustrated version, along with a biography of Kafka (and not a very good one, at that), as well as a poorly translated volume of Milosz’s poetry. And finally, the kicker, a folio of Soviet Social-Realist propaganda posters. I told myself I would pay for them after I had eaten lunch and had tried the absinthe.

       A quick hop through the French door and I was there, in the cafe, ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. Now in Europe, cafe tables rarely come unshared, so I looked around for the weirdest people with whom I could sit. An obviously American boy with nasty dreadlocks sat by the window, with a fat little Scandinavian girl across from him. They looked like a couple. I dropped my bag beside the girl and slid in beside the guy. “How’s the food here?”

       The guy seemed relieved by my interruption. The female of the species was more deadly. He introduced himself as Derrik. His girlfriend remains anonymous. A waitress came and, thinking practically, I ordered a salad before devoting myself to Bacchus. It turned out that Derrik had deserted the U.S. Army in Berlin back in ’89 and had decided to live it up in Prague. She was a Swedish college student, paid by the government of her enlightened Socialist country to study abroad. I cringed to hear her English—she spoke it better than I.

       As I chewed my salad I asked them what I could look forward to in Prague. Where were the good bars and clubs? Derrik gave vague directions to an American-style grill by Charles Bridge, then veered off into a detailed account of the rave he’d gone to the week before. She rolled her eyes at me and spoke condescendingly of American tourists. I didn’t point out to her that she was dating one. I wish now that I could recall all the details of our conversation, except that what came next nearly erased my memory. Besides, it couldn’t be that interesting. Let’s just say that Derrik was a burnt-out drug addict who enjoyed teaching me to swear in Czech, and his Swedish girlfriend hated me, and we’ll leave it at that.

       I finished my salad. I had passed into the Most Holy, and would not turn around. The girlfriend got up to use the restroom. I took the opportunity to lean in close to Derrik and say, “What do you know about absinthe?”

       “Oh that? You’ve never had it?”

       I shook my head. He grinned and gestured over his shoulder to two elderly women behind him. “I think you can handle it.” He had a point. The two old ladies sat morosely at a small table, with two glasses of thick green stuff. “If the old folks can drink it all day, you should be able to try a little glass.” I started to have doubts. The old women didn’t look very happy. Actually, they seemed completely stoned. I had never seen senior citizens stoned. Before I could change my mind, I called the waitress and ordered an absinthe.

       “Single or double?”

       I hadn’t thought about it. Would a double be overdoing it? Derrik offered to help. “A single means 10 deciliters, not much. A double is 20. That will get you fucked up. Better start with a single and see how you feel.”

       I suddenly felt bold, or else had to prove something. I ordered the double. The girlfriend sat back down, and rolled her eyes again when Derrik told her what I was up to.

       “It’s no big deal. Even the old people drink it. It’s not like some magical elixir.”

       I ignored her. The waitress returned with my glass and a little teaspoon with holes in it. “Here goes,” I said. “Cheers!”

       “No wait!” Derrik stopped me. “You’re not ready yet.” He took the slotted spoon and poured onto it a pile of sugar. Then he dipped it lightly into my glass, just enough to soak most of the sugar. Last, he took his Zippo, lit it, and set the wet sugar on fire. Through this whole ceremony, his girlfriend smoked a cigarette and gazed absently out the window.

       After a moment Derrick blew out the flame. The sugar had melted into a brown syrup. This he dunked into the absinthe and vigorously stirred. The color went from sickly green to a light mud. “There, now try that. Don’t sip—just chug it down it like a shot.”

       Twenty deciliters is a huge shot. I sniffed it first. It reeked of black licorice. I grimaced, and the girl laughed at my innocence. Telepathically projecting my animosity onto her, I thought Fuck you, Teutonic cunt. And then I opened wide and slammed the absinthe down my throat. Most of it, anyway. The shock of a 20-megaton anise bomb exploding in the back of my mouth stunned my jaw shut, and a leftover little green stream trickled off my lips and down my chin, stinging like mouthwash. As the river Phlegathon surged through me, my innards exploded. My ears stopped up, so that I barely heard Derrik goading me on, “Come on, all of it!” and I desperately tossed back the last poisonous drops. I think Derrik was laughing and clapping his hands. He may have slapped me on the back. I sat rock still. An opaque bubble had descended from the ceiling to surround me. Whatever went on in the rest of the cafe, I had no idea. I turned and looked out the window at the street. It was a lovely day. There were birds, Soviet birds everywhere. I chuckled at all the pretty Soviet birds playing on the street. Nice birds.

       The waitress came again, saw what I had done to myself, and smiled. “Your first absinthe?” She probably didn’t really say that, but that’s what I heard.

       “Why yes,” I enunciated very slowly and deliberately, trying to keep my head from rolling off my shoulders. “I’ll have another please, but just a single this time.”

       “Are you sure?”

       I nodded my head deeply. She shrugged. Another five kronen for her. It was all very funny. Derrik and his Swede had disappeared, so I laughed by myself.

       The second, smaller dose belonged to me, and me alone. I lovingly re-enacted Derrik’s beautiful ceremony, delicately pouring the sugar and setting it alight. Unfortunately, I dropped the spoon too suddenly and the absinthe caught fire. Panicked, I blew it out, and nearly spilled the glass. Afraid that someone had seen me, I hurried to drink the entire glass at one gulp.

       This one made more sense to my aching mouth, and went down more smoothly. No more stunning nerves, just a warm pulse in my belly, and sharp mintiness in my nostrils. It occurred to me that I must be exceedingly drunk. That made me laugh to myself, until the next moment, when it occurred to me again that I was egregiously high and seeing things. Dionysus! I stood up, nearly knocking over the table. I grabbed my bag and rushed out onto the street. Only now do I realize that I did not pay for my books.

       Dionysus! I kept walking. The heavens opened up, and though my lips were scorched, there was no seraph anointing me. There, a vision of Luftwaffe bombers soared overhead, casting horror down on my head like a million warrior ants. I kept walking. And then the Cardinal Borghesi, whose portrait I had seen in Milan, sat enthroned in the clouds, his smile descending on me. I walked some more. It is possible that at a moment of extreme ecstasy, everyone becomes a Roman Catholic.

       A small window of clarity broke through my hallucinations to show me that I was totally lost. I did not recognize the street in the middle of which I barely stood. Where was that tram stop where I had arrived? I fumbled in my bag for my map. I had to take my glasses off to read it. But it was no good: it seemed a mere map of the merry old land of Oz.

       What happened then is understandably a blur. I do not know how I got there, but I found myself in a hedge maze, in the garden of a small palace. The ancient nobility could not have been very bright, because, rather easily, I found my way out. I stumbled between two classical marble urns onto one of Wolfgang Mozart’s private concerts. How my subconscious knew to picture Mozart conducting his orchestra on the lawn of that mansion before the Emperor Joseph (later I learned that he actually had done just that, albeit 200 years before) remains a mystery.

       Something brushed my hand. I looked down and saw, nibbling on my pinstripe trousers, a peacock. I screamed and jumped back. Maybe this was just another illusion? I had an ingenious idea. I pulled out my camera, said “Cheese,” and took the peacock’s picture. If I were hallucinating, then I would know when I developed the film. He was a fine model, made for the camera. He spread his plumage and turned to just the right angle so that the light played off his profile. How could I deny such an artist of narcissism? I captured two more poses before two middle-aged tourists rudely interrupted our photo shoot.

       “Excuse me, do you know how to get to St. Timothy’s Cathedral?”

       I didn’t look at the dragonman. “I could use a church myself.”

       They backed away slowly, and I heard the wife say to her husband, “Honey, get away from the strange man.”

       Much later that night, I managed to reach my red hotel, drop my bag on the red floor, and pass out on my red king-size bed, suffering beneath the weight of a massive green headache. My first taste of absinthe was a total success.

       I spent another month in Prague, drank a few liters of absinthe had some more adventures, and committed assorted other sins, and then met my sister and her girlfriend in Venice for the remainder of my vacation. They were still madly in love and fondling each other constantly. With me I brought the several books I’d shoplifted, several pieces of Soviet memorabilia, and a bottle of absinthe disguised as Scope. I had purchased this bottle, along with a bottle of Scope mouthwash, in a grocery store on the day I left Prague. They were the same color, of course, which would make it easy to smuggle into Italy and the United States. After emptying the Scope in the sink and rinsing out the bottle, I funneled in the absinthe, and stored the unsuspicious new bottle in my shaving kit.

       When I got home to California and unpacked my bags, I made the mistake of failing to hide my precious illegal liquor. I did take the precaution of writing on the label with a thick black marker, THIS IS NOT SCOPE—DO NOT DRINK, but somehow I allowed myself to think that would be enough warning in my family, and somehow I left the bottle in the kitchen. I planned to have a party and get my friends stoned on an illegal import. I was not so fortunate.

       One day, not much later, I came home to find my mother cleaning house. She had placed a giant black garbage bag by the door. As I passed this bag on the way to my room, I noticed the empty bottle of Scope on top. “Woman!” I screamed, “do you know what you have done?”

       She played innocent. “What? What are you yelling about now?”

       “What did you do with my absinthe?”

       “Oh that? There was a bottle of mouthwash just sitting there, and you never use it, so I just emptied it down the garbage disposal and threw the bottle in the trash. Why, was it something important?”

       “Mom! You can’t get this stuff in this country! I had to smuggle it in from Prague!” I felt on the verge of tears.

       “Michael Richard Mussman, are you bringing drugs into this house?”

       I lied, “It’s not a drug mom, it’s absinthe!”

       “It’s what?”

       “It’s absinthe!”

       “Well if you’d just stop screaming and write it down for me, next time I’m at the grocery store I’ll buy you another bottle, all right?”

       I have never had absinthe since. But every now and then, when my customers at work have too much to complain about, or I just cannot sleep at night, and all the responsibilities the world hurls at us in our early mid-20s seem to overwhelm me, I think back to those early, gorgeous hallucinations, and recall that Charles Baudelaire died a long, long time ago.

       I go with a certain young man I am very fond of to see the new director’s cut of Amadeus. And there, during one of the restored scenes, is Mozart, playing the piano and conducting his orchestra before the court of Emperor Joseph, nowhere else but the same palatial garden in Prague, the garden where I found Mozart and Baudelaire, and lost myself. Alone among that moviehouse crowd, I burst out laughing hysterically. My male friend pokes me with his elbow. “What’s so funny?” he whispers.

       “Oh nothing. Remind me to tell you about the peacocks.”

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