Iberian Ambivalence: Part II

Part I

(c) Sofia Olmedo

My presentation takes place half-way through the congress week, giving me time to finetune it. I assume mine is the only intervention entirely in English, although I’ll eventually find out (too late) that it isn’t. To add to the confusion, I’m told last minute by Manuela and Reggie that I’ll be part of a French-speaking panel. Even if I’d known, translation would have required more time and energy than I had. I agree to do a brief introduction in French and, at Reggie’s behest, a summary of the research if necessary.

It does turn out to be necessary.

Whilst my co-panellists are all French-speakers, they opt to present in Spanish. The one exception, supposed to join via Zoom, is a no show. I was looking forward to being able to follow a paper for once.

Overall, I have mixed feelings about my intervention. The presentation itself goes well enough. Unlike in Bielefeld, there are no technical issues and I’m well-rehearsed, with a bit of freestyling. However, I feel the moderator rushes me more than most other speakers (perhaps because she can’t understand me). I also don’t like being a linguistic outlier. There are mercifully some English-speakers like Clarissa and Maria-Teresa in the room, and I’m grateful for their support (they'll later confirm their approbation to my supervisor, Brigitta). Yet, I can’t vouch for some others in attendance. I know that not all my co-panellists are proficient in English. One of the Francophones present indeed requests a summary of my overall project. I'll later find out from a Brazilian in attendance that, whilst she usually feels more comfortable with English than Spanish she couldn't follow me because she's used to the North American variety more than the British. I initially sympathise, comparing it to the difference between Brazilian and European Portuguese. Overtime however, this feedback irritates me. English was imported to North America from and imposed by Britain, for crying out loud.

It might be one of the most polished presentations I’ve given yet, once again, the language barrier chips away at the satisfaction.

The following morning I see a text from my mum, asking how it’s going. I don’t hide my conflicted views. 

That day, I arrive later than planned at the conference for a session moderated by Maria-Teresa. I’m there to give her and Annetta – who is presenting  – moral support. It’s another morning full of fascinating panels from which I can draw little benefit. If I had more Spanish, I’d have been spoilt for choice between sessions.

After the panel concludes, I strike up a conversation with one of the speakers, Tim, a North American scholar based in Argentina for a couple of decades. He’s very keen on my project and to show how much he knows about early 20th century British-Caribbean literature, although that’s not the focus of my study. He at least is well-informed enough to be familiar with the term ‘Windrush’. It’s these conversations during the breaks that have become most valuable. They are all the more important given I can’t participate in any of the Q&A sessions– a conference highlight for me in any other circumstance.

Even during the moments of fraternising, the fear of another dead-end conversation because of linguistic-limitations makes me more hesitant than usual to initiate banter. I already have a stand-offish side despite leaning strongly towards extroversion. This time however, it’s more a question of practical barriers than moodiness.

Not long before the lunch break, I slip out of a plenary and head to the train station. As has become almost indispensable on my travels, I’ve booked a place on a walking tour that afternoon. Outside, the sunny climes have returned. En route I get some measure of Madrid’s vast size, or at least where the university is in relation to the starting point of the tour in the city centre. It’s an estimated hour-plus commute.

Shortly after boarding, a rap duo sets up their speaker and treat the packed carriage to a freestyle. At least, it’s a treat and novelty for me as an outsider. It might not be so charming if I lived here.

(c) Marcelo Ortega

Sitting in close proximity to the duo, I’m aware that they address me once or twice from the eye contact and hearing a couple of recognisable words like ‘negra’. I can’t make out anything else. Heck, I can’t always follow rap in English. Maybe it’s just as well, in case I wouldn’t like what they said. I bop away in ignorance, with an encouraging smile. They don’t overstay their welcome and are so discreet in collecting change, they’re gone before I have a chance to tip them. My enthusiasm for busking on public transport depends on the instrument, performance or what I’m already listening to on my MP3. I would have gladly patronised these two for their gumption alone.

I arrive at Sol station and tentatively make my way to the meeting point. The tour guide, Xavier is a good-looking and charismatic Spaniard. He has the effervescent personality for such a gig. I imagine he’s ideal company in this context but with that face, body, height and charm, he’s a heartbreaker in any other. 

Xavier is raring to go, even when half the tour group don’t show up. Before we set off, I mention that I’m staying in Alcalá. Xavier explains that his graduation took place in the city. He warmly urges me to check out its rich history, informing me of local tours. I was ignorant, assuming all roads led to Madrid-proper. I learn from Xavier that Alcalá was once bigger and more significant than Madrid before the latter grew as a capital. Alcalá is a city, he says, whilst Madrid is technically a town. When I describe it as a suburb, Xavier warns that Alcaláns would not take kindly to that assignation. 

His rapid and heavily-accented English can be hard to follow at times but his good-natured verbosity is infectious. The tour encompasses the Puerta del Sol and exploits of Carlos III, biscuit-making Carmelite nuns, the oldest operative restaurant in the world, Ratiño Perez - the rodent equivalent to the tooth fairy (with little decorated houses built into walls all over the city), the depravity of Franco and lots of info on the now waning but morbidly fascinating matador tradition. I never heard so much about bull-fighting, and surprise myself with how many questions I have. Xavier shares that the custom is increasingly stigmatised across Spain.  I’m shocked to learn that matadors have died from being gored this side of the 21st century (although our guide grossly exaggerates how recently). The ones who perish are considered the best, Xavier explains, in his wry fashion. 

Around the city, apart from the pesky ubiquitousness of Hallowe’en paraphernalia, Madrid is already kitted out for Christmas. Xavier explains the capital prepares early to best live up to its reputation of spectacular festive illumination.

Sol, Madrid (c) Alvaro Bernal

The tour concludes in the shadow of the Palácio Real, a short-ish walk from the Debod Egyptian temple, donated to Madrid by the North African country for the city’s help sparing it from water damage on the building of a nearby dam. Bizarrely, I see a man wearing a T-shirt referencing Lewisham; the South-East London borough where I grew up and in which much of my (maternal) family still lives. Curious and excited, I try to discover the connection. It turns out, he doesn’t speak a word of English.

The sun starts to set over the lovely view from the temple grounds. I only wish I’d had time to do the tour earlier, so I could’ve seen more of Madrid. With a long train ride ahead, alas, I don’t have time to explore other parts, such as the ‘new’ city. Still, I can’t go back to Alcalá without sampling the famous squid sandwich or Boca de Calamari. I take the scenic route back to Sol station via the Almudena Cathedral. As I approach Sol, a delicious sandwich tucked under my arm, I see Palestinian flags blowing in the air. As I hasten over, I note it’s a hodgepodge rally for reproductive rights, the release of various prisoners of war, as well as solidarity with Palestine.

Back in Alcalá, I bump into conference colleagues on the way to dinner. Meanwhile, I still have the pesky matter of accommodation for my last night to sort out. Lucia gave me details for an English-speaking contact who works at another establishment.  We speak on the phone, and she asks me to confirm my reservation by email. I duly send the message but there’s no response. It seems the incompetence and poor customer service has followed me from Belgium.

 It’s fairly late by the time I return from central Madrid. Nonetheless, to avoid the risk of missing out on a reservation, I pop back out to book the room in person.

It’s an extremely frustrating exchange with the fellow on reception duty. He knows nothing of his colleague’s conversation with me. Neither can he trace the email, since she didn’t give me the main address. He’s monolingual with only smatterings of English. I don’t have anywhere near the Spanish I need to explain the misunderstanding. It’s an insight into how marginalised one can be when they don’t speak the dominant language (which is English, in many contexts).

The receptionist uses an app to translate my panicked explanation. This back and forth does nothing to allay my agitation. 

It initially seems as if there’s no room at the inn. Seeing my distress, somehow he magics something up for the following night. Despite not having my passport on me, he registers what details I can provide. Since returning from Japan, I’m on a tight budget. Thank heavens, a timely insurance refund allows me the freedom to pay for lodgings on the spot. I don’t otherwise trust the hotel staff not to give my room away in the interim.

After such an upbeat day, the old ambivalence returns. 

The following day is the last of the conference. As I tarry to get out of bed, I reflect on how the week hasn’t been as easy-going as I anticipated. It doesn’t help that I have to switch accommodations just for one night. I’m irritated at the thought of the unnecessary rush and inconvenience instigated by the residence manager's unprofessionalism. I never do receive a satisfactory explanation from him and am cautious about pushing for one.

During the morning tea break, I converse with some Afro-Brazilians I’ve met earlier in the week (grateful for the warmth and Portuguese practice). I later chat with Maurice and Nneka, a US-based Nigerian-Brit professor in Spanish Literature.

Hearing that my Spanish is all but non-existent, Nneka asks What are you doing here? I’m not offended. It's a good question.

(c) Alex Vasey

We’re later joined by Mercy, a Ghanaian also specialising in Hispanophone studies. She and Nneka recount the good, bad and the ugly of living and studying in Spain during the late 80s/early 90s. Nneka is a fascinating character. Tall and deep-voiced, she reminds me of Maya Angelou. Nneka ditched dreams of becoming a model once-upon-a-time to move into academia. That made my dad happy, she says dryly. She learned most of her Spanish by immersion in Madrid, admitting that she didn’t realise that English wasn’t the main language when she arrived.

I learn quite a bit from her about the US higher education system, particularly the difference between public and private institutions. If there are state-run universities then why is there so much student debt? Federal money funds programmes and staff at public institutions, not subsidies for student fees, Nneka explains.  During the closing plenary, I remark that I wish there was a back entrance through which I could sneak out. Nneka replies that in the US context, an extra exit is now an architectural requirement in response to school shootings.

Nneka and I snatch whispered conversations at the back of the auditorium. We discuss our complicated feelings about Afrodescendant-related studies being so dominated by Caucasian academics. No matter how well-intentioned, it often comes across as being born out of a (neocolonial) sense of entitlement and/or a desire to corner a niche. Nneka mentions that one of the speakers has suggested this won’t change until Black academics come out of predominantly white spaces and form their own. An academic Garveyism, one could say. I sympathise, yet contest that the contributions of non-white academics can be so easily delineated, as to suggest that academia ‘belongs’ to those of European descent.

The congress rounds up, almost an hour later than scheduled. We are herded together for a group photo. Some guests good-naturedly raise a chorus of the anti-Apartheid anthem, Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika, as we gather. We subsequently disperse to our various destinations.

I greet one of the participants on the way to collect my luggage. He’s a little too enthusiastic with the bise and I wish I have the presence of mind to refuse. He invites me to join a few of the others for a late lunch. I’d like that very much but I’m in a hurry to check into my new hotel ahead of an online meeting. Lunch for me will be a couple of veggie Argentinian empanadas.

(c) Lucas Oriogun

My new digs for the night are a lot more spacious and plush than my former. That’s one upside to the change. Another is its proximity to historical sites. I embark on a serene sunset promenade of the attractive neighbourhood. The weather is once again propitious. I have a clear view of some distant hills behind the remains of the city gate. The nearby historical archbishop’s palace is a magnificent Moorish-influenced building. Not for the first time I wonder why a minister of God would've required such an opulent abode. 

The streets are alive with activity. It will remain like this well into the night, thanks to the Spanish tendency to eat later in the evening. I appreciate it. The city is never dead.

For dinner, I had vague plans to reconnect with Maurice and other conference participants at the hotel. Too bad that our paths won't cross again before returning to our different corners of the world. Not being on WhatsApp and part of the conference chat group, I have no means of getting in touch with him.

It’s therefore a wistful solo stroll on my last night in Alcalá to a local restaurant for generous portions of seafood.

Soundtrack: Play This Song (single) by Mariah Carey & Anderson .Paak, Red Moon (single) by Tom Misch, Without You (single) by Larse feat. Obi Franky, I Hope That We Never Fit In (single) by Peter & Kerry, Technicolour (single) by Joya Mooi & Ric Wilson, Outside the Light (album) by The Will Barnes Quartet

Iberian Ambivalence: Part I

 8 min. read

 University of Alcalá de Henares campus entrance (c) Mauro Lima

The year 2025 will be memorable for a lot of reasons, not all of them positive. One thing for which I can be personally grateful is the many opportunities I’ve had to present my embryonic research findings at international conferences.  My year in academic interventions rounds up at the International Congress of Afrodescendant Cultural and Literary Studies (ICACLS) in Madrid.

My ambitions to attend the Congress start a whole year beforehand at a conference in León, at which I co-present with my supervisor, Brigitta. We become cheerfully acquainted with a larger-than-life Congolese academic, Reggie, based in Spain for decades. On dropping us off at Madrid to catch our plane, he mentions he’s also planning a colloquium in the autumn of 2025.  Brigitta and I are both initially enthused. The conference in León has been enchanting, more like a working holiday than purely business. I look forward to more of the same the following year. In the end, Brigitta’s extremely busy schedule will not allow her participation.

As the months elapse, other conference opportunities come and go. I submit papers for several, with Reggie’s not far from my mind. Still, I have my doubts. Whilst the congress is promoted as a multilingual gathering (French, English, Spanish), it seems heavily Hispanophone. I question if my Anglophone paper would be a good fit. I also have plans to visit my sister in Japan to celebrate her birthday around the same period. I wonder if the scheduling will be too tight.

I submit my abstract for ICALCS at the last minute, the deadline having already been extended. I only half-expect my paper to be accepted.  To my surprise, the response is prompt and positive. I supplement my personal contribution with what little external funding remains to subsidise my travel.

A week in Spain will be a way to ease myself back into European life after a wistful few weeks in the Far East. Organising my participation ahead of the conference isn’t straightforward. My cognisance of Spanish has long evaporated, not having studied it since secondary school. I have some limited reading comprehension thanks to residue knowledge, and my familiarity with other romance languages. The ICALCS organisational team have little to no English. Fortunately, one team member, Manuela speaks fluent French. I’ll discover later that she’s half-Marseillaise. She ends up being my ICALCS liaison pre-travel.

Take off for Madrid is a mere few days after I return from Tokyo. My outbound journey to Spain is already off to a ropey start, with Brussels Airport still subject to hair-raising delays one whole month after a cyber-attack that affects most of my travel during that period.

A few days beforehand, the manager of the recommended university-campus based accommodation sends an email summarily announcing that the last night of my reservation is cancelled. Given that this has been arranged months in advance, I don’t take kindly to this last minute change. I’m even more peeved to discover the manager cancelled all ICALCS-related bookings for the same date in favour of another conference party. It’s unprofessional to say the least, unethical even. Typical Spain, says one irritated fellow guest Maurice, a facetious Bajan academic that I’ll befriend during the congress, who's in the same predicament.

Alcalá de Henares (c) Sergey Konstantinov

A direct bus from Terminal 2 of Adolfo-Suárez Airport deposits me near the gates of the University of Alcalá de Henares. On arriving at the campus, a day before the conference begins, Reggie greets me congenial as ever, and introduces me to his multilingual team. He explains alternative lodging will cost double the price. It’s a busy season in Madrid. This begins a litany of small disappointments that characterise much of the week.

The accommodation is old — like a less-glamorous riad—but clean, functional and value for money. Breakfast is included. Unconsciously, I’m expecting a standard continental breakfast; a selection of cereals as a minimum. In the end, calling it ‘breakfast’ is a stretch. More like a hot drink and one mediocre pastry. For dietary balance and my waistline, I can’t eat like this every day. I skip out on the morning meal the rest of the week. Considering that conference registration isn’t cheap, the catering options are minimal and not very healthy. The alternatives are not that economical, even with the congress discount. I ask the student assistants the way to the local supermarket and stock up for the week for not much more than the price of the conference lunch. Alas, I find out too late that, bar a fridge and microwave, the hotel kitchen has no cooking facilities or utensils. I have to improvise. 

The weather is also less optimistic than I anticipate. I periodically check the forecast the weeks ahead of travel. Sunny intervals everyday with an average of 23 degrees Celsius. I simply re-pack some of the summer wardrobe I took to Japan. I don’t even bother with an umbrella. With my limited luggage allowance, it’s one less thing to carry. I’ll soon regret that decision. Whilst my first day in Madrid is temperate, the rest of the week is occasionally cooler and wetter than for which I’m prepared.

First world problems, I suppose.

The biggest challenge of the week is linguistic. Spanish is the working language of the congress, almost exclusively. To the extent that I wonder why my paper was ever accepted. When I ask Reggie if there’ll be interpretation, it’s an unequivocal ‘no’.  

My default outside of English is French. If it involves interaction in another romance language, my brain switches to my so-so Portuguese. No hablo español, becomes my catchphrase for the week.

It wasn’t merely in my imagination that the conference was advertised as trilingual. Other participants (with whom I have languages in common) confirm they had the same expectation. Somewhere along the line, the linguistic policy changed.

I struggle to communicate with one of the main organisers, Lucia. At the tapas-based social on the first night, she approaches me apologising in memorised English. I ask why. I don’t speak English. Lucia claims to have a bit of Portuguese. Hmm. Not enough apparently for us to communicate with some fluidity.  It’s particularly an issue given she’s responsible for arranging alternative accommodation for my last night. 

I usually do well in even unfamiliar social settings but the language barrier is making me nervous. It helps that, having not eaten all day, I’m famished and can busy myself with the dishes brought out by the kitchen staff at regular intervals. (I’m not usually zealous for tapas – or for Spanish cuisine in general – but I’m hungry enough not to split hairs).

On the other hand, I don’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons. I have a torturous conversation with an exclusively Hispanophone guest. The poor man tries to ask me questions about my studies in a belaboured mix of French, Spanish and English. I can’t wait to liberate us both from this awkward exchange. I eventually find some Anglophones and Francophones in attendance.

(c) Carlos Perales

I’m approached by a bilingual Spanish-American professor, over from the US, as well as a native Hispanophone academic who has studiously acquired the Yorkshire-inflected English accent she picked up when based in the UK. (I find that there’s a certain kind of continental European academic who, in an attempt to set themselves apart amongst those who have mastered English as a second language, affect an authentic-sounding British accent. I’m told by non-native speakers that it is more difficult to acquire than the more common transatlantic variety. I’m always impressed by the aptitude of aforementioned 'faux' Brits but there’s a part of me that wishes I’d keep my admiration to myself. I suspect that’s the desired effect.) 

I also finally meet Manuela in the flesh. A few of these multilingual exchanges save the evening for me. Struggling with fatigue and my belly properly satiated, I beg off early to the hotel. 

The conference itself is an uphill struggling. The programme is jam-packed, lasting almost 12-hours per day for most of the congress. The schedule is so full, I have the impression that every abstract submitted was accepted. 

There are multiple round tables, plenaries and parallel panels with four or five speakers at a time. I understand enough Spanish to know that they cover themes that would be of great interest. I dutifully show up for some but I can’t follow the vast majority of it. The endeavour itself is tiring. I use the time instead to work on my own presentation and other academic tasks. Nevertheless, I greatly miss participating in the interactive moments. I'll feel on the edge of the congress the whole week.

Annetta, a sympathetic bilingual academic from Costa Rica, wonders out loud why there is no interpretation. There’d be students willing to do it for the credit, she reasons.

From what I gather, I’m the only participant who is not proficient in Spanish. 

It wouldn’t be worth it for just me, I counter.  On the contrary, says Annetta. There’s another academic (a compatriot of Nigerian extraction of which I’ll hear much but never meet) who’s not Hispanophone. Neither does he speak French. I feel for him. There are many Francophone Africans in attendance, including of course, the man of the hour, Reggie. With the exception of the occasional Lusophone I come across, having French in common with other participants is a saving grace. That, and seeing familiar faces from the León conference who speak English, such as Maria-Teresa and Clarissa.

My proficiency in French spares me from being completely anti-social between sessions. Reggie jokes that I’ll learn Spanish by force. Having lost the love for the language a long time ago, this experience is not endearing me it. I’m so used to academia being dominated by English, it’s humbling being in the linguistic minority. 

If my experience of the congress falls below the expectations set by León, it’s not all bad. The campus grounds and surrounding city are picturesque; the stuff of wedding photos.  A UNESCO-heritage site, Alcalá de Henares is the hometown of Spanish literary giant, Miguel de Cervantes. If in doubt, the abundance of local businesses named after him, the dedicated museum and bronze sculptures of Sancho Panza and Don Quixote (pictured left) are a dead giveaway.

When the effort of trying to decipher academic Spanish gets too much, there are plenty of romantic-looking streets to explore or a tranquil church sanctuary to disappear into.  So much the better, given the patchy weather. The rain only adds to the romanticism. 

The congress itself is extremely diverse. Hardly surprising, considering Reggie’s strong views about white academics potentially monopolising Afrodescendant-related studies. There is still quite a lot of that during the conference. You know the coup: Caucasian academics wearing Dashikis and Dutch wax, seemingly turning Afrodescendant-related studies into a cottage industry - that kind of thing. However, true to Reggie’s word, the congress in large part reflects the core demographic.  There’s even a photo montage amidst the conference literature, dedicated to all the Afrodescendant women taking part and/or behind the scenes.

The congress is much larger than the 2024 conference at León where Reggie and I first met. On one hand, it’s heartening to see so much participation from across the Hispanophone world and beyond. Each day, I seem to come across more and more participants. At the same time, it lacks the intimacy of a smaller gathering. Many a time, my mind will drift nostalgically back to León, autumn 2024.

Part II

Soundtrack: Play This Song (single) by Mariah Carey & Anderson .Paak, Red Moon (single) by Tom Misch, Without You (single) by Larse feat. Obi Franky, I Hope That We Never Fit In (single) by Peter & Kerry, Technicolour (single) by Joya Mooi & Ric Wilson

A Summer Pause in Prague III

7 + 1/2 min. read

Part I & Part II

St. Barbara's Cathedral, Kutná Hora
(image courtesy of visitcentralbohemia.com)

The next day, my mind is set on a trip to Kutná Hora, one of Prague's smaller historic neighbours.  It’s less than an hour from the capital by train, which allows me wriggle room to be back in time for the boat tour I have scheduled that evening.

It’s raining hard on the way to Prague’s vast and confusing main station but I won’t be deterred.  It’s not everyday I’m in the Czech Republic.

The train is from a different era, with old school, Agatha Christie novel-style cabins sans frills. It already feels like an adventure.

A slight woman in our cabin - perhaps intoxicated - is behaving oddly; popping in and out of the space, covering her hands repeatedly with moisturiser and smiling to herself.

Meanwhile, outside the weather has cheered up a little. I have a clear view of the Czech countryside, in between reading David Foenkinos’ Je Vais Mieux. As much as I see Prague’s appeal and there’s far more to discover in the capital alone than a mere week could afford me, it would be a shame to miss out on a change of scenery.

One of Kutná Hora’s main claims to fame is a church comprised of bones. However, as I mentioned when encountering a similar landmark in Faro, I’m ambivalent at best about this kind of morbid attraction.  Instead, I follow my nose on arrival, hopping on a bus into town with a crowd of other tourists. An East-Asian North American man with his two young daughters ends up being my unwitting guide. I follow him off the bus. It’s on his suggestion that I head towards the magnificent Chrám Svaté Barbory - or St. Barbara’s church.

Entrance is not free.  I’ve mentioned on these pages before that I’m not keen on paying to enter God’s sanctuary but with no other plans, and the cashier willing to honour my student discount despite forgetting my card in Brussels, I might as well. 

St. Barbara is most impressive from the outside. I try to follow the guided map for the premises but it takes a while to get my bearings. The Cathedral does have lovely views from the grounds, overlooking vineyards and what I’ll later learn is a convent, inaccessible to the public.  After climbing the steps to the church’s lower balcony, I make my way to the neighbouring village.

There's nothing extraordinary about this day trip but it’s a dry, occasionally sunny day and the town is pretty and clean. One of my favourite holiday pastimes is roaming; no particular destination and a margin for getting a little lost.

(c) Kasia

I read somewhere that Prague's outskirt towns like Kutná Hora are comparable to the fairytale-like homesteads in Alsace. Having lived in that region, I think it’s a fair comparison; lots of pastel-coloured buildings on winding cobbled streets, somehow stuck between modernity and bygone centuries.

Lunch is in a Blues café with a very eclectic playlist. I’ve been so spoiled by the usual English proficiency that it’s a slight shock to come into spaces where that can’t be taken for granted. The waitress at the café has a lot more English than I have Czech but not enough to follow me easily. Fortunately, some customers are on hand to assist.

It’s back to the train station to make sure I’m in Prague way ahead of my boat tour. I rule against going back to the accommodation first. There are too many impediments en route. I thus arrive almost a full hour before the tour. By this time, the skies are throwing a tantrum and there’s no real shelter.

The sun starts to make a timid appearance as we board. It’s not clear enough though for vivid sunsets, one of my main motivations for booking an evening boat tour.

The boat itself is much newer and more attractive than the usual vessels for this kind of budget-friendly river outing. I redeem my token for a free drink and plonk myself by a window. The route itself isn’t extensive and the pre-recorded guide is barely audible. Nevertheless, I appreciate seeing cities surrounded by a large body of water from this vantage point. It’s become a tradition of mine to ride rivers at dusk towards the end of a city break; a wistful farewell.

I notice a woman in a hijab seated alone; the one other solo female traveller in the vicinity. On disembarking, I attempt to converse. We manage to make stilted small talk but (a mutual lack of) language gets in the way. I do learn that she’s from Turkey and is only in Prague for a day. That seems pretty typical. From what I gather, most other tourists’ sojourn in the Czech capital is even more transitory than mine.

(c) Mikhail Mamaev

The next morning I’m not as quick out of the door as previous days. It’s my last full day in Prague. I’ve set it aside to take in the city at a more leisurely pace. I was very tempted by the idea of going to the Museum of Communism but that deserves a day to itself.

I make my way to the Franciscan Gardens; a small oasis of a park in the city centre, recommended by Monika and Jeff, the tour guide. It's one of the best weather days of the week, which isn’t saying an awful lot. At least there’s very little rain. 

 I find a quiet corner to read, hidden within the low cut maze-like hedges. Before I have a chance to bring out my novel, an elderly gentleman sitting opposite begins gently interrogating me in broken English about my origins. It initially appears as if he’s trying to evangelise. Yet he’s still not appeased when I explain I’m a born-again Christian. In the end, it transpires he wants money. I'd have preferred if he'd just asked from the outset, rather than using the Gospel as a pretext. I give him some of the few coins I can find rummaging around my purse, bid adieu and move to another part of the gardens. 

Not long afterwards, another distraught man makes a dead stop before me - although I’m not alone in that vicinity. Up until this point, I’ve not seen the kind of begging to which I’ve sadly become accustomed in other capitals like Brussels or London (that will change over the course of the day). In any case, it’s the first time I’ve been approached. Based on anecdotal evidence, I have a theory that those begging or sharing religious material (or both, in this instance) tend to make a beeline for Black folk, as they assume we’re more receptive.

I feel a little less serene after those encounters. Plus, I’m out of loose change in Czech crowns (I find it hard to gauge the exchange rate. I keep underestimating it and feel I’ve spent more than my frugal self normally would, even on holiday). I move on soon enough, stopping by the adjacent church, Our Lady of the Snows, on the way out.

And so goes my day. Dipping in and out of sacred spaces, most of them a little too bling-bling in aesthetic. I do the very tourist - seemingly indispensable - Prague thing of walking back and forth over Charles Bridge, named after the monarch who commissioned it. I catch strains of the famous Bridge Band Jazz quartet, stationed amongst jewellery vendors and sketch-artists. 

(c) Shushan Meloyan

Next stop is the Old Town Square for some over-priced iced indulgence at the U Prince Hotel terrace. Monika swears by the views of the city from the top. It’s also supposedly a top-spot for IG photo opps. On arrival, I'm quite surprised - even a little disappointed - about how compact the space is. Taking the stairs down, I’m not overly-impressed either with the dour but somehow still gaudy decor.

On the way back to the tram stop, I stumble upon the restaurant that I couldn’t find for love or money a few nights before.

Before returning home to freshen up for dinner and a phone call with my mum, I head towards the Castle district to catch the number 22 for a spot of tram hopping. With the regular and clean tram service, it’s a hassle-free way to observe the change in cityscape. On the outskirts, near the terminus, I spot the first and only Afro hairdresser I’ve seen so far in Prague. You’d have to be pretty determined to reach it if not based in the area but at least it's there.

As the day progresses, the old (delayed) birthday melancholia resurges alongside the typical end-of-holiday blues. I make a conscious effort not to allow these feelings to take me out of the present.

For my final evening of this trip it’s more dinner and Jazz. By the time I get through speaking to my mum and making an unplanned detour, it’s cutting it fine to have dinner before my concert reservation - once again at the cavernous U Malého Glena. To avoid hopping between venues once more, constrained by time to make the choice between food and music, I decide to dine at the club.

Whoever cooks the traditional beef goulash and dumplings I’ve ordered does not put their heart in it. Bland, possibly store-bought, it’s not what I’d have wanted my last culinary memory of Prague to be. Fortunately, the music makes up for it somewhat. The piano-bass-drums trio is led by vocalist, Miss Kafka (she claims it's her real surname, a possible distant relation to Franz. I can't work out if she's pulling my leg). All inspired in their own way, I appreciate Lady Kafka’s Jazz vocabulary and risk-taking improv.  She seems to inhabit the moment. During the set, I shush and frown at a small intergenerational huddle of drunk clients who turn out to be friends and family of the band.

Kafka claims, in confidently fluid English, that she’s not as voluble as she usually would be on-stage. It clearly bothers her. I reassure her during the break not to force it, during a congenial conversation which ends with the vocalist asking for my details. (Like most of the other exchanges of personal info on this trip, nothing comes of it).

Charles Bridge at nightfall
(c) Lars Kuczynski

It feels good that my Prague holiday began and now ends with Jazz.

I slip out during the second set to make my way gradually home.  Now that I’m familiar with Prague city centre’s layout, I realise how close the Jazz club is to Charles Bridge. The view from the crossing is even more enchanting at night, especially the now illuminated Prague Castle district. 

As I’ve been partial to doing most nights that week, I search for Benny Sings’ One Night in Prague on my MP3 and slowly - contentedly - make my way across the centuries’ old bridge.

Soundtrack: Maravilhosa Bem (album) by Julia Mestre; Mutt by Leon Thomas; One Night in Prague by Benny Sings; On Time by Lecrae

La Vie Continentale will be on a break until (N. Hemisphere) Autumn 2025