I have no idea what the movie is about, but one of the actors has a gun.

“Now there’s something you don’t see in Guelph.”

There are sawhorses blocking the stairs to the bridge. Several yellow-and-black sandwich-board signs warn against trespass. Another simply says “MIMO Productions.”

“Murdoch Mysteries filmed some of their scenes on Douglas Street,” I remind her.

“That’s television.”

A man in a white dress shirt that he hasn’t bothered to tuck in drifts through the set, listing to one side, as though he’s a tugboat braced against a running tide. Short, heavy-set, bald. Dark glasses, red loafers, no socks. His sleeves are rolled up. His forearms are covered with tattoos.

A tall, flexi-straw woman in a thin yellow dress that billows about her body like a collapsing sail floats along in his wake. She carries a thick red binder, hugs it against her breasts, as though she expects it to save her from drowning.

“Maybe they’re making a western,” says Mimi, “and they need a Native actor for one of the principal roles.”

“Don’t think they make westerns in the Czech Republic.”

“Sergio Leone made westerns in Spain,” says Mimi. “That’s how Clint Eastwood got his start.”

“I’m a journalist, not an actor.”

“Blackbird Mavrias.” Mimi holds her hands out and forms a marquee. “Dead in Prague. Coming soon to a theatre near you.”

We stand around for a bit, and when nothing happens, we make our way back to the hotel. When we get there, we find the front door locked. We try our room key, but it doesn’t fit.

“Maybe they lock the front door at night,” Mimi suggests, “and you have to ring a bell to get in.”

“It’s only nine thirty.”

“This isn’t Toronto,” says Mimi. “This is Prague.”

I can’t imagine that locking tourists out of their hotel rooms is part of traditional Czech culture, so I walk around the front entrance and search for a bell. I knock on the door. And then I knock some more.

Mimi isn’t concerned. “Spending the night on the Charles Bridge wouldn’t be the end of the world. Remember San Francisco?”

“The Golden Gate?”

“That was fun.”

I’m trying to think of something clever to say about Indians on bridges when, suddenly, there’s gunfire. And then a scream.

“Come on.” Mimi heads back to the movie set at a trot. “Let’s go see who died.”

A WHILE BACK, Mimi decided that I was depressed. I was sleeping more than she thought necessary, and I was beginning to watch reality shows that involved people shouting at each other and throwing chairs.

“I’m not depressed.”

“And the rages?” Mimi held up a hand and began ticking off each finger. “Cellphone companies. Bank fees. Robo calls.”

“Nobody likes robo calls.”

“Not getting your favourite table at Artisanale.”

“That’s disappointment.”