Prague Sprung

On a train leaving Prague, collecting my thoughts.
 
One "train" of thought concerns Prague itself. For example, that the term "Prague spring" takes on a wonderful meaning when I recall the lilac bushes that perfumed the air and the towering spikes of the chestnut trees in bloom. The city is as beautiful as everyone describes, with churches and towers going back past the 13th century, and ornate shops and residences from the 19th lining the streets. On my first day I began to suffer neck fatigue after hours of gazing upward and whipping my head from side to side. 
 
Of course, I was not the only one doing that. As I had been warned, I found myself among tourists so numerous that, in comparison, a day in Disneyland could be considered solitude. There appeared to be two types of tourists. The first are those that move in packs and swarms, all following the short woman in front holding her furled umbrella aloft. Most of these crowds spoke languages I could not understand - probably Czech or Russian or Hungarian. Several spoke German. I overheard one Spanish group, no Italian, no French.  English, when spoken by the guides, was usually to a mixed multitude of Brits, Americans, Swedes, Italians, Koreans and others forced to rely on the default international language of tourism. I would eavesdrop on these umbrella-waving founts of knowledge, and was generally unimpressed with either their breadth or their depth. Some historical factoids here, some memorized statistics there, but rarely an interesting analysis or a well-told story. This was reinforced by the leader of my tour through the Pilsen brewing plant who, having faithfully memorized everything the company told her to say, actually knew nothing about beer. And the guides I overheard leading groups through the Jewish synagogues and museums who actually knew nothing about Judaism. But perhaps I am over-critical here since, when it comes to Judaism and to beer, I am fairly knowledgeable about one and make pretensions to be knowledgeable about the other (you get to choose).
 
The second type of tourist, and I'm in this group, shuns the mindlessness and ease of following a guide, opting instead to set their own pace and direction through the city. These tourists can be found at every intersection of that rat-warren of streets and passageways that twist and terminate through the medieval unplanned Old Town. And all of them are twisting and turning the tiny little maps they got at the tourist office while searching the nearby buildings in desperate quest of a street name. Imagine, if you will, a handful of spaghetti, of varying lengths and mixed with some pieces of mushroom or tomato, cooked, flung against a wall and photographed. Now reduce the photo to one quarter of its useful size. You are holding in your hand a street map of Prague, and it is your task to follow the illegible spaghetti past the tomato chunk to see the famous olive while blobs of sauce, led by small women with toothpicks, swirl around you.
 
And what, bedsides the justifiably famous sights such as the Prague Castle and the Charles Bridge, did I see? Well, I saw a lot of buskers and musicians playing to the crowds. Some were in formal dress playing classical instruments; some in medieval dress with ancient horns or hurdy-gurdies; many were brass combos belting out jazz or swing. My eye was caught by one young hackysacker doing really impressive kicks and leaps. He was trying to raise funds to go to the World Hackysack Competitions in July in Canada. Since I enjoyed him in his country it seemed only fitting that I should help him enjoy mine, so I contributed. My eye was also caught, again and again, by a much more distressing form of seeking funds. Here beggars get down on their knees, faces pressed to the sidewalk, with an open hat or cup held outstretched before them. They hold that pose for hours. No eye contact, just self-abasing humiliation.
 
I also saw a repeating set of stores. One was tattoo and piercing parlours. I know these are now worldwide and proliferating, but even so it seemed Prague held more than its own population could reasonably support. That's certainly the case with all those places selling absinthe. Green absinthe. Red absinthe. Absinthe 35. Absinthe 70. And endless variations on the theme of hemp absinthe, usually in bottles decorated with marijuana designs. (And no, I never did bother to sample any of it. As I never tried a becherovka cocktail or even a glass of slivovitz. As I said before, I fancy myself a beer man, and when in Czechia...). But if the tattoos and absinthe aimed at one demographic, it was overwhelmed by all the stylish and less than stylish places advertising Thai Massage. Excuse me, but just what is Thai Massage anyway? I could never figure out if it was self pampering for affluent women or erotic services for lonely men. And why so many of them in Prague? Do those in search of traditional Thai culture fly to Bankok so they can experience Czech pedicures?
 
On a far more serious tone: I went to the Museum of Communism. Billed as "a balanced look at this country's 45 years", it was the most angry exhibition I have ever toured. A Palestinian Museum of Zionism couldn't use more loaded language and repressive exhibits. But having talked with several people here, it is not surprising. Over and over I heard stories of scarcity and ideological repression. Of people dismissed from their jobs or blocked from advancement because they chose to speak. Of a bloated workforce that didn't work and a public service that didn't serve. Communism ended here 23 years ago, and people remember it like yesterday. And spit.
 
I also went to the Franz Kafka Museum. As a museum it reminded me of the Dalí­ Museum in Figueres, Spain, that Ruth and I visited years ago. That one was so deliberately weird as to be truly Dalí­esque. This one was so deliberately grim and disorienting as to be Kafkaesque. No windows. Sloping black walls. Paths and staircases to nowhere. Videos of Prague streets through distorted lenses. Long corridors of filing cabinets labelled Max Brod, Josph K., Gregor Samsa.... And through it all, reprints of his letters, copies of his novels, wordy analyses of his childhood, his Jewishness, his relationships and the refutation of the accepted understandings of his writings without the offer of alternate interpretations.
And for you Vancouver habitués of a certain coffee shop, I will say I went to the Kafka Kafehaus in the building where he was born.
 
And, of course, I went to see the Jewish Museum, the old synagogues and graveyard, but that's material enough for a whole other letter.
 
 
But, as I sit on this train rolling now in Germany, my second "train of thought", this one more personal:
I cried in Prague. I suppose that's no surprise as I still cry nearly every day, no matter where I am. But I cried in Prague for what Devora Greenberg called the presence of Ruth's absence. I was in Prague because Ruth wanted to take me there and show me around. And as I looked around, as I stood on a bridge over the Moldau and beheld the wonderful skyline of opera houses and church spires, I wanted my guide physically beside me. I wanted her to be impressed as I navigated backwards a route I had laboured to learn forward, as I did for us in all the new places we explored. I wanted her to be proud that I continued her frugal traveling methods by buying cheese and rolls (or taking extra from my hotel breakfast) for lunch rather than spending time and money in a restaurant. And then I wanted to blow the money saved by taking her into the pretty wine garden overlooking the city so she could have a mid-afternoon glass of house red. But all I could do was tell her what I wanted, as I'm telling you now, teardrops falling on my iPad, and listen for the answer in the wind.
 
I was afraid of this part of the trip. Afraid to travel alone, to walk alone through the streets, to sit alone in the restaurants, to return alone to my hotel room. Oh I know, kwitcherbitchen, others have done this for years. But the pain of others is no balm to me. And, as I feared, the loneliness made me wonder why I was doing this at all! Probably because I promised Ruth that I would, that I would carry on, that I would live for both of us.
 
But people had said to me "Don't worry. As a single person you will meet others." Unlikely - I'm not 22 any more.
And I met others. I met a young Brazilian man who is studying in Barcelona. We went for beer together and then one day, at his suggestion, we took the train to Pilsen, famous for the brewery (mentioned above) and also the location of the third largest synagogue in Europe (closed, unfortunately, when we were there so I could only take some exterior photos). And I got his observations about Prague - people's eyes are blue and their cabs are yellow. I hadn't noticed the first and, if I did notice the second it's cultural incongruity somehow escaped me. But in Brazil everyone's eyes are brown and all their cabs are white. Makes me wonder what trivia fills his blog.
 
And I went to a small liberal congregation for Erev Shavuot. Alone. To hear the Book of Ruth which is traditionally read at that time. And to say Kaddish for Ruth in the city she wanted me to see. And I met people. I met a woman who works for the government in the Corruption Department ( I think we would call it something like the Conflict Of Interest Commission) who met me the next day and showed me some of her favorite spots in the city. (That's where I learned some of my family-under-Communism stories. I told her some of my life-with-Ruth stories in exchange.) Our evening ended at a rooftop restaurant under the stars overlooking the Old Town Square. It almost felt like "a date". Was this what Ruth wanted me to do?
 
And I met a young fellow studying Jewish Theology at Prague University. ("You're studying what? Where?"). He was all excited to learn about liberal Jewish communities abroad and somehow viewed me as a Divinely-sent expert. We talked for over an hour, and I was invited to join his family for Shabbat dinner. Taking the tram to their house in a Communist era complex of massive block apartments was a different view of the city. His parents had been operatic singers. His father died a few years ago but I was directed to some of his recordings on YouTube. His mother gave me a CD of her work. Then she shared living with the presence of his absence. We sat around the table singing "hashiveinu" (her voice far more beautiful than mine) and I learned still more stories of the past (the girlfriend's grandfather had been a founding signator to Charter 77). As a family they were only learning their Jewishness- the Communist era was no time to recover what the Nazi years had destroyed- and we all took bittersweet comfort in our gaining shared ground. It was a beautiful Shabbat, and I know Ruth enjoyed it also.
 
The conductor has just announced 5 minutes to Berlin. Gotta go. Part three of the European Magical Mystery Tour is waiting to take me away.
 
Avi

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