"How's it going," I say when they get close.

    "Good," one say quickly, like she is scared. Or maybe the girl just has bug eyes.

    When the light changes I walk across the street, but slowly so the larger group will catch up. They are all speaking English.

    "Hey are you guys from England?" I say, and feel like a fucking idiot because I know my mistake as soon as I say it.

    "No Ireland," one of the girls says, but they are nice about it.

    We talk and I find out that half are visiting a friend that is living here.

    "What do you do?"

    "I'm a drug dealer," I say.

    "Did I hear the D word?" someone in the back says pushing forward.

    They get excited and ask questions until I can explain to them that I was only joking, that I'm not a drug dealer, just an English teacher like everyone else. I learn that the boy who pushed forward is the friend they         are visiting. He is a nice guy and talkative and only     in the friendly way that isn't confrontational, and I keep talking with them down the street towards my flat. They stop about a block before mine and I realize         they are going to a flat party. We exchange some words as they wait to be let up and as I partial expect they invite me to the party. I considering sleeping since I'm so close to home but it's an ERASMUS party so         what choice do I have?

    I do my best to blend into the group, which is difficult because I'm tall and have a different accent. But I keep the talking to a minimum and walk like I belong. I get a few looks but I ignore them and walk into the         flat.

    I drink wine and talk about Chicago with a tall Irish guy.

    "I had the best time of my life in Chicago," he says.

    "It's a great city. I could live there again," I say.

    I realize as we finish the bottle of cheap white wine that, for the first time in a long time, I'm the only American. It's fine and enjoyable, and really better than fine because the people are fun and I laugh with them     when they make fun of me and they seem to like         that.

    "My sister visited Canada and she would tell them she was from France and they wouldn't say anything, and then when she started to say she was from Paris. 'Oh Paris, I love Paris, isn't France a city in Paris.'"

    "No, you're kidding," I say, and try to be cute, "maybe they thought she was French Canadian?"

    Her English isn't good enough to understand this, so I change the subject quickly. Later on in the night when most of the people leave for Karlovy Lázn?, the five story black hole of a club, we make out in a                 bedroom.

    "I live just a block away," I say.

    She stops touching me when I say this. "I don't go home with people on the first night," she says and starts to make for the door.

    "Ok, ok," I say stopping her from leaving, "how about we go out this weekend?"

    She seems happy at this and we start kissing again. I sit on the bed and she straddles me and we are making out hard with a lot of middle school style, above the clothes touching. It's still enjoyable in that house         party, drunk, boys getting their hands slapped away sort of way.

    Eventually we are interrupted by the boy whose room it is, and I'm thankful because I'm tired. She stays on top of my lap even with him in the room and he starts to take pictures.

    "Not on Facebook," she says.

    "Give me a kissing picture," he says.

    I pull her towards me. "Not on Facebook," she says again. The boy nods and we kiss. He shows me the picture and I like it. It looks like those black and white photos of people kissing that they they always took in the     30s in Paris and New York.

    "Don't worry," I say, "you can't even see our faces."

    "Don't put it on Facebook."

    "Your being bad," the boy says to her.

    She shrugs him away. "She has a boyfriend," he says.

    "You have a boyfriend?"

    "We have an open relationship," she says and I nod in agreement