Normally I don’t get anxious when traveling. I do loads of research on my chosen destination, from finding hotels to preparing itineraries, so that by the time of the trip my anxiety is dispelled, and I can look forward to the adventure knowing that most of the details are hammered out. Usually I am traveling with my kids and my husband whose likes and dislikes I know well. A few tasty restaurants (with McDonald’s and local pizza joints spattered throughout) combined with theme parks, a central plaza or two, and a gothic cathedral thrown in for good measure usually pleases everyone.
This time was different because I was traveling with my mother, something we had not done together for over twenty years. We were headed to Prague during Mother`s Day weekend. My hope was to fulfill her lifelong dream: to visit the city from which her ancestors came. The bonus for me was that my kids weren’t with me. I glanced out the window of the airplane and took a deep breath, watching the undulating green pastures, compressed red-roofed towns and winding country roads unfold below me and hoping that the itinerary I had spent so many hours creating would please her and satisfy her curiosity. I wanted her to leave Prague feeling that she knew the city and possessing the confidence to talk it up with her friends, perhaps come back on her own some day. Everything had to go smoothly.
The colors of the countryside gave way to an approach dressed in worn brown and forlorn grey. What would we have thought if not for the blue sky? A chauffer from the hotel met us at the airport in a new black Grand Cherokee. He didn’t speak much English, so we found ourselves not engaging in too much conversation with him, instead talking quietly together in the back of the car. The road into the city was long, winding and populated by much the same hues of grey and brown as the final approach before the plane landed. Not knowing how far we had to go, the sites of graffiti on dilapidated buildings, trash on the sidewalks, and signs with no English translations did not inspire my confidence in the location. Would the hotel be in an acceptable area? Would it be clean? How far from our planned activities would it be? It all made me wonder whether the beautiful pictures from the Internet that had swayed my choice were dependable.
We passed the roller bladers and the radio tower in Petrin Park. The view in the distance offered our first glimpse of the city. From this distance it looked every bit as charming as all of the photos I had seen. In my travels I have learned that European cities, particularly the older and intact ones not too damaged during WWII, can be deceiving because they are not always as sparkling and clean as U.S. cities, even in the parts where the tourists go. They are comprised more of brick, stone, wood, and stained or beveled glass instead of steel. Sometimes the facades of the buildings are smeared with centuries of grime, or covered with scaffolding and in various degrees of repair and restoration. We wound through the roads as the chauffeur looked for the right turns to deliver us to the Residence Nosticova. I became nervous about what it would be like. I began to second guess my hotel choice, again. Should I have gone with a Marriott or Hilton? Was I right to choose something small and out of the way, but unproven? I know all too well that the wrong hotel can ruin any trip. I have been down that road a few times.
The Residence Nosticova is on a corner of a back road not far from Karlovy Most and the river in the Mala Strana, or Lesser Town. There are few tourists in this small haven, making for quiet evenings and few traffic noises to keep one up at night. I was sure that the other patrons and the receptionist could hear my sigh of relief as I entered the foyer into the reception area of the hotel. The décor was cozy and warm, a hair away from cramped. In the center of the foyer stood a round table supporting a luxuriant floral arrangement. Off to the right was a lounge and computer cove. Past the foyer to the left was the entrance to the restaurant. But my acceptance of this hotel would not be complete until I saw the room. We pulled our suitcases through the foyer and into the elevator. Our room was a suite at the end of the hall. When we opened the door and stepped in, we knew immediately that we had more than just a room. It was our retreat, our escape, our sanctuary. Dark, warm, welcoming, relaxing, royal, red, wood. The large great room housed a kitchenette with more counter space than I have at home, a dining area with seating for six and a sitting area with a large flat screen TV. Two bedrooms and a full bath completed the amenities.
We didn’t stick around for long because wanderlust knocked at the door. We changed clothes and left the hotel, heading toward the Karlovv Most, or Charles Bridge. I didn’t worry too much about looking like a tourist, with my map repeatedly folding and unfolding to check our location. We headed over the bridge to the Old Town while twilight was seeping in. The number of other tourists on the bridge gave the time away even if the failing light did not. It is no wonder the tour books label this as the worst time to be on this particular bridge. But it is irresistible not to be there, in the incandescence of the reflecting light off the river’s surface, the lovers walking hand in hand, the artists selling their wares, the distant rush of the water over the break in the middle of the river. We battled the crowds as we moved over the bridge, dodging and twisting, stopping at a few vendors that lined the edges of the bridge. Many fine artists, but in the back of my mind was the possibility of fraud and charlatans. The prices were cheap and in hindsight, we should have invested in some trinket or piece of art. Our excuse was the other tourists that kept sweeping us along our way. We marveled at the statues along the bridge, even those that had not been cleaned. Some were covered up with cloth or screening. Some were in the midst of a cleaning in their half black and half white status.
Our first stop was a souvenir shop right on the other side of the bridge. We were drawn in by its huge selection of beer steins. We could have been easily lured into buying one of them then and there, but my policy is always to wait and see what is lying around the next corner, especially in tourist towns like this. You can always get a better price somewhere else. We politely bade goodbye to the nice young man who was desperately trying to make a sale. We must have given off that “fresh off the boat tourist“ scent. Or maybe it was a look.
Heading through a tunnel that looked unsavory and felt just as unsafe except for all the other tourists like us traveling it at this hour, we turned right into an eating haven right along the river. We walked toward the back of the pier to a bar with an outside pavilion paralleling the river and overlooking the Karlovy Most. The seating was a bit difficult as every table was filled, and most of them by already drunk and raucous 30 or 40-something guys. Large groups of them, 10 and more. I refused to sit right on the water because that would have placed us right in front of a large group of attractive men. If I had been with a bunch of girlfriends, I might have chosen differently. We sat a row back, and still ended up in front of a group of drunk and rowdy Brits and Scotsmen. They were all part of some tournament or competition taking place during the weekend. There was a perfect sunset in store for us. We followed up our cocktails with some traditional Czech food against a backdrop of a view of the river and the dimming summer light. The city lights emerged shyly through the darkening twilight as we paid our bill, probably leaving too much (or too little?) tip judging from the look on the waitress’s face, and headed back over the bridge to our hotel.
The following day we headed to Hradcany Castle. First, we breakfasted at Seggafredo at the intersection of the tram lines and within view of Karlovy Most. We sat outside, ate omelettes and drank cappuccinos, and watched the life of the city move past us. Trams, cabs, tourists and locals. Afterwards, we waited for Tram 22 with no tickets in hand. We simply didn’t want to walk. A light spitting drizzle and a gusty wind began as we waited. Tram 22 pulled to a stop after about ten minutes waiting. There were quite a few people on board already, but we got lucky when we squeezed ourselves into the spaces left by the few who had gotten off. The tram became more packed as it made its way up the hill. We counted the stopsthree or four is what the girl at the reception desk had said. We were glad to get off where we did at the lower gardens of the castle, not quite ready to go any deeper into this new experience, even if by accident.
Momentary disorientation gave way to a rambling walk through the gardens that had seen centuries of historical characters doing the same thing for different reasons. As we approached the castle, we followed the crowds that thickened the closer we came to the entrance. I braced myself for the part of being a tourist that I hate the most. We first went to St. Vitus’s Cathedral. I was glad for the rented headphones so that we could glean a little bit of history from this place. I have seen many churches throughout Europe, but this was the most ornately decorated, had the most shrines and sanctuaries (except for Westminster Abbey), and was the only one to have a room completely bedecked in jewelsSt. Wenceslas`s Chapel. It was hard to get a good look at it, with all the other people crowding around us to do the same thing. But with some aggressive action and by standing our ground, we were rewarded with the illustrious sight after just a few moments. It was definitely the highlight of this Cathedral.
We exited into a pouring rain behind other tourists that had come more prepared, or at least had seen the weather report that morning. Bravely parading through the courtyard I assured my mother that I wasn`t cold. If she had stopped, looked and listened closely she would have seen evidence to the contrary in my goose-pimply skin and chattering teeth. We hastened to the nearest building, which turned out to be the Old Royal Palace. We entered into the great hall where many a banquet and party must have occurred. It was not warm by any means, but at least it was dry. The seats were a little hard, though. Man, was I cold! Walking around helped. What didn’t help was seeing all those well-prepared tourists milling around with their long pants and sneakers, sweaters, umbrellas, and rain ponchos. I was delighted when I saw the occasional tourist in shorts and t-shirt, unprepared, like myself and pretending that she didn’t mind. It made me feel not so alone in my shortsightedness.
Our evening activity was dinner and the opera. We ate at the hotel restaurant, The Alchymist. It has been my experience that hotel restaurants are not something to rave about, but this was different. From the baroque and bejeweled décor, complete with mirrors, metallic, and ambient lighting to the service and the food, the experience proved to be unique and memorable. We had martinis and a bottle of wine with dinner. The room was ours with the exception of the gentleman that entered toward the end of our meal who spent time smoking and talking on his cell phone while waiting for the rest of his party. He looked like he could be the patriarch of a large family, presiding over a special occasion or family reunion. I wondered about how much of our conversation he was listening to, or if he even understood it.
When we arrived at the theater it was as if we were in another city, cosmopolitan and sleek in an Old World way. The production we attended was Gaetano Donizetti’s Don Pasquale at the National Theater. It was my first time at the opera, and I hoped that there would be some type of translation, knowing that most operas are in Italian but worried about whether it would be translated into English as well as Czech. My worries ended when the production started and I noticed the marquis at the top of the stage translating into both languages. It was a full house. I wished I had gotten a box on the side of the theater. Leaving was a bit troublesome as there were not a multitude of taxis waiting to pick patrons up. In fact, there were none to be found. It was by luck and the grace of God alone that as we were walking confusedly up the street, pondering calling the hotel or going back to the theater to call a cab, that a cab was dropping off an older man, his grown daughter and groggy grandson. They warily avoided my approach, as if I was a roving beggar. I felt somehow rude and intrusive on the scene as they emerged from the cab with the sleeping baby, but I think my apologies, even if only partially understood, helped smooth the rough edges of the manner of my request. I was a bit worried about communicating exactly where we were going until I realized that I had the hotel’s business card in my purse. With a quick look at his map before we departed, the cabbie had us back at the hotel in about ten minutes and for less than the hotel taxi.
The next day we ventured over Karlovy Most once again and spent the day in Stare Mesto, the Old Town, consumed by shopping, eating and people-watching. We navigated the labyrinthine cobblestone streets and found Old Town Square, stopping to watch the towering Astronomical Clock on the Old Town Hall chime twelve noon. We walked across the square and visited the Tyn Church. In the traditional eastern European fashion, similar to orthodox churches of the Greeks and Russians, it was ornate. We had lunch at a restaurant where we selected our meals from a glossy magazine and pointed to them when our waiter arrived to take our order. We watched the throngs of people milling around. There was a marathon going on this day. Many of those we saw walking by were the runners finishing their race – breathing heavily, sweating, and consuming large amounts of fruit and water. Most were flanked by well wishers and family members. One was lucky enough to have two women massaging his thighs and calves and seemed in no hurry to get up from that.
At the end of the day, while stopped for a beer and a tea at a café called Reykjavik, we were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of some colorful local wildlife embodied in a group of four young men that represent what our waiter called anarchistas. They were lanky, pale, tattoed, and dressed in black with mohawk and liberty spike hairstyles. They set up shop right in front of us. One lad took out his guitar and started playing a weak repetitive melody, while the other more lascivious-looking character (he had a hooked nose and small black eyes) moved into the crowd with a paper cup and started begging. He was rather pushy, even continuing to confront people as they were walking away and telling him no. I started videotaping them to show my teenage kids what happens to kids who don’t study in school, but stopped when I became worried that they had seen me and would possibly follow us when we left.
On a whim, we purchased tickets for a musical recital across the street at the Klementinum National Library. We had to wait a bit before its start, so we walked back over to Old Town Square and found the end of an open air market. I kept looking around for our anarchistas friends, and luckily didn’t see them. Back at the Klementinum Library, we listened to a musical trio comprised of an organist, a violinist and an opera singer perform the works of Vivaldi, Mozart, and Schubert in the beautiful Mirror Chapel of the Library. The combination of the sounds and the beautifully painted ceilings and mirrored walls around us made for a truly memorable evening. We had a laughing fit that evening before the performance; I have forgotten about what. But I remember that we could not stop and were glad that there were not too many people around us to frown at our uncouth and rude American behavior.
The next day, our last day, we lunched on pork and dumplings over a bottle of local red wine at U Vladare, a traditional Czech restaurant in the Mala Strana, right down the road from our hotel. The service was friendly and fast, and the food tasted just like how Grandpa used to make it. We left too little tip but we blamed it on the currency conversions.
The ride to the airport was filled with memories of our past two days and aspirations of returning someday. Despite all of my planning, our trip was filled with many spontaneous events. This made it different from most trips I have taken with my family. It combined inspiration, exhilaration, suspense, comedy, and exploration in a way that could never be completely choreographed. In this sense this trip left me with a sense of freedom in travel that I have never experienced before. It showed me that no matter how much you plan for something that it is sometimes the spontaneous choices that you make in a location that highlight a place’s character most accurately. No matter what you read or hear about a location, each person and traveler is going to experience a different side of that city, and that side will reflect their own experiences, hopes and expectations. Using this as a measure of success, I am confident that the trip I took with my mother to the country of her ancestors was as special and unique as it could ever be.
Real Travel Adventures 