| Prague 1998
The Czech Republic was not part of the Eurail network so we had to purchase a separate fare for the trip from Gmund on the Austrian border to Prague. The countryside with its pine plantations and green pastures could have passed for parts of Western Victoria, except for the fact that every hill seemed to have a castle or villa on top reflecting the fact that this region was fought over repeatedly in the past. Perhaps someone should have pointed out this strategic importance of high ground to the builders of Kryal Castle back home, given that it sits at the foot of a wooded hill undermining its important role in guarding the Eastern approaches to Ballarat from hordes of donut eating medieval play actors and tripped out ravers sucking on Chuppa Chups, who continually lay siege to it.
Tina had delivered. The apartment would have comfortably slept 6 adults, was walking distance to the old town and for forty bucks a night it was a steal. The only catch was that it was on the top floor of a five story building that had no elevators. We lugged our gear up the stairs like sherpas and then split up to explore the city.
Praha, as the locals call it, is a city of extreme contrasts. Having only recently emerged from fifty years of oppressive occupation, first from the Nazis and then the Russians, it is quite grubby in contrast to the pristine monuments, (horseshit aside), of Vienna. The commies obviously did not hold architectural aesthetics in great regard and it is not uncommon to see magnificent gothic towers and domes sitting slap bang next to concrete blocks that served as office blocks under the rule of the red flag. Much of the history had also been neglected however it would seem that this is gradually being rectified by local politicians and businessmen who recognise its tourist value, with many of the ancient structures undergoing renovations and often covered in English signage containing pleas for donations to assist in this process. I tossed a Czech Carona into the tin as I passed.
The exchange rate in Prague was the best that we would encounter on our trip and in comparison to elsewhere we lived like royalty. I actually allowed myself the luxury of lunch and dined on a baguette amidst the clouds of pigeons in the square named after the Good King Wenceslas of Christmas carol fame. His armour clad statue on horse back providing an appropriate backdrop. Next stop was the astrological clock where crowds gather on the hour to watch the mechanical transitions of statues of the Apostles and their entourage around the clock face. Nearby skeleton statues and other varied characters watch on from murals and carvings. It is like a large scale morbid version of the mechanical cuckoo clocks we had seen in Switzerland and that L had bought and spent a small fortune mailing home the week before.
The Charles Bridge provided our access to the old city from our apartment. Lined with Baroque statues of saints complete with halos the bridge is a truly romantic setting. During the day it is crammed with artists, buskers and merchants selling wares. At night it is quite spooky and provides a great vantage point to view the floodlit Prague Castle which dominates the hilltop beyond. INXS filmed the video clip for “Never Tare Us Apart” in Praha on the bridge and various vantage points around the castle. Unfortunately Michael Hutchence’s lyrics were wasted on us and in keeping with the ironic karma of our trip, the city of romance became the venue for our official split.
The metaphorical elephant that had been sharing our hotel rooms since London finally impaled itself on a tusk and quietly bled to death in a corner. L had voiced the words that had become painfully obvious to both of us but that we had been tip toeing around for the past week. When she said it finally she paused and took a nervous step backward as if expecting some sort of emotional reaction. It was blunt and succinct. Not quite the inconsiderate “You’re Dropped”, of the school playground but close to it. I simply said OK, and a few seconds later the tension was broken by us both pissing ourselves laughing. Over the next few hours we demolished the best part of three bottles of red as we rehashed the past few months. An emotional post mortem ensued and by the time we crashed into our separate single beds we had aired most of the dirty laundry and agreed to try and make the best of the rest of the trip. L called what she wanted to do the next day and I undertook to ensure we did not cross paths. In this manner we effectively marked out our daily territories in piss. If we could just stay out of each other’s way we might just survive the next few weeks.
Cobblestone clattering through the streets of the old city. Hungover, struggling for breath I conquer the stone staircase to the top of the Powder Tower. As L had called Prague Castle as her destination of choice for the day I hit the museums. Like Vienna the museums were full of grand displays of armour and armaments and I killed most of the day wandering around the exhibitions. The building itself stands at the end of a long promenade that serves as the demarcation between the quaint old city quarter and the cookie cutter concrete edifices of the communist office blocks. Next door to the Vojenske Historicke Muzeum was the former broadcast home of Radio Free Europe a bastion of freedom from the communist era celebrated in an REM song of the same name. Another Michael Stipe song popped into my head as I left, it was The end of the world as I knew it but I felt fine.
Dixieland Jazz on the Charles Bridge provided a soundtrack to the long queues out the front of the Yugoslav embassy. Kosovo was in the news. NATO poised. Would they or wouldn’t they? Clinton talking tough - Please no real wars now that my emotional battle was in a state of truce.
Bloody beggars! Years of working in welfare had hardened me to the scammers. My bum tolerance was low and every street corner had its own sorrowful soul clad in a black scarf and rocking back and forward seemingly in her death throes. Two old gypsy women sat around the corner from each other providing almost mirror image symmetry. Each apparently shy a leg and tapping the ground with a gnarled walking stick to attract the attention of passers by. I am not sure whether it was via my glance back and chuckle or other means but the two suddenly became aware of each other and so ensued a turf war between two now fully limbed and apparently fairly fit women. My last vision of them was of traded blows and high pitched squeals before the crowds swallowed them up and they were gone.
Dinner of goulash and other traditional stews - Vino a plenty. Rehashing the day’s highlights half heartedly. I walked L back to the apartment and then hit the town. I deserved a night out by myself. I found an Irish bar near the Charles Bridge proving that like weeds they spring up everywhere. It was called Scarlett O’Hara’s Bar, had Guinness on tap and the World Cup on big screens. I settled in to watch Nigeria versus Paraguay chatting idly to the Scot behind the bar. Two more soccer games and many pints later I toasted the framed Gone With The Wind poster and my own Scarlett back in the apartment. Frankly my dear I no longer gave a damn.
The day of the endless staircases. I had wisely swapped the Blundstones for a pair of runners having put my feet through tortures that the dungeon master of Prague Castle would have been proud of. The bang, bang, bang of hard soles on stone and concrete had taken its toll on my flat feet. Now I stood midway up a steep hill looking up towards Prague Castle on the summit regretting passing up the opportunity for easy passage provided by the funicular tram several blocks down the slope. Casting aside point of no return anxiety I soldiered on, sweating out the Guinness of the night before with every step.
My laboured ascent certainly gave me an appreciation for the defensive advantages of the castle’s positioning. Any marauding Turk or Mongol warrior would be pretty buggered before they even had a chance to shoot their bow in anger. Not to mention copping everything from arrows to boiling oil raining down on their heads as they climbed. Sort of like an umpire trying to make his way back to the dressing rooms at Victoria Park after a narrow Collingwood loss.
The view from the top was of a sea of red tiled roofs extending into the distance occasionally lapping round an office block or church spire with the network or streets meandering along the river contours. The castle itself had stoic guards on duty all dolled up in their finest duds. They put on a bit of a performance a few of times a day with an extravagant Changing of the Guards ceremony. In their blue regalia they stood at attention on either side of the main gate under large statues of dramatic brutality. On the left a cowering foe is put to the sword by a bare chested assailant who clearly proved that the sporting of an abdominal six pack predated the Ab-Blaster of the late night infomercials. Obviously not modelled on local hero and pencil thin Aussie open champ Petr Korda. On the right another brute was poised to spank his victims head over the mid wicket boundary with a block of wood the size of a fence post. Just outside the gates was an armament museum and I killed a couple of hours examining further ways to kill and maim. The spires may have looked like Disneyland all lit up at night but they stood witness to a dark and violent history.
Inside Prasky Hrad, to give the castle its Czech name, lay St Vitius Cathedral a gothic structure as grandiose as it is forbidding. The church must also lay claim to being one of the most over time and budget construction jobs in history. According to the tour guide the first sod was turned way back in the 13th century and since then despite every generation of monarch having had a go at extending and refining the building, it is still not officially finished. I hope the contractors are not on an hourly rate.
The steeple tower has a lookout accessible via a spiral stone staircase worn slippery smooth by visitors. The steps narrow towards the middle that makes for an interesting descent in the cramped stairwell where one slip can result in a domino cascade of bodies to the forecourt below. The art seemingly being to ensure that person preceding you was bigger and fatter than the one immediately behind thus limiting your impact should any carnage ensue on the way down.
Happy hour at the Beer Hall, the perfect solution to our sober polarity conflict. A selection of meats and stews, Pilsner beer in steins and flavoured schapps shots on demand. More drunken banter but this time we had passed tipping point. There would be no reconciliation however brief the opportunity and uninhibited the mind.
Surely they must milk cows in the Czech Republic. I had seen cattle grazing in green pastures as we sped past on the train. Yet I could find nowhere to buy a carton or bottle of milk. I had been tasked with the mission the previous day of procuring breakfast items for our apartment. Bread, spreads and even wine was easily sourced at a variety of general stores and small supermarkets that dotted the area. However milk was surprisingly absent. My enquiries in English were met with polite shrugs of incomprehension. Whether it was due to an outbreak of mad cow disease, a milk maids strike or simply lactose intolerance on a national scale I could not figure. The end result was that the corn flakes were eaten dry.
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