The James Joyce Pub

St. Patrick’s Day is a perfect occasion to pay homage to my pub. I’ve always preferred the atmosphere of pubs to bars – bars are too often filled with predators and willing or unwilling prey and too loud music that prohibits relaxation. Fun sometimes, but not relaxation. When I lived in Austin I quit going bar crawling on 6^th Street when I felt like I was the only one with a legal ID in the place. I was ready to hang out with adults, preferably in pubs. Real ones - not the American bars they just call pubs. Pubs tend to be quieter, calmer, more friendly.

My favorite Irish pub isn’t (wasn’t) in Ireland but the Czech Republic. When I spent five weeks in Prague in the summer of 1997, the place was full of ex-pats from everywhere. It wasn’t uncommon to see a table in a restaurant with a German dude, a French dude, and a Russian dude all speaking English – it was the lingua franca most people had in common. I was at a writer’s conference and we mostly hung out with one another and stayed on the beaten path between Old Town Square, where our classes were (and where that clock is you hear so much about); The English Bookstore and Café; The Jewish Quarter; the touristy things like the castle/St. Basil’s/the Charles Bridge – the one with the statues; and the soviet-era dorm we lived in that was a good hike from all those places you wanted to be. It was a hungry place to live; the only restaurant out by the dorm closed early and was, confusing, to say the least. The menu was in Czech and German and it served German food, as well as things like pancakes and spaghetti. It behooved one to eat in town.

All the adventures I had would take a long time to tell, but one afternoon, for what reason I don’t remember, I decided to wander off those beaten paths into the Praha of Prahasians. And I was promptly, terrifyingly, lost. I had a map. And all the buildings on corners had street names on plates screwed into their stone walls. Two street names in fact – the one in Czech and the one in Russian. Guess what I don’t read. So I was trying to match symbols between street names on buildings and street names on my map, symbols that had no meaning to me. I saw not a single soul the entire ordeal. By some freaking miracle I turned a corner and knew where I was. Or where I was near, at least.

The street I was on lead directly to the Charles Bridge. It was the street that ran across the Bridge, which would take me to Old Town Square, where I could find my people and find my way home. The relief was simply euphoric. I started down the street and noticed, on the side of a building on my right, maybe eight feet up, a Guinness sign. Black oval, harp, the whole deal. It was at the opening of a small side street, a dead end. Almost a small cul-de-sac. And along the right side of the little street was The James Joyce Pub.

The whole front was a series of green framed French doors fully opened, a wide, shallow place. I stumbled in, past some tall tables, to the bar, and sat heavily. I was still red-faced, breathless, and stunned at my deliverance. The nice bartender turned a small bar-top fan on me and asked me if I was alright in a deep growly Irish brogue. I had found the center of Prague’s Irish ex-pats. He got me a Guinness and I had grilled sausages and onions. I was there for probably three hours. I wrote and I read - two things you look very strange doing in a bar was par for the course there. I was greatly comforted by the easy conversation and ambiance and the mural of James Joyce I finally noticed behind me that took up a whole wall. An Irishman wandered in who had bought some shrimp at the market and after the pub kitchen cooked them for him, gave me some. I had a Guinness and Harp and maybe a Guinness and cider. I’m not sure. I was so damned happy.

I couldn’t wait the next afternoon after classes to take my little band of friends to the Joyce. I walked in like I was walking in home. My friendly bartender was there and greeted me with a smile and said, “Did you come to pay your tab, then?”

I had been so happy and so relieved I had walked my tab. I’ve never done it before or since and I was horribly embarrassed. He laughed at the look on my face and said, “No worries. I knew you’d be back.”

It became my place.

Eventually my friends discovered another bar at the end of the cul-de-sac on the left, down some stairs. It featured the far cheaper Czech beer Staropramen, which I have since seen available in the States. We would all go over to the little street - I never saw other writer’s conference people on that far side of the Charles - I’d go into the Joyce, where I was a regular now, and they would head into the loud place they preferred and they’d drop up to visit sometimes. I wrote a lot there. I laughed a lot there. I ate well there. I believe I went there every day for the rest of my stay in Prague.

The Joyce was a joyful place and full of friends met and made. Now The James Joyce Pub has moved to Old Town Square. It is bigger, more commercial, brighter and no longer my quiet little haven off the beaten path. I’m happy for them, if they are seeing more success – but I am relieved I never have to go to that new place. It will have lost its unique charm.

Forever the original location of the little ex-pat pub is my pub. The public house that was my real home in a foreign land where I did not speak the language, where I was found after I was lost, but always felt – more than almost anywhere in my life – that I belonged.

Sláinte, James Joyce and Happy St. Patrick’s Day.