All through the Czech Republic and East Germany there are fields of sunflowers and fields of corn. By the side of the road are small purple and white flowers. We sleep in towns whose names we don’t know and we shoot in shut down factories, an abandoned prison, a mansion filled with stoups and crucifixes in glass display cases. We shoot in a garden, two days before they are to hold a wedding. While Sandra Romain dunks a Czech boy in the water fountain to fetch coins, deliveries are made – boxes of fruit, new white plates, a pearly smooth fondant cake in three tiers, with rolled white lettering and scalloped edges. For lunch we eat pickles, blue cheese flavored potato chips. We send Sylvia out for stockings, and then we send her out again for more stockings. We send Pavel for towels, a broom, a bucket, a ladder, for more stockings still. We send Jana to pick up the tests. The male models put lydocaine on their asses even when we ask them not to, worried for their health. At night we search for a martini – there are no cocktails in the Czech Republic. No ice. We sleep on single beds in hotel rooms we have to lock ourselves into at night. We walk through cobbled town squares at midnight; the church towers are all lit from below, glowing stone buttresses and ancient clocks. All the models are young and beautiful and speak very little English. The men sit between scenes with erections poking through their towels. We pull stockings on and rip them. We hairspray the runs. We double condom the dildoes and wipe the floggers with premoistened antibacterial cloths. Tomas the translator – who is a weightlifter and a porn performer and who sits every night at dinner with nothing but a glass of water while we have cream soups and boiled potatoes and Bohemia Sekt – rolls his eyes at us constantly, two loud American girls whose suitcases of makeup and shoes and hemp rope he must drive from Prague to Moravia, from Mlada Boleslav to Berlin. We shoot in the rain. A whole day in the rain, naked in stockings and heels, climbing on old tires and walking down railroad tracks with a whip and making faces and saying dirty things in English that the other performers don’t understand. We shoot in puddles and dirt and on concrete, beneath the steel support beams of a half-demolished factory. In all the small towns, at a certain time on a certain afternoon (we don’t know what day or time, because we lose track of the days and the times except to say we have this many hours to shoot, this many hours left before we lose the light) music comes from a loudspeaker somewhere, music and a man’s voice – Tomas says it is a “what do you call it” and I say church? And he says “yes, church” and each day, for three or four minutes we cut and hold until it stops.