Day and Night in Bohemia March 24, 2014 Prague, Czech Republic

March 24, 2014

Prague, Czech Republic

Night and Day in Bohemia

Mandarin Oriental Hotel Spa

Ding.

My therapist rings a bell to begin my treatment. This morning I am spoiling myself with a trip tot he spa, something I never do anymore. I am still jet lagged and drag myself from my bed at 10, shower for posterity and crawl into Hilton taxi. The driver looks startled when I tell him the destination, but nods as he pulls out into the street. I think I am late but I am too beat to care. After a nice nap yesterday afternoon, I stayed awake until 4, the unintentional side effect of time difference. Now I am totally lost as to whether it’s breakfast, lunch or snack. Dinner sounds wrong so I have eliminated that idea. I down a granola bar and figure I’ll sort it out after my massage.

I considered not including this part, because I feel like it’s indulgent. And it is. I am headed to one of the world’s loveliest spas and I feel delighted and very, very guilty. I hate doing nice stuff for myself. Generous as I am with others, I am stingy with myself. Regardless, I am doing it. 

I booked a Bohemian Meadow treatment online a few weeks ago. I hope the massage will fix my aching neck and I will finally reset my body clock to something close to my time zone. Hopefully, my foggy mind will trail somewhere behind. 

The spa is made out of a Renaissance chapel, and it shows. The welcome area is the former nave,the walls show remnants of former frescoes and a portion of the floor is tiled in glass to reveal the old foundation. It’s a spa church, really.

The receptionist takes my shoes, trading my noisy outdoor ones for comfy and quiet spa slippers. After my welcome of tea and refreshing herbed towel, I am led to a private changing area. I dump my clothes in a closet in trade for a cozy lemon colored robe. There is not a hint of bleach on the towels. I wander around the locker area in amazement. I have been to some spas, but never a one with a heated toilet. I am also the only one here. I pause, enjoying being in a church spa alone with fresh laundry and nothing on my to do list.

My therapist meets me at the door, a small, bright woman in spa uniform. She leads me down a hall to a smaller room that looks just like the nave in the entrance. It’s a mini spa church for me. I am not discounting any religion, I am trying to express how beautifully sacred it felt to take care of my body in such a glorious space. 

You see, I am not nice to my body most days. I go too fast, I eat fast food, I stress out. I push myself everyday doing a thousand things. Hence, I broke my foot in mindless haste in October. A while ago, I decided I would slow down, de-stress and enjoy being in this vessel a little more. Otherwise, I may very well wear out some parts a little early.

My therapist steals my heart. It’s startling to have someone wash your feet, a total stranger, with true love as she explains how my treatment will work. It’s a standard package at most spas: foot massage, salt scrub, massage. However, the delivery makes all the difference. Barbara, her name is, is so kind that I can only nod as she talks. There is a huge difference between being a servant and providing service. Selflessly, she spend two hours making my body whole with oils of Nine Flowers found in the Bohemian Meadow, scrubbing, polishing, changing ridiculous amounts of towels not scented in bleach. 

I wake to a body covered in oil and scents form the countryside. Melissa, daisy, lavender, others I can’t discern. My neck is restored. My mind is pleasantly free of worry.  I have nothing to do, nowhere to be. 

Better still, I get to linger another hour as I shower, drink more tea, and play with the pile of products in the changing room. I have yet to see another soul. 

I check out with the charming receptionist who calls my car back in Czech (thank God I don’t have to do that right now, the language baffles me). I am reminded of practical matters as my total appears in US and Czk, my conversion is off- by quite a bit. I must get my phone fixed or I will continue to blunder about without Google Maps and currency conversion, my best travel buddy. She always finds me and keeps safe. 

Funny that, that’s kind of howe I feel about the whole universe these days.

La Republica, Old Town Prague 

Whatever you are doing, just stop right now and come drink Czech beer. 

Holy hops, Batman! I may never go home. 

The menu at La Republica, an Old Town pub, is daunting. The size of a coffee table book, it even has pictures to accompany the Russia, Czech and English translations. Honestly, though, I can’t imagine what Diamante Beef Cuts are, nor relish the idea of Hog Cheeks with Cabbage. 

The beer menu, however, is easier. It’s listed by percentage and I can make out some tasting notes with words like “Grapefruity” and “Raspberrcy” (not typos). Good enough! I order Satan Red. It’s fantastic. My stomach is growling since it’s 3 and I haven’t eaten, but the menu still bewilders. I signal the waiter, Pavel. Typically Czech, he is brusque but not rude as he says, “Yes, yes, is good” to everything I point to. Oh well, hog cheeks it is. 

As I wait, I revel in the interior of the bar. Handwritten signs scrawled across the bar mirror, advertising sweet chocolate, hot grog and beer for a tank (complete with a Sherman tank). Are these typos, bad translations or something unique to Prague? I will never know, because I can’t get across the language border with these guys. The man at the door shooed me away the first time because he thought I was selling something or some other misunderstanding due to my notebook and pen. I had only asked if they were open for lunch.

The wait for my food is long. Long enough to drink most of my 8 % beer. It’s worth it though. The cabbage is the sweet red kind I love, only to be found in Germany before this. The hog cheeks (I try to avoid the visual), are like pulled pork covered in savory red wine gravy. Add to this steamed potato dumplings and you have Prague lunch. 

It took me less time to consume than it did to wait for it, even putting my fork down between bites to slow the process. The beer is making my sleepy and i yawn as I wait for my bill. And wait. Oh yeah, I have to ask for it, I remember. The manager brings my unfathomable check in Czeck and I pay with a  500 crown note. I leave a 100 for a tip ($5, I hope) and head for my hotel just around the corner. Maybe I can get a nap in, but I fear sleep will elude me again. 

As I plod along the street, life is fuzzy feeling and warm, despite the cold air. Passed often by people with much bigger things to do than I, I thank my lucky stars I am not one of them at the moment. 

Náměstí Republiky (Republic Square)

A small crowd gathers around a darkened yellow kiosk by the Powder gate, bundled against the descending cold of the Prague evening. The sky hums an Easter egg blue while the pastel facades of the buildings glow under street lamps. Across the street from the kiosk, busy waiters with good posture dart form table to table, serving the few patrons just as quickly as they will at the dinner time crush later this evening. 

I must admit, my slip on shoes may have been a mistake as the temperature is dropping quickly. An Englishwoman tells me so as we stamp our feet while we wait. I don’t bother telling her the details of my surgery that leave my foot swollen in most shoes, as she has already made up her mind about Americans. In her eyes, I am impractical and improbable, a lone female traveler in red skinny jeans, a fur collar, coral gloves and stylish pointy shoes. I am as warm as the rest, but I feel like I blend with the Prague crowd better than my tour compatriots clad in khaki and REI wear. When did mountaineering gear become the travel uniform for Americans? I am relieved when a trio of girls join us in heels, one even sporting an adorable tweed dress with sparkles covered by a pink trench. 

Rarely a night time wanderer of cities, I have decided I must at least try to see something past 6 p.m. Not because I am not interested, but because I don’t feel safe going clubbing in Paris by myself. While I have grown accustomed to eating in even the finest restaurant by myself, I still get freaked walking alone in anything but pure daylight.    So, I find myself here on a Vltava River cruise with dinner bought online weeks ago. 

Our bus arrives 25 minutes late to a group of shivering and bewildered tourists. Ten minutes prior to its arrival, the kiosk bursts open to reveal a not so charming Czech who chides us for not knocking on his window. While he has been ensconced in his warm little room, we have been waiting for our guide, a bus or any kind of answers. He lights his cigarette and tells us we need to redeem our vouchers for tickets. I think, there goes your tip, buddy. I am no longer rewarding rude behavior with Western guilt. While tipping is expected in many circumstances today in the US, its rare here and only requires a 5-10% tithe. Either way, this snarly guy isn’t winning any friends. 

After a short tour on a bumpy bus with slippery vinyl seats over cobblestones, we arrive to a river barge. I am deeply relieved to see that the seating is inside, with tablecloths and again, very busy waiters. Possibly against my better judgement, I follow the English couple to a table because I hope our shared language will garner conversation. The trio of students join the end of our table. Turns out the girls are medical students, two from Japan, one from Poland. They met on student exchange in Portugal last year and are reuniting on holiday in Prague. The Englishman is a doctor and professor f medicine, his wife a foreign business consultant that deals with diplomats in the UK. 

I swallow the offering of local schnapps and settle in for three hours of Japanese language and English snobbery, hoping I can take pictures through the boat windows well enough to have justified this trip.

It appears that the universe wants me grow. Otherwise, I would get to reside in my prejudices and enjoying disliking the English as a whole. Most of my encounters with its citizens are ripe with comments about race, English superiority in EVERYTHING, and the lack of anything interesting in the New World (which leads me to the thought, well, y’all certainly spent some time there, didn’t ya?!) 

In fact, I can be a real jerk with the British. After our guide finds out I am from the States, the talk turns to tennis. He calls America a “tennis disaster.” I say, “We don’t care, we have the NFL.” Told you, I am a bitch sometimes, especially when you attack my country. The talk then veers to the Olympics. English this, Czech that. Then we get to show jumping. Lord, please forgive me for this comment: “Yes, well, they are considering dropping show jumping from the games. Probably because we are finally winning.” The Englishwoman doesn’t miss a beat, “Princess Anne is a horse woman. She’s on the Olympic committee. It will never leave the games.”  Period. End of story. The English have spoken.

Meanwhile, her gynecologist husband is tittering like a schoolboy over the Japanese students. he quotes every word from Samurai tv he can think of. Every toast includes the phrase, “no babies, no boys” and his wife apologizes every minute or so for his behavior.

Despite that, I am beginning to like them. Maybe it’s the wine, a raw sauvignon blanc that isn’t worth the fifteen minutes that it took the wine savvy pair to decide upon, or I am just growing up. I am learning to find something likable in all situations. I really can’t help laughing as a Dixieland band starts playing on a boat in the middle of a Prague River. The English correct me that it is called Traditional Jazz (tell that to Miles Davis, sweetheart) and revel in how it makes them sway at summer lawn parties in Jolly Ol’ England. C’est la vie. 

Ahem. Did I mention I was about to get fishsmacked (like a bitch slap, only PNW style)by God? The woman and I start talking, because we can’t slide a word in with the medical crowd. She asks why I am here. I tell her about my novel and my dreams of a rewrite taht will finally get it into the hands of a publisher. She tells me she believes in fairies. I Believe in Fairies!

The conversation is on. We discuss life, politics, the purpose of technology- where it is headed, what it means, what it’s not. She tells me her story, I tell her mine. She married at 47, ran a business, taught sport in school. I tell her about my books, my Dad’s illness, my family. Then she drops this on me:

“What do you think about falling in love?”

As a writer, she wants to know my opinion. Well, I stumble, I fall in love a lot. But I have only ever loved three people. Three hearts I will never forget, three people whose names are written across my soul, three people I think of every day. What is love? The opposite of fear, yes. But what is “special” love, the type you share with just a few in a  lifetime. Why is romantic love so different? I admit to her my answer, “I don’t really know.”

We sit quietly and she nods yes, “Quite right. There is no answer.”

Our evening ends too soon, time accelerated by three bottles of wine and toast after toast. I alone am allowed “babies and boys” after protesting that I am not a twentysomething student and would not dismiss either of these occurrences in my life, especially the boys. We exchange emails and handshakes as the English depart to their B and B, skipping out on the short tour of Old Town on our way back to Republic Square. 

My head bumps against the window as I nod off, drowsy with wine and thought. I leave the trio of girls who bow their goodbyes, the Pole smiling sweetly as she towers over her classmates, three hopeful stars on a Prague night. I pause on my walk across the square, feeling a little like the Grinch when his heart grew- surprised and a little bewildered at his new state.

How wonderful to be alive.