Beer, Dead Horses, and the art of the Czech Pubcrawl March 25, 2014 Prague, Czech Republic

March 25, 2014

Prague Czech Republic

Beer, Dead Horses, and the art of the Czech Pubcrawl

Five Americans went drinking in Prague, led by one Finnish expat. Add 5 pints of high alcohol beer, add five hours of walking. Meet my night of pubcrawling Prague.

Our guide, Niki, has a backpack when we arrive. I, however, have opted for fabulous shoes. I figured there’s no way a tour company is going to plan on dragging

drunk tourists around very far. He has sturdy walking shoes, do the other guests. I may have underestimated this one. Ah, well.

We exchange names and I instantly recognize one couple as the people I sat next to on a tram in Paris a few days ago. It breaks some ice when I tell them I was enjoying their American accents, as I figured I would be without any of those very soon. And the woman had incredible skin (L.A., of course!). The other couple are related to them, so it’s a cozy group of sic for an entire evening.

I say this with true enthusiasm. I got to ride a subway! After riding a ridiculously steep escalator built by the Soviets to the underground system, we boarded our train to a different part of Prague 1. It’s then that I realize I will need a cab home. The buildings are very tall and there’s no way I can dead reckon at night here. And there isn’t a chance I am doing this alone at midnight.

Our first stop is a neighborhood pub, U Sadu, a dark and charming place full of smoke, antiques and locals. And dogs! A  Soviet broadcast station  towers over the rooftops as we step into the cozy bar at the end of a long block of houses. Our first beer in a sadek. No ideas what that means but it’s unfiltered and mild. It’s really drinkable with a natural head from fermentation, not the tap. We get to sample some local tapas as well, pork on skewers with hot horseradish and mustard. The group is chatty and really loves beer. The evening already bodes well. 

I have given up on timekeeping, but we leave after our beer is gone and the smoke is starting to get to us a bit (there is a non smoking side, but it’s much more charming on this side, so we endured).  Outside, another look at the Soviet station shows babies crawling the tower, their faces replaced with barcodes. Turns out it is art representing the life under communism. We will encounter more by the artist as the night wears on. 

Our second stop is Kulový blesk, probably my favorite stop of the night. A long corridor leads to a staircase leads to a stairwell leads to a  room with taps that leads to room after room of tables and drinking spaces. Here will we have two beers, which is great because there is a lot to choose from. The walk here was 10 minutes at least, which I am thankful for because it burns off some alcohol. 

Our guide orders pickle sausage. It’s pink, like Spam, and arranged on top of a pile of cabbage. I gently draw some chips from the basket as I eye the meat on the plate, accompanied by chili, garlic and horseradish sauces.  I’m not so sure on this one. Oh, well, when in Rome! I take a small bite. Delicious. Tastes like cold pickled meat, washed down by friendly Czech beer. 

Yes, I said friendly Czech beer. It’s smooth, a little sweet and not acidic. Consider Palate Wrecker, Arrogant Bastard or even a Shock Top. These are all big, in your face, distinctive American beers. Even the Czech IPA is mildly hoppy, but has a sophistication that lingers more like a finish than an aftertaste. 

It’s a glorious hour and a half as the conversation turns to life, our tongues loosened by imbibing and the charm of a foreign locale. My new friends are going to Krakow. To Auschwitz, really. They are going because they are German and want to see it for themselves. They have budgeted four hours. I tell them it might not be that long, remembering my own trip to a concentration camp at Neuengamme. Even the smaller ones are terrifying, tragic and transforming. It’s like four hours of Schindler’s List, only it’s not pretend and you were either on one side or the other of the fence. I hope the the experience goes well, for they are very humbled and honored to get to visit. 

The bars stay open mostly until 11, so we must leave our charming place if we want to see more. I have noticed a bob and weave in our group, except our guide, who orders small beers to our large and water. We rotate pairs for chatting, telling and retelling our lives, dreams, thoughts about traveling. We all agree that Prague has been spectacular. From food to people to sightseeing, it’s charming. 

We pause at a train station for facilities, but I am really startled by a piece of art in the hall. It’s a sculpture of a horse, upside down and dead, with St Wenceslas, patron saint of the Czech and former king, riding the dead horse. As a horse owner, I was disturbed, certainly. As our guide explains the piece, I gain some understanding. It’s a symbol that the people can no longer live in the past. It’s by the same artist who did the alien babies,  David Černý. It’s a direct response to the three story high statue of Wenceslas in the square bearing his name. 

Our third stop is a homey place called U Pinkasů. It’s warm enough to strip all our layers. We order their pilsner and sink in to the warmth. It’s getting colder and i can see why people are hesitant to leave, If this is March, I wonder about December. It feels like Seattle in late fall. The conversation muddles with the beer and the late hour, our talk has turned to our names. One of our group was named by her father in a 24 hour visit home from Viet Nam which resulted in Dionne as a middle name. Although she doesn’t care for the moniker, we laugh with her when she says it illustrates her Dad’s sense of humor- because he tells people she is named after his Viet Namese hooker (not at all true, mind you)! I suggest she announce at Christmas she will now be going by Shanikwa. 

We have time for one more stop, but before we leave, we visit the ancient tap set in a wall in the cellar. It’s dated late 1800s, I believe. Everywhere we go, it seems we are so young in  city so old, just a gaggle of 30 and 40 year olds retracing a paths of a city centuries old (900 AD).

Our last stop is at U Tří Růží, a modern looking pub. Every place we have been brews their own beer or has craft beer on tap. One of my favorite, this beer blending the robust  and spicy body of a red with the malty foam of...Czech beer. It was almost Belgian, although not sweet. 

It’s the end of the night and we are getting recommendations fro Niki about tomorrow, although mine will be short as I am leaving for Vienna midday. He pores over our maps with a pen, circling sites for beer, (like the beer spa, where you can soak in a vat of beer while drinking it as well) and drawing walking maps. We discuss the probability and possibility of colliding again in Budapest in a few days, exchanging hotel information and numbers.

Finally, we pour ourselves into the late evening air, ending around 11. Although I am worried about getting to my hotel, Niki assures me he is not dumping me in a cab or on a train. We part ways with the gang who have opted for more revelry in a wine bar we have just passed while I, quite fuzzy headed but still upright, have opted for sleep. 

As we walk the ten minutes back to Republic Square, I realize I am completely turned around. I thought we were south, but we were west. I haven’t really had to worry about my location, because I had forgotten I was traveling a bit. I felt like I was home drinking with my cousins. What a wonderful thing, to leave your country, meet strangers and feel adopted by the end of a few hours. 

I kind of feel like that’s how many countries treat visitors. Come in, sit. Have a beer, talk to me, rest. Be happy. 

Or at least, that’s what the Czech do.

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Urban Adventures http://www.urbanadventures.com/destination/Prague_tours

Žižkov Television Tower http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Žižkov_Television_Tower

David Černý http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Černý

Weceslas Riding the Dead horse http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cerný_Wenceslas.JPG

Wenceslas Square http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wenceslas_Square

The Messy American in 506 March 25, 2014 Prague, Czech Republic

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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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.

I am alive, Amen. Prague March 23, 2014

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.