“We could catch a cab, have coffee, walk around a bit, see the bullet holes and the shoes, and be back in time for the train.” I wait to see if this is an idea whose time has come. “We could even pick up some pastries for the refugees.”

“Pastries?”

“Not for everyone,” I say, “but we could give them to a family, as we’re going to the train.”

“Pastries.”

I know it sounds a little condescending, but it’s something we could do, and maybe a slice of cake or a piece of chocolate would brighten their day.

Every major city in the world has at least one great place for coffee. Café El Escorial in Havana, Spella Caffe in Portland, Capital Espresso in Toronto. And every major city in the world has at least one famous coffee house. Café Brasilero in Montevideo, Caffè Florian in Venice, Le Procope in Paris, Caffe Reggio in Manhattan.

Sometimes, the famous places, cafés where history and ambience are the draw, don’t serve the best coffee, and sometimes, the places that serve great coffee, cafés where the quality of the beans and the roast bring people in, are housed in storefronts with all the character and atmosphere of a chicken coop.

“Okay,” says Mimi, sorting through the material she collected at the station in Prague, “we’ve got the New York Café. Opened in 1894 and was a place where writers and artists hung out. Very ornate and opulent.”

“Sounds good.”

“However, in 2006 it was linked to the New York Palace, a luxury hotel, and now it gets a lot of upscale tourist traffic.”

“Pass.”

“Then there’s the Café Astoria in the Hotel Astoria.”

“Isn’t that the place you wanted to spend the night? Nazis, Russians, Stalinist chic?”

“I did.”

“Also pass.”

“Which leaves Central Café,” says Mimi. “Famous meeting place for writers such as . . .” Mimi turns the brochure over. “Frigyes Karinthy and . . . Lorinc Szabo. Evidently, the place was a hotbed for art and politics. It says the Communists closed most of the coffee houses, but that after the fall of the dictatorship in 1989, Central Café was one of the first to be reopened.”

“Let’s go there.”

“And it’s near the university.” Mimi puts the brochures back in her bag. “Fancy yourself a dissident writer, do you?”

“Just hope the coffee is good.”

STAVROS AND HIS SON dropped us off at a three-way intersection, each street no wider than an alley.

“Maletiani,” said Stavros.

“This is it?”

“Yes.” Talos handed me a small card with a phone number on it. “Maletiani. When you are done buying, call and we come.”

The building in front of us had a sign on it that said “KOINOTHTA MAΛETIANON.” I was pretty sure that koinothta was the word for “community,” and the second word probably was the village itself, Maletiani.

“Well,” said Mimi, “here we are.”