Na Shledanou

The countdown until my flight home has begun. Thirteen more days until I say goodbye to Prague and return to California. I'm not exactly reluctant to leave Prague- so much Christmas cheer has made me miss home a little (not to mention the 70 degree weather in LA). However, I do think I will miss this city as soon as I leave. After Christmas, or maybe New Years, when the novelty of home has worn off and I've sufficiently gorged on all the peanut butter and mexican food I've been missing out on, I suspect I'll long for these cobble stone streets again. As soon as a crave a good beer or remember the view from Letna, I'll surely miss Prague.

However, I hope that I don't recall Prague through rose colored lenses, like a beautiful, blurry image printed on a post card. I hope that Charles Bridge and Old Town Square are not the only sights that stand out in my mind. Unlike a tourist or a local, I have experienced Prague as both a transient visitor and a resident. I have seen the famed sights of Prague but spent most of my time frequenting local spots and trying to escape  the masses surrounding the historic districts. More than Prague Castle, Tesco and the dark basements of pubs dominated my time spent here. This perhaps is not an unusual summarization of the experience of a study abroad student in Prague, but I do think this is a special perspective not often offered visitors. Students are afforded a unique position in the city. They are encouraged to gain exposure to the foreign culture and interact with the native inhabitants, yet are kept at bay. However, despite the limitations of this position I'd like to think I have come to form some understanding of the city. I have learned the many contradictions and strange features that characterize the city that often avoid the criticism of the natives and the attention of visitors. And I have come to love the city in a strange way. In a more complete way than any tourist and not motivated by inherent feelings of nationalism. I hope that I will come back to visit Prague sometime in the future, but if not, I am content in knowing that I have a true and lasting image of it in my mind. 

Christmas Market

I love Christmas Markets in Prague. They have all my favorite things. Svarak. Roasted Chestnuts. Those wonderfully crispy potato chips. I vow to go everyday before I leave. 

A December Visitor

Yesterday, I showed my mom around Prague. We walked through Old Town Square, through the Jewish Quarter, down the river to Charles Bridge, and of course, to the Castle. Despite having lived in the city for a little over three months now, I probably had visited these places maybe only twice before during the early weeks of the semester and had not re-approached them since. While in the initial excitement of my stay in Prague I had no qualms joining the throngs of tourists in their usual tour of the city, as I spent more time in Prague and the routine of my day to day life evolved into that of a resident (at least semi-permanent), I shared the natives' resentment of the transitory visitors. Even as the crowds began to die out in late September, I avoided the historical districts at all costs, and when forced, would move quickly and self-confidently through the tourists that blocked my path. Amongst friends, I would speak dismissively about the tourist traps and kitschy museums, most of which I had seen only briefly or, in the case of the castle, not at all. My mom's trip to Prague, however, against my better wishes, forced me to revisit the same places I had written off as tourist pit holes. 

We walked the usual route- from monument to monument with stops to overpriced cafes and ridiculous gimmicky stores peppered between. While the places were familiar to me, much had changed with the changing of the seasons. What squares were crowded hubs of foreigners throughout August and September, are now nearly abandoned. Tourists who want to have their picture taken in front of the Astrological Clock no longer had to push their way to the front and fight off those who would walk into the picture. It was empty. Since I had long associated these parts of Prague with tourism (and thus written them off) this altered landscape left me unsettled and a little confused. In winter, when the last bus of tourists leaves the city, is Prague return to the locals? If the tourist machine is still in place and functioning during this time, only less frequently used, does it affect the city in the same way? And, in light of these seasonal discrepancies, how does my mom perceive Prague? Without the crowds of tourists, it is difficult to distinguish tourist Prague and 'real' Prague. And while I had previously thought these two images of the city were one in the same, in the apparent absence of tourists prompts me to question whether there in fact is some form of authenticity hidden beneath the underpinnings of the tourist industry that is only exposed during this time of the year.

My mom, unaware that the city had undergone any change, cannot be expected to interpret Prague in the same way I had when I first arrived. Empty save for a few visitors mixed unsuspiously with Czech natives, the city seems to be wholly authentic- a city well preserved in its history and steeped in unadulterated culture. And I suppose I can't blame her for thinking this way. Without the masses of tourists swarming about, the city seems more real and more functioning. When walking to the Castle or across Old Town Square, you don't feel like one of hundreds experiencing the same manufactured city, but rather it seems that a less savvy bystander could mistake you for a local. And that is much the aim of tourists: to blend in, to experience the true culture. Tourists never want to feel like tourists. And yet, the city they are exposed to, though seeming to be more authentic, is the same one seen and photographed by the many summer visitors. The only difference is the company in which they experience the city is decidingly less dense. While this obviously alters the perception of the tourist, the reality remains the same. Like the postcards sold in bulk by souvenir shops, the image of Prague in the mind of every past visitor is the same- stunning, beautiful, yet a mere facade of a city. 

Five Unsolved Mysteries

I. Mustek's Musk

Every day, at all hours, the escaltor down to the subway platform at Mustek reeks of cheap, cheese-flavored junk food- specifically, cheese puffs. Unique amongst all of the metro stations I have visited in Prague, Mustek's mysterious odor rises from an unknown source and permeates throughout the passage way. Though metro stops could and have smelled more offensive, the scent of Mustek is jarring in its utter recognizability. Yesterday, a friend (who had never been to Prague before) and I jumped on the metro at Mustek. When I asked him to name the smell hanging around the escalator, my friend without hestiation or dely, pegged it squarely- cheetohs or cheddar popcorn. It is uncanny. And a bit nasciating as if I myself reeked of gorging on bags and bags of artifically flavored snack food. Although I have done my best to investigate, the origin of the scent remain indistinguishable and so the mystery continues. 

II. Peacocks

To most, the peacock is exotic- perhaps the most exotic bird still recognized by sight by school children and learned fowl fans alike. The distinctive plumage displays its foreign origin when considered next to the sparrows and pigeons that dominate my native sky. The males especially, with their elaborate fan of tail feathers, strut around American zoos as a symbol of a land so mysterious, dazzling, and far away that it cannot be fixed on a map but exists only as a mirage in our collective imagination. This however, is my own personal perspective formed by mere limited exposure to the birds. Residents of Prague, I'd gather, would not share my view. Peacocks are startingly common fixtures in the city, sharing the crumbs of discarded bread and park shade with the most common breeds of the same species. In Vojanovy Sady, for instance, perhaps ten peacocks both male and female, reside completely unfettered and undisturbed. When I saw them for the first time two weeks ago, I was sure they had escaped from some unseen cages and must be rounded up and put back in a protected enclosure. No other Praguer, however, seemed to shared my panic, but instead continued to take slow drags on their cigarettes while the peacocks pecked at discarded butts at their feet. Vojanovy Sady is not the only park in which these birds find shelter. The Wallenstein Garden has several gleaming blue-green birds and two rare white ones scattered throughout their grounds. Nestled within the vast grounds of Kunraticky Les, several more birds can be found adjacent to the stalls of pigs and goats in an often ignored petting zoo. While it seems impossible to consider peacocks native to the Czech Republic (or any other central European country for that matter) it is challenging to explain their numerous existence without considering the possibility of a long history of popularity . Perhaps like the Czech's love of the ocean and the plethora f its exotic symbols, the peacock represents an image of foreign beauty. If this speculation is even near true though, they have ironically made mundane the very image they sought to preserve as exotic. Without some brief historical education on my own part, I'm afraid my interpretation is unfounded, and this too will remain a mystery to me. 

III. Russian Nesting Dolls

Most of the nic-nacs that vendors sell around the historic districts of Prague do not make much sense to me. But of all these useless decorations and chachkies, the Russian nesting dolls seem the most ridiculous. Though the Czech Republic is obviously bound in some ways to their former Soviet mother-country, the dolls are share no part at all in the culture of the Czech Republic. Sold in an overwhelming range of sizes, designs, and characters, the dolls are meant to (and do successfully) entice tourists who may recognize their image as purchase them because they represent the general post-Soviet bloc of European countries. Completely ignorant of the actual culture of the toy's origin, they blindly accept the doll as a memento of Prague. Perhaps the existance of the Russian nesting dolls is not so absurd (as it is clearly a profitable sale), but why they are so popular with tourists will not cease to perplex me. 

IV. Beezzz

During the warmer months that precede fall, the abundance of bees throughout the city is frightening for anyone mildly frightened by the prospect of being stung, let alone someone with a severe allergy and a mandatory EPI pen. There seem to be swarms hovering and moving strategically in the air. No one is safe. Cafe patrons enjoying patio seating are endlessly pestered by the threatening buzz of the insect and they flutter around soda bottles and land on half-eaten lunches. Otherwise serene and relaxing parks become a battle site during these months and no one is safe from attack. Flowers in bloom attract and feed the insects, while several man made hives house their colony. The thought of the city funding and encouraging the presence of the bees is baffling. I have never seen so many bees in one city. And this makes sense when considering the nearly ridiculous selection of honey offered at grocery stores in Prague. Perhaps Czech honey is a profitable exported food product and a key compenent of the national economy? I suspect not, but beyond that I cannot explain Prague's bees further. 

V. Unfriendly Trams

The criticism that subway systems breed depersonalized human interaction , anonomity, and isolation by its effiancy and sterilization is not new to me. Nor do I think it is wrong. Metro uses travel quickly and directly from place to place without having to rely on human communication or interaction. This loss is one of the many sacrifices that many have said characterizes modernity. I never considered, however, that this characterization would extend to the tram system. Not necessarily a new means of transportation, the tram has long been used by urban commuters- especially those in Prague. Never receding under ground, the tram remains a place of light while the metro is always hidden in darkness. Stopping more frequently than the metro, the tram ushers a constant flow of people in and out. In such an atmosphere, I would expect friends would meet and daily commuters would chat. However, just as in the metro, the tram car is most often silent though packed with travelers. In my time in Prague, I have not quite grown accustomed to this. Even those who travel in groups, do not talk or engage with one and other when on the tram. It is as though it were an unwritten rule that the ride demands silence and those that would breach it are clearly disregarded as tourists. I learned this from experience in my first two weeks; I received enough dirty glances to shut me up for the whole semester. Though for a foreigner this my seem a somber law of social etiquette in Prague, I have accepted it more or less along with the other norms I cannot fathom. 

Burcak v. Beer

After two long months of monotonously guzzling foamy beer in the poorly lit basements of pubs, I have began to reminisce about the first several weeks of our semester in Prague when the weather was gorgeous and we had our first sips of burcak. Although we all drank our fair share of the famed Pilsner in those early days, wine season had just begun and celebratory festivals were held throughout the city and the Czech Republic more broadly. Though Czech wine has not achieved the wide notoriety enjoyed by their beer, I had heard Moravian grapes were quite good, and being generally more partial to wine than beer, was eager to try it. So a few of my friends and I went to a festival held at the Prague Botanical Gardens. The entrance wrapped around a slopped vineyard in steep switchbacks and vendors supplied with gallons of wine rested between every incline. When we finally finished the slow climb to the top, we jumped on the end of a vendor's line. Unsure of what was typically offered at these festivals, we were surprised to find that they did not sell matured wine, but only burcak. Also know as young wine, burcak is fermented fresh grape juice- a Czech favorite during the first month of harvest when it is the most fresh. Before the festival, I had had the drink once before at a pub in Prague. Having lost much of its natural sweetness and flavor, my first sips of burcak were hard to swallow. It smelled like rotten eggs and, with that aroma assaulting my palette, I could taste nothing else. Needless to say, I was skeptical about buying the full liter bottles sold at the festival, but decided if it burcak was ever going to be as good as native Czechs promised, it would be here. We bough two liters, a red and a white, for our group of five and continued into the garden were everyone else seemed to be gathered.

Perched on top of a sloping hill that backs into a thick forest, Prague's Botanical Garden had a wonderful panoramic view of the surrounding area but simultaneously felt removed from the neighboring urban landscape. The gardens themselves were well manicured and enjoying their last full bloom before fall. Between beds of flowers on the soft, flat grass everyone sat unceremoniously cross-legged, some on blankets, some with picnic baskets, but unanimously with two or three liters of burcak. While I've heard on several occasions that Czech's are having fewer and fewer children, it was hard to believe on that day with so many toddlers running about. It was a perfect day, bright and warm, and all the locals seemed to have the same idea of how to spend it. We stayed at the festival for hours and left as the sun was setting, bellies full of still fermenting burcak and skin tanned by the afternoon sun. Oh, and the burcak was amazing. Sweet, light, and slightly carbonated, it is as tasty as juice but surprisingly alcoholic. The sheer seasonal presence of the drink makes it even more delicious I think. Only available during the beginning of each harvest, good burcak is not offered throughout the year, and seems to be found the most fresh at festivals similar to that held at the Botanical Gardens.

While some countries have a culture of food that is bound to the traditions, customs, and land, the Czech Republic has a drinking culture. Most students studying abroad do not need to be told this, and in fact it is actually one of the most often cited reasons for their stay in Prague. Their interpretation and participation in the culture however, is fatally flawed. Generally, the Czechs do not binge drink every night and wake in a hungover stupor (as most students do). Rather than a means of inebriation, alcohol is meant to be tasted, enjoyed, and respected. I'm obviously not arguing that Czechs don't get hammered occasionally, but that they value the craft of making and the quality of alcohol. This drinking culture is separated into two seasonally dichotomous spheres- that of beer and that of wine. While pubs are frequented year round and the popularity of beer never wanes, the end of the summer and beginning of fall seems to be a time for wine and for burcak. Encouraged to enjoy the beverages outside in parks and gardens amongst family and friends, the sphere of wine culture in the Czech Republic is public, social, and takes advantage of the seasonal weather. The many festivals throughout Prague alone (not even considering those in Moravian wine country) reveals the underpinnings of this culture. Wine is focal point for gathering together, enjoying time outside, and socializing with one and other. Beer culture seems to be the antithesis. Mostly confined to pubs and bars, beer is consumed in dark, shadowy interiors and basements that provide protection from the harsh weather outside. The physical space of the pub deters communication and spontaneous socializing. Pub patrons drink their beers alone, perhaps with an accompanying friend, and usually do not extend themselves beyond their table to engage others. The pub, though traditionally a local gathering place, has become a mere pit stop to warm up and fill up on beer in the modern city. This characterization is not a harsh judgement and condemnation of beer culture, but rather I think it simply mirrors seasonal tendencies in human behavior. People enjoy relaxing and socializing outdoors in the summer and fall when weather is pleasant, but are inclined to become more reclusive in an effort to stay warm and comfortable in the colder months. While I miss those wine festivals and would love a tall glass of burcak in my hand right now, as winter progresses the cavernous basements of pubs, well insulated from the frigid wind outside, seem more and more attractive. 

Kafka

I, like most other students, was introduced to Franz Kafka in middle school. Predictably, my ninth grade class read the supposed easiest and most well known of his works- The Metamorphosis. While I marveled at the utter ridiculousness of the plot (unprecedented in my present literary canon) and was throughly entertained by the story, I did not truly grasp the nuances of Kafka's writing. Instead I praised the work for its simple, yielding explanation amongst the more obviously complex pieces of fiction we were given far too early as students. Years later as a freshman in college, I picked Metamorphosis up once again. Though my second reading proved to be more fruitful in drawing meaning and forming a few not altogether dumb conclusions, once again an aspect of the work eluded me. I had read several literary critics notes on Kafka's humor and subtle irony, but did not find myself laughing aloud while I read as these venerable critics promised. Once again, his work was beyond me. While this realization of my limitations as a reader of such an interesting and multidimensional writer was surely progress of some kind, at the time it seemed merely frustrating and I was content to shelve Kafka with the other authors I did not care to revisit.

After spending some time in Prague, however, I found it nearly impossible to avoid him for very long. The city is obsessed with Kafka. Bars and restaurants bare his name, mugs and t-shirts are decorated with his portrait, and guided tours of "Kafka's Prague" are offered. Right off of Old Town Square, sits the Franz Kafka cafe, where for an exorbitant change, you can sip a cappuccino in the author's old residence. (They do not care to mention that building that the Kafka family originally lived in was torn down and reconstructed when the Jewish Ghetto was rebuilt.) Once near the Jewish Quarter, his presence is unescapable. Plaques announce that this apartment or that building was once, briefly inhabited by the author and a bronze statue cast in his honor stands adjacent to the Spanish Synagogue. Since within these few blocks Kafka lived most of his life, the area is constantly crowded with devoted readers eager to retrace his steps and perhaps glimpse his view of the city. However, Kafka's presence is not confined within this perimeter, but extends throughout the whole of Prague. The belated author now constitutes his own (and quite profitable) sector in Prague's tourism industry. Nearly every museum (including those that have nothing to do with Kafka) and souvenir shop throughout the city sells poster, calendars, and key chains on which his face is printed. Kafka's image has become a commodity of tourism. His striking appearance is easily recognized by tourists (for they also read him when they were young) and, more importantly, is distinguished as famous, and therefore talented, Czech author. He is a clear, and perhaps the most communicated, representation of Czech culture. They very fact that the Franz Kafka museum is as popular and frequented as the Prague Castle underscores just how deep the Czech Republic's love affair with the author is. 

In such an environment, I returned once again to Kafka's limited but dense collection of work. Though I was aware of the cliche of reading Kafka in Prague and somewhat bothered I'd been motivated to do so by obvious mechanisms of tourism, I began with his short stories: "The Hunger Artists," "The Cathedral," and "Passers-by on a Tram." Against my best wishes, I liked it. Perhaps because I read them outside of class and therefor attached to them no expectations or academic agenda, but I was able to truly enjoy and explore the works. For the first time, I appreciated Kafka and could begin to grasp the obsession shared by the Czech Republic and visiting foreign fans. Bolstered by my altered perspective, I approached The Trial, Letter to Father, and excerpts from America, which were assigned in two of my classes, hopeful that my relationship with the author would continue to grow. And it did. I loved The Trial's psychological exploration of Joseph K. and relished the auto-biographical nature of Letter to Father. I began not only to understand Kafka's work, but his own relationship to his writing. 

With this new appreciation for Kafka, I forgave those many and relentless fans who had pestered me for years to rediscover the author. I could finally understand the appeal of Kafka, and thus could not resent their enthusiasm, nor that of the Czech Republic- surely proud to have been the motherland for such an acclaimed and beloved writer. Despite my altered perspective however, the city's obsession with and commodification of Kafka still strikes me as cheap and tactless. Now that Kafka's image holds some personal significance to me, the way in which Prague manipulates, mass-produces, and sells the image of the write seems nearly sacrilegious. His country, his city, and his life-long neighborhood sell his image at a cheap price to tourists eager to experience Czech culture. Tourists blindly consume this reproduction, ignorant of the author's work or supplied with a superficial and faded understanding learned in middle school. The more and more Kafka culture is produced and consumed in Prague, the less the masses will look seriously and hard at his work. To "know" Kafka now, one must simply have a drink at a cafe, sign up for a tour, or pay entrance to a museum. The reading and understanding of his short stories and novels is no longer at the heart of the culture. Which is a shame, because as I can attest, they are wonderful. 

Listopad

As the days began to shorten and the sun's emergence from the grey clouds grew rarer and rarer, our Czech professors gravely apologized for the loss of summer and winter's quick approach. Although most CHP students (myself included) attend colleges in the North East, the somber predictions of foggy skies and frigid winds struck a nerve and I braced myself to expect the worst. I anticipated returning from October Break spent in the warmer, southern cities of Italy to sub-freezing temperatures, a colorless sky, and rain, sleet, snow or other variation of an inclimate down-pouring. Instead, I was welcomed home to a vibrant and beautiful city. Fall is Prague's season. Leaves burnt orange-red and sky paled, the city looks as it was meant to be seen. Cast in richer and deeper colors, the natural landscape of the city showcases the true mood of the urban. Medieval old town and its tightly packed maze of streets seems more authentic, yet more magical. More than ever before, Prague is alive with its own unique history and culture. It seems as though there is something darker, mysterious, and somber essential to Prague's character than cannot be grasped in summer's heat or spring's fresh hope. Even winter's silent chill I expect will fail to communicate the precise tone of the city. Its the ephemerality of the autumn that captures Prague's character. Nature lights aglow with flames for a single brief (and all the more beautiful) moment only to then writher on its branches as days pass and cool. Like fall, Prague is defined by these moments of transition. Tossed around by foreign regimes throughout its history, Prague has been forced to adapt, to change. However, it is in its transformations (however obligatory) you can see the true character and beauty of Prague.

While even from the heart of the city center you can feel the change autumn has ushered in, I found myself itching to escape the urban and spend a few hours amidst a more natural landscape. Although only about twenty minutes outside the city by metro, Kunraticky Les feels removed and isolated from the bustle and mechanical construction of the city. At the request of a friend, I visited the forested park on an afternoon in early November. The Czech word for the month, listopad (leaf=list, padat=to fall), never seemed more appropriate; a light wind blew through the many trees, picking up their brightly colored leaves so that they fluttered down to the earthen path as a premonition of snow coming.

 That Sunday was particularly lovely for such a late fall day, and the trails were busy with families and their over-bundled children and rambunctious dogs. The forest seemed to stretch for miles around steep hills and still ponds. Everywhere the leaves were golden, scarlet, and mixed shades of green and orange.

Perhaps because the only other natural Czech landscape I've explored is Letna (which in its construction as park may not in fact be considered "natural"), but I was shocked at how gorgeous Kunraticky Les was. Here it seemed Prague was in its true, untainted form. Alive in the height of its season, the Czech Republic never appeared quite so attractive and, well, comfortable. Returning into the city as the sun dimmed behind heavy clouds and set for the evening, I felt a new affection for Prague. Maybe I have been here long enough to become accustomed to the culture or perhaps I just needed to wait to watch the city change seasons, but Prague feels a little bit more like home now. 

Hungry Meditations

As a self-professed foodie, I suspected that much of my October Break in Florence and Bologna would be spent leaning over hot bowls of pasta and strategizing how to eat as many meals in one day without sporadic bingeing. And this is generally how I do remember my trip now back in Prague. Each morning in Florence I woke up and walked the few meters to the San Lorenzo market for a cappuccino and samples of cheese and salami offered by some vendors. Sustenance in hand, I walked through the maze of shoppes eyeing unfiltered olive oil, plump balls of mozzarella, skinned lamb heads, and countless (really, blissfully never-ending) counters of cured meats. Anyone who somehow did not how important food is to Italian culture would be sufficiently educated after a half hour in San Lorenzo market. I spent the rest of the mornings trying to trick myself into hunger, and by noon I was usually successful enough to have lunch. I am drooling now recalling the beef tartar, swordfish ravioli, margarita pizza, and spaghetti carbonara. And of course, a bottle of wine. Dinner followed many hours later and was a wonderful, larger portioned variation on the pastas, pizzas, and risottos offered at lunch. I left Italy satisfied and slightly bloated; maybe five pounds fuller but happier than I had been in months. 

While it may play a small part, my love of food does not stem from a purely gluttonous desire to eat. I think what you put in your body determines how you feel. Eating isn't just refueling or merely imbibing calories for energy. There should be joy and pleasure in the act. The Italians, much like the French, understand this. For them, food isn't only important to the individual, but to the community and the culture as a whole. These values, still somewhat unadopted in America, are even less precedented in the Czech Republic. The Czech's, in my understanding, take no pride in their food. The tradition of food as cuisine rather than nourishment is unknown here. Typical Czech dishes (goulash, bread dumplings, potatoes, sausage), while not tasteless or inedible, are simply not alive with flavor, creativity, or passion for the ingredients. These specialities are simply meant to be eaten, not enjoyed. As such, my culinary experience in Prague has been dominated by food of different origins- pasta, tacos, chicken masala. And not because I especially dislike Czech food or have not tried enough of it. I have given it a fair chance, but after even a couple weeks, my palette craves something with more flavor, excitement, and frankly, thought. While Italy was a wonderful reprieve from the mundanity of uninspired food I'd been eating, it also emphasized my rather sad conviction that most Czech's simply did not have a passion for food. (This is, of course, withholding the few exceptions that I've had the pleasure to discover. Homekitchen, for instance, serves delicious, organic soups and rustic Czech bread and it is clear that they not only take pride in their restaurant, but genuinely love to cook.) 

Like so many cultural differences, I am tempted to explain the Czech Republic's lackluster cuisine as a unfortunate leftover from Communist days. I do think there must be some truth in this interpretation. Not only was the variety and quality of food more limited during those times, but a culture of eating out, of fine dining, and of indulging in gourmet or simply more interesting (thus more expensive) food was surely discouraged by Communists. However, the traditions of Czech cuisine were established long before the Communist coup. A more convincing explanation would take into account the Czech Republic's climate, agriculture, customary livestock, etc. and perhaps consider that many its neighboring countries (Germany, Austria, Slovakia) share the Czech palette. I think the truth must lie somewhere in between. The concept of food serving an esthetic and emotional purpose has only taken root with the majority of our society recently. For food to be elevated beyond its purpose to fill empty stomachs, there must be a certain level of wealth. It is when few are starving, that kitchens begin to produce creative and delicious food. Perhaps the Czech Republic merely missed this step under Communist control. Lacking the resources of other countries, they did not experience the same culinary growth shared by modern nations. But perhaps, this is process currently underway. Now over two decades since the Velvet Revolution, the Czech Republic not only has amassed capital, but benefitted from exposure to foreign cultures. This will (eventually) alter the general attitude toward food and radically raise standards of quality and creativity. And from the few really surprisingly wonderful meals I've had (at Homekitchen and Clear Headed), I think this change must already be simmering beneath the surface. Until it reaches a full boil, I'll drink the beer. Na zdravi!

Kutna Hora

Weeks ago, when the weather was warmer and the novelty of Prague was still fresh, we traveled as a group to the small town of Kutna Hora less than an hour outside of the city. Once a thriving silver mining town, Kutna Hora was both as economically and culturally advanced as Prague between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. However, a modern visitor would never guess it. The city seems lifeless and empty save for the few groups of tourists (like CHP students) that stop by on day trips from Prague. Though there is not a steady flow of tourists, the town's contemporary economy clearly relies on their occasional visits. The main draw of these excursions being the St. Barbara's Church. 

Dominating the landscape of the small town, the Gothic church is perched on-top the highest plane and literally looms above the streets and houses below. Symbolic of the role it played in Kutna Hora's early modern history, St. Barabara's Church appears to reign sovereign over the town as an image of power, authority, and the centrality of the Catholic Church in Medieval society. Once beside the structure, the viewer is further impressed. Reaching upwards to dramatic heights, the Gothic church forces the viewer to strain her neck and look up. The extreme verticality of the church's construction is aimed to bring the viewer's attention to sky, to god, and the marvels created on earth thanks to his blessing. Walking around the side of the church to the entrance, repeating rows of flying buttresses crowned with gargoyles welcome church goers (and tourists) inside.

 Lined with radiant stained glass windows, the interior of St. Barabara's Church is as quintessentially Gothic as its exterior, but peppered with several Baroque decorations. The effect is somewhat unbalanced, yet strikes an impressive and monumental appearance. 

However worthwhile the St. Barabara's Church was however, Kutna Hora offered little else to be seen. As interesting as it was to experience the layout and construction of a smaller, less frequented Czech town, even the most curious tourist could not entertain herself for several hours. This, I think, is partially caused by the somewhat haulted economic growth of the town. After experiencing some early fortune as a mining town, Kutna Hora slowly declined and its main source of income now rests on tourism. With little to see beyond the church and no recent cultural or architectural achievements, the town surely faces some trouble in the future. 

After a Weekend in Wien

Roughly 155.79 miles (250.71 kilometers) separate Prague from Vienna. That's about the same distance, give or take twenty miles or so, from New York City to Baltimore, Maryland. Having made this commute from the one stifling city to the other more southern, sweltering city twice a month this summer, it surprised me how I could have forgotten how such radically different cultures can exist in close proximity to each other. Stepping out of the bus at Penn Station in Baltimore, I moved slower- partly impeded by the hot air, thick in its moisture and partly to keep pace with the relaxed, unhurried activity of the locals. New York City and Baltimore, though only separated by a few hours spent sweating in a stuffy bus, seemed removed vastly in time, space, and attitude. 

Temporarily dispensing of this information, I boarded the Vienna-bound bus thinking my weekend excursion to a country neighboring the Czech Republic would be just that- a view of a slight alternative to, yet essentially a mirror of the country with which I was familiar. Needless to say, I was mistaken. Forgive me for presenting the obvious as profound, but Austria is an entirely different country. This somewhat unremarkable and rather belated realization was reenforced when our bus slowed to a stop at the Austrian border to allow patrol officers to board and check our travel documents. Although I am fairly well traveled and quite familiar with the standard procedure, I was taken aback when a clean shaven, expressionless man demanded, "Passport," and sent me awkwardly fumbling in my bag and muttering words of apology in Czech until I produced the document in question. 

Vienna is a city of wide boulevards lined with stately Baroque buildings. The Imperial architecture is resplendent, imposing, profuse, and speaks to the enormous wealth of the late empire. On a very literal level, Vienna looks nothing like Prague. Never subject to a full-scale renovation such as Haussman's rebuilding of Paris, Prague has retained its grid-less city plan in which dark, tight alleys wind and meet at random. It has also not benefitted from profound wealth in its history, and therefor has remained in its unrenavated state, a largely medieval city with but a few examples of Renaissance and Baroque style architecture peppered throughout. 

This concrete level of visual difference between the two cities is directly tied to how each presents itself as a tourist destination. Vienna, relying on the easy recognition of a few of their title players (Mozart, Freud, Goethe), portrays itself as the heart of European culture and entices visitors to indulge in a cultural getaway in which they can enjoy renowned art, music, and architecture. During my weekend stay, I visited a few (of the many available) museums, attended a performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni, and spent hours marveling at the Hofburg Palace, and at each location was reminded by a tour guide or pamphlet just how significant the site/event was in the scheme of high European culture. At the opera, an usher went so far as to preemptively scold the standing section (of which I was a part) for behavior unfitting of the "elevated atmosphere" of the place. 

Prague, however, functions for the tourist much like a European Disneyland- masses flock to the castle and Old Town Square and are rewarded with endless unnaturally tasty street food and taps flowing with pivo (a kind of adult combination of cotton candy and soda). Prague seems to present a kitschy caricature of itself- a mere thematic representation of Prague meant to bate and satisfy tourists. While Vienna's tourist business revolves around its self-elevation, Prague markets itself as a medieval pub crawl. And although this may seem a self-degrading portrayal of a country that actually does have its shared of fine art and music (remember Mucha, Dvorak, and several other celebrities were Czech born), I now find it more honest and straightforward than Vienna's elitist presentation. Most tourists arrive in Prague with a precursory knowledge of the city and a plan to spend about two or three days perhaps exploring the castle and tasting the beer, which in its world wide fame has eclipsed any other interesting attraction/history in the mind of visitor. GIven the tourist's short visit and limited expectations, the city seeks to satisfy him/her with the 'idea' of Prague (which he/she has already determined in his/her head and which is perpetuated still by the city's image). Though it may seem cheap, a maneuver of a country whose economy depends on tourism, I think there is an ironic sort of honesty in the gimmicky and cliched way Prague presents itself to visitors. 

There are no airs, no pretexts, no illusions that tourist will leave the city with a deeper understanding of its people or culture. Prague is the Castle, Old Town Square, Charles Bridge, salty pieces of ham, cobblestone streets. And while as a pseudo-resident I know better, tourists leave at the end of their two day visit having seen this superficial Prague, feeling full, hungover (or still tipsy), and satisfied with their trip. What more could you ask for in two days?

I'm happy to be home...

The pulse of the city, like any other living thing, can be heard. Its rhythm marks the city's daily movement. Sounds rise and die, fight for supremacy, and vibrate in harmony as the day progresses. Prague (as one might suspect after spending a night or two in a local pub) is a noisy city. And not in the way that a usual metropolis, say New York City for example, bustles with the sound of commerce, activity flowing in and out of the streets, and taxis honking desperately in traffic. That is to say, that Prague's noise has no purpose. It is not an audible manifestation of the healthy function of the city as capitalist machine, but rather is absurd, nonsensical, and devoid of distinct meaning- a sort of Kaftkaesque din.

As I write this now, three rather heavy set men are digging up the earth buried under the cobblestone street below the window. The persistent clanking of their tools and the sudden buzz of machinery has become a familiar alarm clock. Every morning since my arrival in Prague, I have woken to the work of these men, tried to muffle their noise with a pillow, and cursed them as I lay half-awake for two hours before my first class. 

During the first weeks of construction, I remained optimistic about its swift completion. The project could not realistically take that long, and as bad as the morning's metallic ring of pipes was, the noise made in the afternoon by the church roofer's across the street was infinitely worse. Days passed as the workers made slow progress chasing the pipe down the street, disassembling the cobblestones like a tired jigsaw puzzle as they went. In a measure of self-preservation, I began sleeping in my boyfriend's room, which clear on the other side of the building, was as blissfully quiet as a provincial monastery in the hours of early morning. 

This peace was all too short. The workers, who seemed to pick up pace right after my relocation, had wrapped their way around the building and, as if with a vengeance, established their camp beneath the window of my boyfriend's room. It is here they have drilled into the tough earth, shouted instructions, and banged their tools for the past weeks. According the hotel's concierge, who I have harassed as persistently as the construction has pestered me, Prague's pipes are simply quite old and a small leak requires a great deal of maintenance. While some part of this may be true, it seems to me that the tediously slow pace of construction (speaking generally) reveals a residual communist attitude. Because the opportunity to work was always available, and in fact mandatory, and mobility between occupational positions was fairly limited, Czechs (still speaking generally) failed to develop the kind of self-motivated work ethic so often associated with capitalist societies. The racket of the construction (that still invades my room and thus propels this thought forward) is an empty, meaningless sound of feigned production. So persistent, the sound seems to demand to be heard and recognized as the noise of real work, and yet ironically it is its relentlessness that exposes its farce. 

Sound, more than any other sensory experience, has punctuated my time in Prague. I fall asleep to a Cuban restaurant's vigorous salsa music (out of place, yet wonderful), wake to the piercing cry of drills, and somewhere in between, stir to the slurred songs and boisterous laughs of pub patrons stumbling home. And the first wednesday of every month, the emergency siren sends me dodging beneath a desk or hiding deep under my covers. Echoing and vibrating between the concrete urban surfaces, the siren resounds for four very long minutes. Filling and overwhelming your ears, the sound penetrates deep within you body, vibrating throughout your whole being. While unmistakably a warning of sorts, I spent two alarms cowering in fear before I could find anyone to explain the siren's purpose. Apparently foreign students are not the only Prague residents clueless to its meaning; 47% of Czechs do not know what to do in the case the siren communicates a real emergency instead of its usual test sound (Colonel Ing. Petr Volny from the Department of Crisis Management, http://www.praha.eu/jnp/en/life_in_prague/public_safety/sirens_change_form_time_remains_the_same.html). Praguers are completely unbothered by the alarm and the monthly reminder of possible emergency. They keep walking, strides unbroken, eyes fixed to the ground while tourists and students exchange anxious glances and try in vain to translate the following Czech announcement that presumably communicates whether the siren is but a very realistic drill or an actual state of emergency. To visitors the siren is merely noise, unintelligible and impenetrable noise. And to Czechs, it is the same, merely audible clutter thats ignored, unimportant, and disruptive. 

"There are three cities I would like to go to and I will never make it. Though I can do everything to try to get there, in reality I do not make it, I mean it's impossible for me to find myself there in the flesh in the streets in the squares in the roads in the walls bridges towers cathedrals facades courtyards quays rivers and oceans, they are still well guarded. These are the cities I have the most meditated on, lay siege to frequented and run through in dreams in stories in guides I have studied them in dictionaries I have lived in them if not in this life then in another life.

Promised Pragues. You dream of going. You cannot go. What would happen if you went?”

            - Hélène Cixous, "Attacks on the Castle"

            I have been in Prague for one month, ten days, and about seven hours—ample time to concede to recommendations of travel guide books and allow myself to join the swelling masses, pressed tightly between overstuffed fanny-packs and shuttering cameras, to

make pilgrimage to the city’s golden meccas of tourism. Like every other visitor of Prague, I have pushed past the crowds on Charles Bridge, devoured kielbasa in Old Town Square, and admired the dusk-lit silhouette of the Castle as the first street lights flicker on. I have seen the city as a tourist. Yet, as a student, I occupy a more permanent position in Prague than the passing traveler and should (hypothetically/hopefully) forge a more intimate relationship with the city.

            That of course assumes that the City, the capital "C" City ascribed with an unique and active personality, is an intelligible being that permits acquaintance. Nearly an month and a half into my semester in Prague, Cixous’s words echo my growing anxiety. What is the "real" Prague? Can a visitor ever penetrate the interior? Or is she always kept abreast, dazed in a labyrinth of elaborate facades, rebuffed at every entrance with a new sight, a new attraction...