Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part II

Part I

(c) Angele Kamp

The next day is my birthday proper. As is now customary, I’ve booked a spot on a city tour. The difference this year is that, since there were none of the donations based set-ups to which I’m accustomed, I fork out the expense for a more official tour.  Apart from the individual so-called ‘murmur boxes’ through which we can listen to the guide, there is no qualitative difference for the price. I'd expect at least entry into one of the main historical sites.

Having paid in advance, it’s even more important that I'm not late. The tour begins late morning giving me time, in theory, for a lie-in. However, some life admin involving one of my banks cuts into my lazy morning plans.  So much for a leisurely indulgent breakfast at a café.

I nevertheless arrive at the designated meeting place with time to spare, only to realise it’s the finishing and not the starting point. I phone the guide, Ana-Luiza. With the help of her hastily memorised directions and a kindly local who accompanies me to the spot, I make it just in time for the start of the tour. Ana-Luiza claims she won’t go into too much historical detail for fear of ‘boring’ us. She’s being modest.  Formerly married to an Avignonnais but only having lived in the City for three years, she knows her stuff. She uses the inclusive ‘we’ when talking about her adopted city. 

I find out that Avignon has only 60,000 inhabitants; more like a town than a city. During the annual theatre festival, now in its 80th year, approximately one million visitors descend upon Avignon in less than a month. That’s why so many businesses take a break afterwards.

Avignon is almost as old as Marseille but doesn’t have as many visible reminders of when it was once occupied by the Greeks and Romans (most of these remains have been built over). I learn – or am reminded – that papal control of the region lasted several centuries from the middle ages to the early modern era. I discover that the nursery rhyme about Avignon Bridge apparently only dates back to either the 18th or 19th century, was written for a theatrical production and has nothing to do with local dancing traditions.  The bridge was once much longer, stretching into the Occitane region. Much of it has since been swept away by the choppy waters of the Rhône, given to serious flooding as recently as 2003. Legend has it that the saint after which the bridge is officially named, Bénezet, built it with his bare hands. Compelled by Divine order, he would carry inhumanly heavy rocks to and fro, when others refused to help. Alas, the truth is more pedestrian.

Unusual for Catholic Europe, Avignon was also once a haven for Jewish populations from persecution elsewhere under Pope Clement VI. 

Time is made for us to appreciate Avignon Cathedral.  Whilst we don’t enter the Palais des Papes, Ana-Luiza ensures that we get a little quality time in the adjacent Les Jardins des Doms. From that elevated vantage point, we can take in some of the architectural splendour of the old papal palaces, as well as the abundant verdure of the surrounding landscape. The Rhône shimmers emerald-like below; beautiful but potentially deadly. In the distance is Saint Bénezet bridge once again and Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, another relic of Avignon’s long dalliance as the seat of the papacy. I plan to fit these into my itinerary later in the week.

Avignon Cathedral (c) Eva Piermario

After the tour, I nonchalantly head towards the Halles area to lunch at an overpriced health food restaurant. En route, I allow for a little birthday indulgence by buying a huge decadent cookie for dessert. I intermittently interrupt my adventure to respond to birthday messages and read the cards that have been delivered to me in advance, including moving sentiments from my research team. On top of her lovely card, mum sends me prayers by text. Each year, I continue to be touched by friends who have a hard enough time remembering their own birthday but make an effort to send me good wishes, as they know it means a lot. 

I spend a long time on the restaurant terrace, even squeezing a quick-ish phone call (by our standards) with sis. She asks me when was the last time I celebrated a birthday where I stayed put.  It doesn’t take long to do the maths. It’s been over 20 years. During my economically leanest moments, or even when there were the constraints of the pandemic, by the grace of God, I’ve been able to get a change of scene on my birthday. If funds, circumstances and/or inclination meant I remained in the same geographical location, I’ve still been able to celebrate in a different city.  Sis asks if I'd ever consider travelling with others for the occasion. You already live alone. There's no novelty in travelling solo. Yes, I reply but it's less stressful. There's no one else potentially to spoil the day. I'm responsible for my own happiness.

As for the birthday itself, a mini-milestone… I can’t say how I’ll feel five years, three years or even six months from now. Yet, I’m not nearly as nervous about hitting my mid-40s – especially single – as the mere thought would have made me a couple of decades ago. Heck, I felt mildly anxious about it entering 2026. If I’m relatively relaxed, it can only be God.

My evening plans are modest: dinner at a local pizzeria with perhaps more elaborate dinner ambitions to take place later in the trip. That is until Didi offers to give me a lift to a local warehouse that has been converted into a food court and social space: ÔCargo. Why not? I’m in a festive mood. In addition to offering international cuisine, over summer ÔCargo hosts special events taking place throughout the week. Tonight it’s a free Bachata class en masse, as is apparently happening every Wednesday.

During the brief ride over, I learn that Didi works in PR and also manages his own properties, like the one where I’m staying. ‘I’m surprised the bank would be willing to lend to someone so young’, I say. ‘Well, I’m 32’. Even by ‘black don’t crack’ standards, I’m shocked. Up till that moment, I assumed Didi was 19. Still, for a baby millennial – or anyone under 50 for that matter – I wouldn’t expect he could raise the capital to invest in property. ‘I earn good money. The bank considers me worth the investment’, Didi replies. 

The warehouse is starting to get busier as I’m dropped off. A DJ warms up the crowd. A significant number of those who’ve shown up are here for the dance class.

Meanwhile, I hesitate between Greek and Tunisian. I opt for the former, given that I hear so much about how great Greek cuisine is. However, except for some home experiments, I’m not very familiar with it. What I have had hasn’t really lived up to the hype. Today will be no exception. Compared to how reasonable the other pop up restaurants are, I spend too much on a bland mixed kebab plate. It takes too long to arrive and the meat is undercooked when it comes. There’s more delay as I wait for it to be well done.

First world problems.

I have a good book and tasty mocktail to entertain me. I’m also keeping one eye on the Bachata class. The participants aren’t very diverse and despite the enthusiasm of the instructor, the moves looks rather stiff.

Oddly enough, the soundtrack to the class for most of the night is Afrobeats.  The instructor does a fluid-hip demonstration with a dance partner to round off the evening, before opening the floor for one last hurrah to an authentic Bachata tune. I decide to join in but from a safe distance in the corner. I want to dance freely and not be obligated to pair up. (When I return to the accommodation later that evening, Didi will sound surprisingly disappointed that I didn’t officially participate in the class). I try to remember some of the basic steps I’ve picked up from my Bachata-infused Zumba classes but it’s not coming together as I’d like. I’m not very good at internalising choreo. Setting aside instances of spontaneous grooving, I need someone in front of me to mimic.

As I step out of the air-conditioned ÔCargo warehouse into the humid night, a large ‘blood’ moon awaits like a coral-coloured celestial gift.

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko

Part III

Part IV

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

A Summer Pause in Prague: Part II

Part I & Part III

Prague Castle district (c) Alexandra Tran

I wake up to overcast skies for my first proper tour of Prague. As has long been my custom, I’m booked on a pay-what-you-feel walking tour, this time of Prague's Castle district. On my way to the tram stop, I see a text from Isaak offering to show me around his historic neighbourhood and cook me lunch. And here am I thinking he was just being polite when he suggested swapping details. I reply that I’d be glad to meet up later in the week, politely proposing a more neutral eating spot than his flat. I’ll later get a missed call from him. There’s an almost 20 year age gap between Isaak and I. I wasn’t expecting - or rather I’d hoped - not to have a reason to point that out…

En route to the meeting place for the Prague Castle tour, I’m taken by the city’s size and topography. For some reason, I expected Prague to be shabby chic; lots of discoloured mediaeval or early modern stone buildings (of which there are some) and the streets a bit on the grubby side. Au contraire. I can see how it has earned its enchanting Bohemian reputation. Despite the grey, the city retains its beauty. In contrast to what I'd worried, it’s not the anti-climax to that which I felt visiting Florence.

Our tour guide is not an indigenous local but rather a boisterous, smokily-hoarse North American called Jeff, with a protean accent.  If there’s one thing to mar the experience, it’s the presence of one too many obnoxious and loud US tourists, searching for an excuse to slag off communism or anything that falls outside their parochial frame of reference. The exception is Phoebe, a more demure Texan gal who approaches me when she realises that I’m a fellow solo-traveller.  Amongst the group are a Belgian couple who keep to themselves, a husband and wife from Washington of which the woman is heavily pregnant (and talkative, see above) and another Brit, frequently showing PDA to her handsome and muscular South Asian significant other. The gestures seem more territorial than out of pure affection.

To his credit, Jeff has the verve to further enliven stories of Hussite rebellions, Habsburg family imperial takeovers, An English alchemist-turned-spy, defenestrations of Catholic clergy, the errant tendencies of the current occupant of the Castle's presidential suite, Petr Pavel and Nazi terror. 

Reportedly the biggest palatial complex in the world (70,000 square metres), the Prague Castle grounds are resplendent, with equally majestic views of the city from the vantage point of the hilly terrain. (The group cheats by taking a tram up to our starting point). The tour also encompasses the Strahov beer-making monastery - still in operation.  The sun holds out enough for us to catch the changing of the Castle guards. They must remain as po-faced as their British counterparts and all for not very impressive pay, we’re told.

(c) Mikhail Mamaev

When the clouds gather, we take shelter in a capacious café for what turns out to be a false alarm.  The heavens do eventually open with a vengeance not long after the close of what turns out to be an extended tour.  There’s enough time before the downpour to enjoy a scenic ramble around the Castle district. Nervous that the combination of sandals, the wet and the downward pull of the sloping cobbled streets will not end well for me, I pop into a chocolatier. The cashier immediately interrogates me about my own origins. A little guarded, I reply by asking about his own. East Africa. I mention I was recently in Kenya.  I buy some unpleasant (and unbeknownst to me) liquor-filled chocolate to make it at least a little worth his while before my hasty exit.

I disappear into a non-descript eating establishment nearby, for sustenance as well as shelter from the deluge.  It’s all part of my whimsical adventure. I note that for the first time in the last nearly 10 years of birthday travels, my holiday is not blessed with consistently glorious weather. At that success rate, I should consider myself fortunate.

It’s back to my accommodation for some rest before re-emerging for dinner and another live show.  I continue to follow Monika’s culinary recommendations. As I endeavour to eat less meat during the weekdays (for ecological reasons), I opt for one of the veggie options near to the gig venue. 

On the tram into town, there’s a man - likely down-and-out - emitting such a rancid odour, something akin to rotten flesh, that he clears the carriage. I’ve come across enough hygiene-conscious rough-sleepers to know that this is not the norm. What’s to be done? He doesn’t seem to be in pain but the stench suggests something is awry.

The evening continues inauspiciously - albeit on a more trivial note - as I try, and fail, to locate the restaurant. I spend over an hour searching, to no avail. In all my walking around, I do stumble across the Jazz venue, AghaRTA. I’ve already bought a ticket for the show but still haven’t eaten. Annoyingly, and unlike most of its competitors, AghaRTA does not serve proper meals. The kindly barman tries to show me the directions to my restaurant of choice on his phone but it only leads to more confusion. I’m surely going to miss the start of the gig in any case. I settle on an Italian place next door to the Jazz club, with the barman’s warning in my ear that the places in the vicinity, The Old Town Square, are a ‘scam’. The food is nonetheless quality at an accessible price. I rush to catch what I can of the show, begrudgingly trying to make peace with the fact I won’t get my money’s worth if I’m to make it home before the last tram.

I arrive just before the band takes a ‘short’ break of half an hour. During this recess, I notice Phoebe slip in with a young woman whom I assume is her daughter. It’s the sole highpoint of the evening thus far. Phoebe offers me a seat closer to her but I decline. I want to make a discreet exit when the time comes.

Charles Bridge, Prague (c) Alireza Banijani

The act that night is a Soul/Funk covers band. Their set features Aretha, Sade and lots of Stevie. The musicians - drummer, bassist and a dexterous pianist - are solid. The vocalist has a decent voice with a good range but is not a soul singer. Something in her delivery gives the performance a cruise-ship feel. Fortunately, the instrumentation and clever arrangements elevate the set overall. I even manage to enjoy myself. Well, as much as I can, watching the time so closely.

As I leave, I try one of the basic Czech phrases I’ve tried to memorise on the barman. He’s gracious enough to correct my dodgy pronunciation when I ask.

The following day marks the half-way point of my trip and is my birthday proper.  I’ve signed up this time for a guided tour that includes Prague’s Old City, ‘New’ City (established in the 14th Century) and the Jewish Quarter. Unbeknownst to me on booking, it’s the same tour company as before. Both guides are Yanks who’ve settled in the Czech Republic. It’s an even bigger group than the previous day. Before we’re divided up, I ask one of the guides if there are any Czech locals who work for the company. Very few, she says. Not many Czech guides do the tours in English she explains, which I find surprising, given the high level of proficiency in the region.

Our group’s guide, Bev is - again - stereotypically loud and a little over-confident but she knows her stuff.  We spend an extended moment in front of the astronomical clock, which Bev times perfectly for us to see the hourly one minute ‘show’. Bev explains that many tourists find it overrated, although she’s not amongst the clock’s detractors. Her in-depth knowledge of its mechanism says as much. 

Bev also goes into some detail about the religious wranglings in the region, attributing the country’s currently predominant atheism and agnosticism to this troubled history. I imagine decades of communism has also played its part. Speaking of which, Bev incorporates a segment on Czechia’s Red history which I’d prefer she’d skip (I’d rather hear a local's perspective). That said, it’s not as Cold-War-ideological as it could have been. As we step into the Jewish quarter, a man with a strong North American accent wearing a kippur greets Bev enthusiastically, declaring her the ‘best guide in the business’. I recall seeing him in the neighbourhood the day before. Despite his glowing appraisal, Bev claims not to know who he is or what he does in the area, apart from asking people if they’re Jewish. 

I happen to be wearing my keffiyeh. Whilst I know not all Zionists are Jewish and not all Jews are Zionists, have even seen some ‘Free Palestine’ paraphernalia dotted around the city and gave the thumbs-up to a UK tourist wearing a watermelon T-shirt, I’m not sure what to expect. Fortunately, I don’t receive any negative reactions.

The time spent in the Jewish Quarter is not as expansive as that of a similar tour I took in Budapest, contrary to my expectations. I’m a little underwhelmed.

(c) Grigorii Shcheglov

In between stops, I get speaking to Jaco; a half-Russian/half-Peruvian based in Germany with a fascinating itinerant backstory encompassing South America and the Benelux region. No surprises that he’s a polyglot. An Aussie couple from Melbourne, Joe and Stella, also strike up agreeable conversation. They’re touring the world for several months. I commend their home city’s music scene and they oblige by making further recommendations.  We hang out for a while after the rest of the group has dispersed, post-tour.  Joe and Stella might well also be in Japan when I next plan to visit, inshallah. To be continued…maybe.

Next stop is Café Louvre, one of Prague’s many plush Art Deco cafés that Monika suggested I check out. Founded in 1902, in its heyday it was frequented by the likes of Czech literary giant, Franz Kafka and Einstein. It also has a celebrated Jazz club attached.  En route, I stop by a curious Book/LP/Art combo-store selling vinyl copies of classics by A Tribe Called Quest, Sade, Adele, Lauryn Hill and more recent names like Tyler the Creator amongst others.

Café Louvre is so popular that there’s a queue when I arrive. Considering its history and reputation, the waiting staff aren’t stuck up; cordial even. The diverse menu is also affordable. I keep it light with soup, warm goat’s cheese and honey salad and a classic Pavlova. (I allow some leeway for sweatmeats given the occasion.) I don’t regret any of my choices. Meanwhile, as with each passing year I continue to be touched and amazed by how many folk remember to send me birthday wishes.
 

After some rest at the accommodation, I’m back out for dinner and a show at the Jazz Republic club. The restaurant is once again a recommendation by Monika. It’s in the same part of the city, The Old Town Square/Jewish Quarter - in which I was lost the night before and where the tour passed that same morning. 

En route, I notice a text from Isaak, asking about my plans. 

Since I’m still quite full from lunchtime, I decide to switch up the order of my evening and do some Jazz first and end with dinner. I’m glad I had the presence of mind to reserve my ticket at Jazz Rep. The club has a free entry policy but it’s an intimate space and demand is high. Johnnies-come-lately are turned away at the gate.

Unfortunately, whilst doors open at 8pm, the show starts well over an hour later and I have dinner reservations at half-9pm.  For the second night in a row, I’m destined to catch only snatches of a gig. Whilst I wait for show time, the venue steadily fills up with a crowd that is surprisingly diverse in age. There are far more Gen-Zeds in attendance than I’d have thought. There are also a lot of East Asians in the vicinity. I don’t assume they’re all tourists. I’ve learned during one of the tours that prior to the recent influx of Ukrainian refugees, the Vietnamese community was one of the most sizeable minority populations in the Czech Republic. The connection dates back to the friendlier relations between the countries during the communist era.

(image courtesy of Avantgarde Prague)

I stay at Jazz Republic for one and a half songs before leaving for dinner reservation, albeit just in time for last orders. 

Perhaps this is why service is so quick. My duck confit with red cabbage is delicious, falling off the bone. I’m attended to by an animated young man with a dry sense of humour called Markus. He earns every penny of the many tips I’m sure come his way. He’s so charming that he can get away with littering his customer banter with expletives. He tells me that the restaurant is unusual for such a touristic area in that it attracts a lot of locals. Always a reassuring sign for an eaterie.

Markus also warns me in very colourful language to avoid anywhere in the area claiming to sell the Hungarian desert, Chimney Cake. I wouldn’t have room for that tonight anyway.  I do nevertheless have a hankering for ice cream which I’m able to satiate at a more reputable establishment. Not before first passing by Jazz Republic again to enjoy a little bit more of the show.

The Old Town Square is still teeming with activity. One thing that does dent the Prague charm is the surfeit of vomit, particularly at bus stops, at any given time of the day. It’s as if some tourists are thoroughly abusing the country’s beer-making tradition.

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