7 + 1/2 min. read
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| 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.
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| (c) Kasia |
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.
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| (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.
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| (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).
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| 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
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