March 25, 2014
Prague, Czech Republic
The Messy American in 506
I am an American.
Sometimes when I get far from home it becomes so very obvious, although I don’t feel like one of the crowd at homeoften. What I love about travel is that it wipes away the familiar, placing it with the unknown and unfamiliar. If you ever want to truly meet yourself, go traveling, because you will see your habits, your likes and dislikes, and your fears all bubble to the surface. For example, I find myself sleeping in- until 10. Of course, I am staying out until midnight, but it’s odd nonetheless. The new surroundings bring an opportunity to respond to life in a new way, which brings surprises of character. Some pleasant, some not so. The following entry is an example of my mindset when I am exhausted, underfed, and getting a lonely due to the language barrier.
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I leave my housekeeping staff a 100 czk note and a note apologizing for the mess I leave each day. By some standards, it’s not much- papers here, a pillow pet there, hotel coffee cups litter the counter and every bin has a scrap of paper or debris of some kind. It’s not a hurricane aftermath, but rather the results of busy living. AS I leave my room, I try to round up the junk into categories: junk from suitcase, junk from carry on, new junk, and junk for trash. Good enough.
Today I reclaim my feet for their God given purpose- walking. Sitting atop the far bank of the river Vltava is Prague Castle, behemoth collection of red tile roofs and spires. Below it, the Charles Bridge stretches over the river in blackened Gothic glory onto Charles Street, a busy tourist area spanning nearly a mile. The street should lead me back to Republic Square in about an hour, assuming my foot holds up.
MIchal is my taxi driver again today. I try to ask him if I can locate a spire (there are hundreds) to walk towards in Republic Square. To my dismay, he turns beet red and tells me he is “shaming of him English”. I think, no one should ever be “shaming” of their English. He asks if this is “correct item”. I shake my head, at a loss to explain the subtleties of the words. I try “embarrass” and “embarrassed”, but he just looks ahead, pink to the ears. I smile and change the subject to the trees in bloom.
He drops me at the main gate. Across from the wrought iron fence surrounding the parade grounds, tourists gather at a wall overlooking the city. I head towards the crowd, but stop when I arrive at a flag on a small terrace at a break int he wall.
Prague Castle Starbucks.
I don’t know if I am proud or sad. One one hand, I am proud of my country and city, yet...at a castle? It really does offer a great view and I haven’t eaten so I figure I will try it out. Winding down a spiral staircase of a tower, I emerge on a landing where the main service area is (there seem to be three rooms) with the main counter and cashier. FOr the first time in Prague, I can order with authority and conviction.
The Pikes, however, is not brewed. Bummer. Ah well, Americano it is. I add a yogurt to my order and take a table next to an overhang where a magnolia tree in bloom with fist sized flowers grows for below to the second story. The view is fantastic. I find myself missing people at home, so I tag my Facebook. I think of their reactions, funny and overt. I can tell solitude is starting to wear on me.
Perhaps it is not solitude as much as the language barrier. In addition, I smile a lot. This usually breaks the ice at home. Here, people, especially men, are very reserved and respectful. I miss the small interactions we all have each day with clerks, checkers, people on the street. That’s the beauty of being human, we can create shared connection between strangers.
Sitting too long lets the cold set in, so I begin to walk with my coffee. Then I remember, people don’t often do that outside of the US. It’s not that I care so much about the peer pressure, but that I can’t allow myself the time to finish my drink. My brain is busy walking my route already.
The castle is lovely and gothic. In its center sits St Vitus, a blackened cathedral with fierce looking spires. It looks positively frightening in contrast to the gentle yellow and umber of the surrounding walls. I am finding that since Prague was not bombed in WWII, the architecture remains faithful to one thousand years of innovation. Like patchwork stone, Gothic spires rise above Georgian homes that give way to medieval squares. With only four hours before a tour, I opt to not visit the inside of the cathedral. Instead, I wander the grounds, marveling at two Sequoia-esque flagpoles sharpened to spikes that bear the Czech flags at the gates. Where did they ever find trees that large?
The inside of the castle grounds provides lovely alleys to wider streets that house small shops and occasional cafes. Squat doorways guarded by impenetrable looking doors with iron hinges intrigue me and I snap pictures. A steady stream of people pass me by going only downhill as they funnel towards what I assume must be the exit. It’s sunny and clear, even if it is cold and the walk feels delightful. So far, so good on my foot.
A banner promising Mozart’s manuscripts lures me into the private museum of the Lobkowizc family and their palace. Once confiscated by the Communists, the family’s belongings and properties were restored in the 1980s after decades of exile. Filled with family portraits, it’s a quick tour of twenty minutes with two very memorable stops, the bird room and the music room. The bird room houses watercolors of Czech birds with real feathers placed atop the paper in manner reminiscent of butterfly pinning. Once mothballed and decaying, the collection has begun restoration due to fundraising and American grants.
My favorite is the music room. It’s filled with instruments from different periods, but one wall holds its treasures: Mozart and Beethoven manuscripts. Mozart’s writing notes his changes to Handel’s Messiah on darkened and fragile paper, the ink turning brown with age. The wall has the original handwritten score for Beethoven’s C Minor. Honestly, I got really choked up as I read Herr Ludwig Von Beethoven. My favorite composer. I am looking at his real handwriting. Next to the score is the a conducting copy of Eroica, first meant for Napoleon, then dedicated to the 9th Prince Lobkowicz. A musical family and staid patron of the arts, when Mozart premiered Don Giovanni in Prague, one of the princes sang the baritone role himself.
Back on the street, it’s a quick trip down hundreds of shallow steps to the route to St Charles Bridge. The best part of the walk is taking in the hand painted facades advertising shops and cafes. A chance passing takes me by a serene walled park where people sit watching ducks play in a small pond, surrounding by budding trees.
The Charles Bridge is busy. I can hear the people even before I round the corner on the street underneath it. I pause to view marionettes of all size dance in the windows of a puppet maker. Many are scary, as witches seems to be a favorite figure in storytelling. Horses, crickets and wolves are also popular. I continue around the curve tot he gate on one end of the bridge, stopping to check out storefront after storefront of local, and not so local, goods.
It’s overwhelming and not unlike High Street in Scotland, minus blaring bagpipes. I am looking for a gift and I finally give up, unable to discern the quality differences in the Czech glass or crystal. It’s all good looking, but I have learned my lesson about buying on the first day of shopping: it’s best to see it all before you decide.
The bridge is missed somewhat as I cross over the river avoiding throngs of tourists, performers and loiterers. Everywhere I move, someone touches me. My mind is preoccupied making sure my handbag stays tucked under my arm, although I pause to take pictures of a riverboat mid channel against hazy skyline of Old Town.
The bustling continues as I travel down Charles Street. The offerings are all the same: toys, crystal, tee shirts, gold. Food. Tee shirts. Hard Rock Cafe. More food.
I stop into a whimsical shop selling odd French kitchenware, all gaily panted or adorned with faces. Bun headed dancer top cheese graters, a Dachshund is turned into a cake server. After deliberating for much too long, I take my cake server tot he cashier. SHe tells me they have them in boxes, then stays completely still. Am I supposed to find them? I do not know. I replace the server and exit, perplexed.
More walking, my foot beginning to swell as it deals with the cobblestones. I think I am close to my hotel, but I don’t see any signs for Republic Square. I turn a bend and arrive in a huge square, but not the one I am seeking. A man in a huge blue shark costume consumes a tourist to the delight of his friends as they snap pictures (the tourist kind of has to stick his head in the shark’s mouth). Two men dressed as angels keeps exotic birds on harnesses while they talk tourists into paid photographs.
I find an exit to the square and emerge quickly into a new one. I have found my place! Now for some food. I am exhausted from people, walking and noise. As a trio of Canadians from a band (they have jackets) whisk by me, they are raving about the cafe across the street being the finest art deco cafe in Prague. It is, in fact, the one I admired the other night before the river cruise. I decide to go in, trailing the women until the last one lets a hundred pound door slam in my face.
Here’s my dilemma with eating in foreign places. Most of the time, I just want something fast. I am also shy by nature and struggle with surly waiters or brusque maitre‘ds. I wait for a table while people walk past me. I figure out I need to sit, then order. Ok. But then a French guy keeps putting his coat on my seat on our shared bench. He needs more space, I guess? Ten minutes pass, no waiter.
I quit. I walk out and head towards the smell of roasting meat in the square. A small farmer’s market has appeared overnight. I stand in line at a sausage shop while an American man holding a baby chats away at the owner. In the half a person space between us, a local steps in front of me. Again, I quit.
Tired and hungry and on dwindling time, I decide on the mall. There’s a golden arches smiling at me from the entrance. Happy Meal, here I come. I don’t even care if it is made of goat. I just want something familiar with no hassle.
The mall food court is a mixture of elegant and fast foods. As I am making my way towards McDonald’s, I spy a sign saying L.A. Finger Foods. I am thinking salad! wheatgrass! hummus!. The Czech are thinking Mexican. Sort of.
I laugh out loud as I read the menu. It’s burritos meet oxtail meet hard boiled eggs. I order a Rancho, a chicken gyro wrap thing and a large coke (no ice available). The cashier laughs when I offer her the wrong coins, but it’s okay because I think her food is pretty silly as well. When it comes, it’s a tortilla with gyro fillings and tartar sauce. It’s so juicy it requires at least 5 napkins to contain the mess, and that’s not really even enough.
I chew gratefully, humming the “I’m Loving it” theme song. I think I might survive today.
Love, D
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