Prague Old Town Czech Republic
March 23, 2014
I am singing Amen, I’m alive. Amen, I’m alive. (Nickleback)
I have affectionately dubbed the night before a trip “The Eve of Destruction (In a Hotel Room)”, based on the Sweetwater song of the same title as a reflection of the clouds of thoughts racing across the horizon of my mind on those evenings.
Most travelers revel in the pre-departure bliss of a lovely hotel room made up with crisp sheets and ready made coffee. To me, it could always be my last meal. The joyful glee with which I purchase tickets is nowhere apparent on the Eve of Destruction, only a countdown to touchdown in a foreign land after hours of enduring my own frightful company in an airplane. I will literally scare myself to death, I fear. I have a great imagination and sometimes I wish I could turn it off in times like these.
Every trip to me represents some kind of spiritual reaching. Each time I seem to go farther, more away from myself, widening the gap between my comfort zone and my wanderlust. This trip is no different. I don’t speak or even fathom the languages, the currency conversions remind me of Centigrade equivalency equations and there’s a war breaking out a few hundred miles away.
Well. That’s too bad because I desperately want to revive my languishing novel in a rewrite and what better way to improve upon it than to travel to the area from which its leading man hails? In addition, it’s my Dad’s birthday when I arrive. I just can’t seem to settle into quietly letting important dates like that soften into days unnoticed. It just hurts too much to look at his picture on the fridge on his birthday knowing it’s really not a birthday anymore.
So, off I go. I feel as though I am daring myself to do the impossible. For me, flying was once that- impossible. As I take my seat on board the 767< I find myself saying: this is IT. This the flight I don;t come back from. I always dreamed I would die in a crash to Paris and here I sit. For once, I am thankful I didn’t get the upgrade. All my dreams involve waking up in first class alone on a flight to Paris, often without a pilot. Analyze it however you wan’t but call it what it is- a nightmare.
But I promised myself I would never get off a plane again (unless I see angel holding up a sign telling me to do so). I text my peeps, tell them one more time I love them. Once the door shuts, there is no choice but to fly. As a solo traveller, my thoughts tend to drift towards my life’s meaning when I am frightened. My mind often must repeat, breathe, breathe, breathe. The thrill of the takeoff morphs into a queasy climb but the huge plane floats over rainier in minutes and we turn north for the polar route.
I have lucked out with seat mates. On my right, an aisle, my left, a charming Australian expat from Verizon with twinkling eyes whose travel stories rival mine. We pass the hours exploring our flight route in the seat back while sharing family stories. Sleep eventually comes after dinner. Occasionally a bump wakes me and I think, “How did this ever happen?” How on earth did I go from not riding in a car to flying by myself to Prague? It’s a wonder to even myself.
The arrival in France is unspectacular, much like Charles DeGaulle airport itself. For a country famous for fashion, the country’s main terminal lacks style and grace. It does, however, reek of security and I have to pass through two checkpoints to get to my next gate.
Situated on the lower level, it lacks all services, including an upward escalator. I decide to spend my hour wait perusing the shops of Furla, Hermes and the countless rows of duty free perfume. I buy nothing. (Also, when did this happen?!)
My fuzzy brain is adapting to the eight hour time change but my stomach is totally lost. At home, it’s 3 a.m., but everyone is serving lunch. My choices are macaroons or sandwiches. I decide my bagful of granola bars sounds better, especially when washed down with very exotic French Vitell water (it must be designed by Louis Vuitton because it costs 3.50 Euro).
More waiting, but my updo hairstyle is still intact. At least I don’t look like the lady who went through security with, no lying, hair that was so ratted it looked like a pelt. Really, travel does all manner of weirdness to your brain, so I shouldn’t condemn her. I left a 20 oz bottle of water in my carry on that resulted in a search in Paris.
I head to Gate F 41 to find my plane boarding onto the bus that will take us tot eh jet on the tarmac. I stand next to a group of very tall Czechs who are talking about me. One man laughs and blushes as he looks away. I am too curious to feel insulted, because just then I realize I can’t understand them. Usually, I can get the pacing and accent down fast. I can barely even tell when a sentence ends. I eavesdrop on a Texan and his wife seated behind me, relishing the last familiar version of English I will hear for a while. I don’t care what they say, I just relax in the simple delight of understanding every perfect syllable.
The flight to Prague is uninteresting, other than the occasional unintentional kick from the 9 year old Russian girl next to me determined to save her Splashy Fish on her iPad. I doze and try to keep my head from whacking the window, over and over. The Airbus 318 is loud and a little bumpy, so sleep is hopeless.
Customs is one guy, no wall, no desk, no bulletproof anything standing in front of a set of four electronic doors. As he questions and offers help to a UK visitor, the crowd streams by unhindered. Acres and acres of Spanish school age soccer players bump and wheel through teh doors to the curb. My car isn’t here. I try the pay phone, donate 3 or 4 Euro trying to figure out the dialing process.
I quit. I just want a bed. Taxi scams are huge here, that's why I bought a private car transfer. It’s fine. I just want water. Bed. Water. Bed.
The taxi ride isn’t all that expensive, but I miss most of the ride as I nod off again, again hitting my head on the window as a means of waking myself up. I do know that I landed in a field of green grass and I am now in a city of umber roofs made of tile and straight plaster walls suggesting architecture several hundred years old. Then cobble stones that don’t deter my driver as he points the car towards a daredevil pigeon in the road.
At last, Old Town Hilton.
My driver drags my bag, denies a tip and races away. Reception is kept by a pair of friendly Czechs who over explain every detail as my mind fog wonders whether I can actually shower off the grime before sleep. Am I hungry? I don’t even know.
The room is inviting and looks over a simple courtyard. It’s quiet.
Sleep. I can’t sleep. Too tired.
It finally comes after a drink, a club sandwich with fried egg? and a shower.
To my wonder, I get a phone call. The driver has come to see me (the one who did not arrive). Well dressed in understated Czech style, he tells me I should have been more patient as he looks over his glasses at me while reviewing my voucher. He pays me for my taxi ride and we agree to not cancel the transfer. Strangely enough, I don’t get upset at all. He could very well lose his job over things like this and I was very touched he came all the way to see me. It seems I had missed him somewhere in the crowds of Spanish teenagers at the airport. He had been there all the time.
What’s been shocking is how nice people have become in my life lately. From the tiny French flight attendant heaving my carryon into the upper bin so I could “be (h)appier” on my flight to super helpful reception clerk to the waiter who helped me give him a modest tip on my room service after I stared dumbly at the bill trying to calculate a percentage, then convert to a gracious amount in USD, then go back to Czeck crowns, everyone has been deeply helpful and willing to make my life easy.
I have come to realize that it is not the world that has changed, it is me. My newfound happiness is rose tinting my world and I can’t wait to see more changes. Although I still have nights like the Eve of Destruction where I can’t sleep and go around looking like Wednesday Adams, I know that I can change my mind and see it all so differently.
To me, that's the true value of travel, a chance to see it all differently.
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