Vaclav Klatil likes his business small.

By Michael Stasiak

With rosy cheeks as red as the pig blood splattered on his white shirt, Vaclav Klatil welcomes every customer to his butcher shop as though he were greeting an old friend. His wife and daughter stand dutifully behind the counter in starched white smocks, fetching today’s sausage links and jars of pastika, or liver spread, from a cauldron of simmering water in the rear of the kitchen. Klatil ambles to an eight-foot tall wood-burning stove, pulls open the iron doors, and examines racks of smoked prime rib hanging from hooks. He removes one of the slabs, holds it to his nose, and inhales deeply. (more…)

Guerrilla Touristing

By Adam O’Brien

"And if you look to your left, you'll see Michael Jackson's private penthouse" (image courtesy of Gap Travel Europe).

10. Pretend you don’t speak English. (more…)