Goodbye, Prague

That was my week in Prague. It brought me incredible highs and then threw me crashing down into the earth again, a passionate city, a city without mercy. There is none like it.

All cities have a song, of course. London is grey and stately, Paris sparkles with life and romance, New York is unapologetic and raw, Portland proud and disheveled. But Prague hides itself. It seeps in like a fog. It takes over.

Some streets still made you feel like the best thing to do was drug yourself til you dropped. And in some corners, dark and damp with black sewer water, you could come down with schizophrenia as easily as you catch a cold. Then again, other places seemed to emerge from the magic spell of inertia to reconnect with happier days. By some miracle, or maybe it figures, these were the oldest places...

- Jachym Topol, A Visit to the Train Station

This is a Prague not found at the base of the Astronomical Clock, nor in the crowded places or the postcards or the audio tours. It lingers in the empty streets at the first light of dawn, at night in the winding walkways that lead to nowhere. It's in the cold concrete walls and the old people, in the ringing of water pipes and church bells. It is a hungry, patient debutante, siren-boned, crashing men and minds against its beauty. And I? I have steered my ship too close.

On the Charles Bridge stands the statue of St. John of Nepomuk. It's easy to miss, as the bridge is lined with statues on both sides. The story, more myth than history, says that John was a priest in the early 1300's who took the confession of the Queen of Bohemia. Her husband the King suspected her of adultery and, assuming that she had named the other man in her confession, demanded that John tell him what she had said. He refused, so the King had him thrown off the bridge to his death in the Vltava below. He is considered a martyr for the Seal of Confession.

On the base of his statue is a plaque that depicts the moment he is thrown into the river. How this is connected to his story, I have no idea, but local legend says that anyone who rubs the plaque will someday return to Prague.

Oh well...sure...why not?



So goodbye, Prague, for now. I'll be back.

Until I heard the jackdaw

I never noticed Kafka
until I heard the jackdaw's cry
echoed in the bended halls,
saw my cheek in ghostly faces
still life-lingering;

until I saw the tombstones
through the iron Star of David,
pins of the penal machine
bleeding the message, "boots against
broken cobblestone;"

until I felt drawn to the
fifth story window, the city's
unbearable gravity,
factory hands with severed fingers,
statues without heads.

In the shadow of the bridge
in Národní's old cafe light
here is something to give pause:
does a man ride on the current
or does he make it?

Ravachol, lost son of Prague,
chills the river to a standstill,
enigmatic, wholly spent,
consumed by the narrow streets, and
waits to be noticed.

The man who did not beg

A page from my Prague journal. Not a happy story. I debate whether to share it. But travelling is sometimes less sightseeing and more just plain seeing:

Friday. A day originally planned for hedonism. Wandered down to Husava near Bethlehem Square. A walk filled with traffic and city, working people, playing children, tourists. Found the small memorial to victims of Communism, including Jan Palach (a student who set himself on fire) beneath the shrubs near the statue of St. Wenceslas. Sat beside the memorial for the longest time, thinking. Nazis, Communists, riots, water cannons, freedom, replaced now with the callousness and complacency, shallowness, consumption, rush, that comes with capitalism. A generation who does not struggle, a gift won by their parents. Do they realize? Tourists who drift and gape. No one weeping in the square. No one laying flowers on the graves. Yes, don't waste flowers in this way. There are better ways to honor the dead.

I escaped into Old Town Square intending to eat myself silly, searching the market for bramboraky (potato pancakes) and trdelník (round pastry)...Paid 10KC for a public bathroom. Highway robbery. Trying to decide between 100g of Old Prague Ham or a duck sandwich, I stopped to take pictures of a weaver at a loom. Nearby an old man was reaching into a trashcan. Did not notice him at first, but then after finishing my pictures realized the man had pulled out first one and then another coffee cup - one was a Starbucks - and was trying to sip what little was left from them.

Is it possible for a man who has lived through the Nazis, through the Communists, to stand in the very heart of this city and drink drops of coffee from the trash while all around people pay for painted eggs, tours, candy, great hunks of meat, sugared pastries, overpriced restaurants, admission to a clock? Why does no one stop? Why aren't we lifting this man on our shoulders and celebrating him?

Once I realized, I scrambled for money to give him, and came up the quickest with two 20KC coins just as he was leaving. "Prosim!" I said, holding it out to him. He said thank you in Czech, nodded and smiled - he had not been begging; he had not asked for it. "Prosim," I said again, stupidly, not knowing what else to say, because prosim means please, here you go, and you're welcome. I felt greater and lesser all at once, a saint for charity, and the lowest sinner for my gluttony, that I could think of eating pastries while men still suffer.

Here was a black hole in the marketplace, a void that sucked into it all joy, all color, all bustle. Not from the man, for he was blameless - a saint himself, an angel speaking Czech. The darkness came from what minutes before had been the cheerful crowd, the crowd who had ignored this man with sinister blindness. Where is human kindness? And now I, wracked with guilt, walked towards the Karlův Most, not caring about the traffic. Why hadn't I given him more? Why not have emptied my pockets? What is it to me? No grand lunch for me; I found a 30KC sausage and ate it gratefully, thinking that the man could buy that with my 40KC, at least...But why hadn't I given him more? He might buy himself a whole cup of coffee now, but why hadn't I given him more? He disappeared into the market, humble and bowed with age, and I, stunned, walked towards the bridge.

I want to drink; I want to sip grey coffee in a small and thoughtful place. I need to write to understand this, and now put it to paper on the benches between the Manes and Charles while the happy music from a nearby tent mocks me with its sureness.

Pictures of Prague: Part II

More things of interest, as seen through a viewfinder:

It's a door! Covered with heads! I sat and pondered this for some time. The best I could come up with is that these heads are placed similarly to where doornails would be. Ergo, each man represents a nail, a commentary on how Communism belittled the people's very bodies as menial components easily sacrificed to support the structure of the greater machine...little acknowledging that without such support, the machine could not stand. Gives new nuance to "hitting the nail."

Speaking of heads, I overcame one of my greatest food phobias and sampled, for the first time, HEADCHEESE. Not just headcheese, but headcheese suspended in MYSTERIOUS CLEAR JELLY. It was incredibly tasty. I might have to start looking for a new "scary food" to make jokes about.

This picture is not a picture of that meal. (The headcheese picture, in all honesty, looks nasty.) This is a picture of pork knuckle and Czech dumplings. Don't ever let anyone tell you the Czechs don't know how to cook. The food in Prague was all fantastic, and included the best bacon and sausage I've ever tasted. You can eat your way from one end of town to the other...and then drink your way back on Turkish coffee, mead, and mulled wine.

This building makes actual unicorns weep. It was located in the more modern outskirts of the city, where hulking grey concrete cubes built during the Communist era dominate.


The best thing about this poster is not that it advertises hallucinogenic alcohol in a kiddie-friendly form, but that the green fairy flaming kiddie nightmare cone is "kosher."

Here's a menu that really, really tried. I think this was supposed to be dessert. Other sections of the menu included "From piggy" and "From the moo-cow."


Looming over the city nightscape and the dancing lights of the Vltava, Pražský hrad (Prague Castle.) Despite the fact that it sat atop a steep hill, I often found myself arriving at the castle whether I intended to or not. For that reason it came to represent the heart of the city to me.

A Love Song to the Mother of Cities

Praha, dobrý den, I greet you,
golden city spires that heat the
sun; the Prašná brána glowing
in the morning shine and showing
Gothic-y disdain, as ever,
to Špillar's Nouveau endeavor.
Down the Krakovska I drift and,
děkuji Praha!, the rifted
cobble gives my feet no falter
(Reagents' unintended altar);
with each stone a thought you foster
like an endless paternoster.
Who am I to castles climb
above the Sister of the Rhine? Oh
hail the roiling rushing river
Vltava, má vlast forever!
Lifted by Smetana's grace or
by a becherovka bracer,
either way, Boheme, I raise
a glass to health, nazdravi!, praise! for
with Orloj or metronome,
the time you trace is now your own.



For Prague I could go on and on...

If anyone's wondering what the heck I'm saying:

Mother of Cities, The Golden City, Praha = Prague
dobrý den = hello
Prašná brána = the Gothic Powder Tower
Špillar = designer of the Art Nouveau mosaic on the Municipal Building
Krakovska = a street I frequented
děkuji = thank you
Reagents = fellows who were defenestrated during a Catholic/Protestant kerfuffle
paternoster = an elevator that never stops moving
castle = the Prague Castle, sitting on a hill above the city
Vltava = the longest river in the Czech Republic
Má vlast = "My Country," a symphony by Smetana
becherovka = an alcohol
Bohemia = another name for the region
nazdravi! = Health! A toast!
Orloj = the Astronomical Clock
metronome = well...it's a gigantic working metronome. It sits high on a hill that once had a huge statue of Stalin. They say it counts down the time until Prague is invaded once again.

There, now I can't be accused of being cryptic.

Eating Out: The Prague Edition

A page from my journal:

Last night's pizza dinner reinforced what seems to be the trend in restaurants here. Here's how it goes...

1. You sit down.

2. "Mluvite anglicky? (Do you speak English?)" you say. "No," says the waiter. This might be short for "ano," which means "yes" in Czech...or it might be the only English word he knows.

3. Waiter immediately wants your order; what do you want? What? What? What? Hurry up!

4. The menu is poorly translated. Your phrase book keeps opening to "At the Post Office." Panicking, you make a Hail Mary and point at something, sincerely hoping that syrem means "cheese" and not "headcheese."

5. Food takes forever to come. (Actually, it's not bad in most places, but this pizza joint was abysmal. Also, don't ask why we were eating pizza, of all things, in Prague. Just don't.)

6. Optional intermission: adventures in bathroomland.

7. Food comes. It is thankfully more cheese than head. "Dobrou chut!" says the waiter. (Enjoy your meal.) "Dobrou chut!" you say back, because (curiously) that's the thing to do.

8. Nazdravi, you eat!

9. You must flag down the waiter, who is trying very hard to ignore you, otherwise the bill will never come.

10. Before your party can correctly divide the bill, your waiter is hovering over you. Pay now! Pay now! Pay! Pay! Hurry up! Get out!

That, pretty much, has been my experience.

Pictures of Prague: Part I

Some of the things I came across during my Praha week:

I drool over interesting gargoyles. I guess the feeling is mutual. Because of its age and turbulent history, Prague has some amazing architecture going on. So many different styles, from Gothic to Art Deco to Neoclassical...It's as if the city designer was handed a slip that said, "Please build incredible things; no genre!"

Painted eggs for sale at the outdoor Easter market. A pysanky paradise.

I might have bought one of these boar skins, but I'm pretty sure customs wouldn't have approved.

A traditional children's folk dance at the outdoor market. I'm not sure what the story was, but it went somewhere along the lines of: the girls celebrate the advent of spring by picking flowers, milking cows, and parading with the milk tins, then the boys come along and beat the girls with sticks until they run away screaming. (Don't worry; the sticks have ribbons.) This photo shows the part where the boys are threatening to hit the girls. All the while, younger children on the edge of the stage merrily dance and sing.

???

Watching this was one of the times I really wished I spoke Czech.

A McDonald's right outside the Museum of Communism. Two red symbols of terror. (Three, if you count the trash can that is clearly labelled as a bathroom.)

Top, a motivational poster greeting Czech workers during the height of the Communist era. Below, a translation for us schmucks wandering the museum.

If you're going to San Francisco, do the hair/flowers thing, but if you're going to Prague, take a can of spray paint. This is the John Lennon Peace Wall, which was once used to write covert Beatles-related messages opposing Communism. It's still being overwritten daily with fresh messages of love and peace. Now instead of carrying the secret hopes of a few Czech students, it's an international canvas for anyone who comes to visit a new free Prague.

The Beginning.

"Let's go to Prague," my good friend said.

"Sure. Why not?" I said.

...

Maybe that's not exactly how that conversation went down. It was probably more along the lines of, "I'm going to Prague...wanna come along?" We're starting a tradition, I guess, where she picks some random far-flung place to visit random far-flung friends and family for her spring break vacation, and I tag along for the adventure. I hope it's a tradition; I rather like it.

For example, several years ago we went together to Ecuador, and although it was my third time there, I felt like I had never seen the place before. Certainly not like that. Ecuador in a week! Two days in the jungle! Two days in the city!! Two days in the mountains!!! Nearly get killed by a snake, eat bull testicles, play soccer straddle the equatorwaaaaa-haaa! If living in a country for several months gives one a true local's taste of it, speed-touring through a representative cross-section of a country is like falling Alice-in-Wonderland-style into a promotional TV travelogue.

That's what I was expecting for Prague. Shutter snaps of Central Europe!! Vienna, Bulgaria, Warsaw! (Obviously I was not really looking at a map, just randomly naming places in the nearby...continent.)

Instead, I discovered that once I got to Prague, I didn't want to leave it. A week spent in the heart of one city doesn't have to be a snapshot. It can be intensive...and intense.

Thus began one of the strangest trips of my life. I'd call it life-changing...but really, aren't they all?