How to tell about Prague!

How does one tell about Prague? Three weeks of Prague?

You try but know you’re not doing it justice. Also one doesn’t show too many photo’s. Someone else’s travel pics are hardly ever gripping stuff.

So, you tell about the historical background, the art, the music that’s everywhere: on market squares, street corners, bridges. In churches and chapels. You tell about the dark periods of war and communism that left  scars throughout the city. About the river, the legends, the funeral of Vaclav Havel. You marvel at the many many sculptures everywhere: on bridges, against walls, inside walls, on rooftops. Sculptures as pillars for roof structures, sculptures that grace the corners of buildings, or crown them. Sculptures kneeling, praying, dancing, suffering.

You tell about a strange sculpture of a dead horse hanging upside down from it’s legs with the knighted St. Wenscelas sitting on it’s stomach. It hangs from the ceiling of an Art deco palace where a movie theatre shows posters of Johnny Depp in a newly released film. He seems even more enigmatic being presented in Czech.

You tell about the myraid of towers and spires of cathedrals, castles, palaces, powder and bridge towers. You tell about the 17 bridges that span the great Vltava river which flows through the city for 31 km. About the Celtic people who first came there and founded the city. And about icons like Kafka, Mucka, Good King Wenceslas, Saint Wenceslas, St. Vitus, St. Nepomuk.

You describe the efficiency of the public transport system with trams, buses and the underground metro running like clockwork and spreading across the city like crab’s legs. You tell about the trips you took in all directions up to where the tram tracks end. Where not many tourists go and where the huge housing projects of the Communist era (panelaks) hug the city like a castle wall. Always present on the horizon, a constant reminder of the oppressing days of communist rule. Where life even now, doesn’t much resemble the fairy tale of Old Mother Prague played out in the romantic older parts of the city.

You explain how the cold differs from what we experience on the South African Highveld. How to be outside  gradually chills you from the outside but it doesn’t settle in your bones, because indoors, whether it be shop, chapel, house or restaurant, it is gloriously heated. Gluhwein, hot chocolate and trudlniks, sausages and sauerkraut offered at the traditional Christmas markets lend a cosy, festive air to the season. You exclaim how a winter Christmas has all the magic you imagined it would have paging through your childhood picture books. You tell of the trumpets sounding hourly from the clock tower of the old Town Hall. You tell how snow drifts down softly, quietly, how it glistens on your clothes.  

You tell about the eras in architecture and decor to be seen: Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque, Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Modernistic. Of the Jewish Quarter, the Old Town, Lesser Town and New Town: all older  than 700 years. You tell of Prague Underground, the original old town dating back to the 12th and 13th century, virtually intact and  forming the basis of the city that was built on top of it. .Parts are still being used as storage or even dining areas for restaurants. And about the nuclear bunker that can house 2500 people and that has never been used. Which now lies hidden behind its enforced concrete wall, which for all its strength, is not immune to the graffiti spreading like an epidemic throughout the city. You tell about the St. Vitus Cathedral which took 800 years to complete.

You tell of a people who at first seemed rather grim and reserved, but who patiently count out the change in your hand when they realise you get confused with the strange coins. Who beam at you when you greet them with a “dobra den”. You tell of tall men with intelligent eyes set in wide foreheads and girls who could all be supermodels. You tell of well groomed elderly people in beautiful furs and woolen jackets. Of beggars with thoroughbred dogs asleep on quilts and blankets. Of the artists on the Charles bridge, drawing and painting in the freezing cold. Of workers in winter overalls working like all workers everywhere. Of small groups of young men round whom you rather take a detour where they huddle together in a park, but who will offer you their seats on the tram because you’re older or a woman. Of grandmothers and grandchildren returning from their outing together, conversing softly with each other on the trams. Of the beautiful, translucent skins of students sitting bent over their books.

You tell of the peculiar sense of humor Czechs share: like the existence of a museum filled with designs by a genius who never became famous.

You tell of good coffee and excellent food. Of winter sales that drive you mad because you’ll never be able to fit all the bargains into you suitcase to bring back home.

You tell of the time spent with your friends in this, their  “new” country. Of their cosy apartment where you came home every evening after a day out in the cold. Of the evenings spent together: preparing supper, listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. Of a milestone birthday celebrated with “Bobotie en geelrys” and Christmas with a real fir tree. Of the trip together to a small ski resort to experience some serious snow, standing knee deep in it.  Of seeing the New Year in together, watching the display of fireworks over the Charles Bridge. Piling into a taxi for the trip to the airport and having a farewell coffee at Costas.

You don’t share everything with everybody. People have varying interests which have to be taken into account. Also, you don’t want to sound obsessed, but you’re brimming over with all you have experienced.

But you do tell everyone that the word “prague” means door or threshold. And you explain that that is what  has happened to you. You have crossed a threshold into an as yet unknown place. You say that if the threshold is so extraordinary, you feel exited about what lies ahead.

So now we’re back. Or are we? Is it indeed us? Is this where we departed from? Or have we arrived somewhere new? Each day in one’s life is like a droplet of water falling into a pond. Most of our days hardly make any difference. The drops of our Prague days will cause a ripple that will keep on circling outward in our lives.

Matilda

Charles Bridge across the mighty Vltava river

Old Jewish Cemetry

Christmas on the Old Town Square