Finding Allen Ginsberg
I just read that Allen Ginsberg died... six and a half years ago. I didn't know. Nobody told me. I liked him. Here's my Allen Ginsberg story.

One damp and snowy night in Prauge in March of 1996, I was wandering around an Easter market that I'd happened upon, trying to keep warm by drinking cup after cup of mulled wine. I kept wandering, and soon got lost in a puzzle of twisty winding streets that all looked the same. I tried asking for help, but I do not speak Czech, except to order beer and ham, and experience had already taught me that Czech people seemed suspicious of me. Or maybe it was just me. Cold but not scared, fuelled by wine and a by the thrilling idea that "Holy Fuck I'm in Prague By Myself," I tried to wander my way back in the direction of my tram stop. Instead, I ended up getting a little more lost, and paused to check my tattered map in front of a little book shop. The only English poster in the window announced that on this very night, Allen Ginsberg would be reading a selection of his poetry.... in a matter of minutes! My first thought was "English!!!" My second thought was "Holy Fuck I'm in Prague with Allen Ginsberg."

I had a great time. My mulled wine buzz lasted deep into the night. I was a lone nerd amidst a group of Dead Heads and granolies. Each of us was fixated on the legend in front of us, all listening with enraptured awe. He was almost a performance artist, rather than a dodgey-looking poet reading from a book. He was friendly, too. I think that he was very, very drunk that night, which seemed appropriate. One does expect one's beat poets to be on... something.

After the readings, two backpackers from New Mexico helped me find my way back to the Malostranska tram, which would take me into the "Prague 6" neighbourhood where I was staying. It had gotten even colder, and I realized how tired and hungry I was. And surprisingly, I was a little sad. This is one time in my life that I remember feeling lonely. I depserately missed Mr. Crabby, who was then my fiancé. I was bummed that this wonderful evening, filled with serendipitous surprises like the Easter market, and finding Allen Ginsberg, hadn't included the love of my life. Because Mr. Crabby was across the world, about to wake up and start a day that I wouldn't see for hours, that evening felt like an imperfect gift - like a new book with a torn cover.

But it was a gift.