I’m sitting in a pub outside Prague, the only foreigner in a packed house. I can barely see my friends for the smoke, hardly 
hear them for the noise, as our harried waitress slams another round of velké pivo (large beers) on the table. But that doesn’t matter—they’re all speaking Czech and I’ve run out of things I know how to say. I feel my foreignness acutely.It’s the end of a long day of kayaking with my Shambhala Buddhist group. After early-morning chanting of the Heart Sutra in Czech, we had donned wetsuits and headed for the river. My rowing partner Ilona and I overturned three times in white water, laughing when we lost our paddles, bonding despite having few words in common. The kayaking was exhilarating, but now, unable to connect so easily,I feel awkward and invisible. In my gut is the hollow ache of loneliness; even the sublime Czech beer tastes like copper in my mouth.
Soon, Ilona pulls up a chair next to me and we try once more. She tells me about her family and asks about my travels. My loneliness quickly dissolves, giving way to a rush of gratitude. I find myself loving this moment—with its bad goulash and its smoke—as something precious and unique.
In my life abroad, small things make me swing from loneliness to elated connection, from aching pain to delight. In fact, everything feels more intense. I take more risks, like kayaking in rapids with strangers and stammering in bad Czech—but I also pay more attention to the details of an everyday life that is unfailingly rich and bizarre. There is no doubt that living here, and continuing my practice of yoga and Buddhism in Prague, have helped me appreciate more fully all that arises in each moment-an awareness I hope to deepen no matter where I end up next.
ILLUSIONS OF LONELINESS
For years Prague had been stuck in my heart. I had never seen a single photograph, but reports of its beauty and mystery were enough to draw me. As it turned out, Prague is even more beautiful, and more melancholy, than I had thought possible. Rich in history and alive with change, the city is artistic, surreal, and fascinating.
I came to Prague seeking transformation. I knew from having lived and traveled in Asia that each new place opens me to new ways of thinking and experiencing the world. What I didn’t anticipate was how much Prague itself would be about transformation. Since the Czechs threw off communism by peaceful revolution in 1989, Prague has grown from a city of long lines and downtrodden spirits to one of fresh ideas and real opportunities. Last year, the Czech Republic joined the European Union, setting off a flurry of activity in an attempt to meet the standards of Western neighbors. And yet there is a certain tension; while many Czechs have embraced capitalism wholeheartedly, others are nostalgic about the cheap flats and guaranteed paychecks they had during the old regime.
In the autumn of 2003, knowing not a soul, I found a flat in a Renaissance building near the center, an American student to share it with, and work freelancing for Prague’s English-language newspaper. Right away I connected with a thriving Ashtanga yoga scene, dining with fellow yogis after class and participating in weekend retreats. My days quickly filled with colorful activity, yet I felt something welling up inside.
