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

A Short and Sweet Stay in Dresden

Dresden, Old City.

The festive season now a fond but distant memory, it’s back to my new normal. Life is still in a state of flux. I do what I can to maintain some sort of routine. I resume job hunting and my interim personal development activities.

I also now have a window to make good on the promise to visit my Tunisian belle, Coral in Eastern Germany. Befriending this kind, bright and thoughtful soul is undoubtedly one of the highlights of my Strasbourg experience. Since she relocated to Dresden last summer, it’s been more of a challenge staying in touch than when she lived just over the Franco-German border in Freiburg. Having made several fruitless plans to reunite during the second half of 2019, we finally put a date in the diary mid-January. At least it gives me something to look forward to amidst the deep winter lull.

Emails fly back and forth. According to my research, whether I travel by train or coach it’s still a lengthy trip involving at least one pit stop. I opt for coach as the more economic choice. With the ongoing industrial action in the face of Monsieur Macron's intransigence, travel by road is also currently the most reliable option.

As my Dresden trip draws closer, reluctance creeps in. It’s nearly 12 hours each way. I’m highly apprehensive about the overnight bus ride (including a three hour stop at Nuremberg). I’m not exactly heading to sunnier climes either. To my shame, I don’t even bother to check out what Dresden has to offer its visitors. I’m relying on Coral to show me her favourite spots, plus a top-up from one of the free walking tours I’ve read about. In the corner of my mind the City has vague connotations with wartime; more so than other German metropoli. Despite Coral’s insistence on Dresden’s charms, I imagine a grim and grey post industrial town. It doesn’t help that the region is strongly associated with the Far Right. And yet Coral seems to have made a life for herself there.

The weekend of travel arrives. The outbound coach is half an hour late. On the plus side, it's virtually empty to my pleasant surprise. I survive the first and longest leg of the trip by reading and sleeping in the customary awkward position. At Nuremberg, when I try to retrieve my modest luggage without his assistance, the gruff bus driver barks a reprimand in German. Still slightly groggy, I respond in polite but firm English; sounding more primary school teacher-like than as stern as I’d intended.

Looking around I feel uneasy. Nuremberg is in full, rowdy Friday night/early Saturday morning mode. It’s cold and grimy and I hear too many loud male voices.

The curmudgeonly driver’s tardiness at least eats into the waiting time. Thanks to a local hotel I’m redirected to the nearest train station, where I pass a couple of comfortable hours out of the cold. I’m hurrying back to the coach stop before I know it.

When I finally reach Dresden late Saturday morning, the temperature is milder and there’s a hint of sunshine. My face is bare of make-up and I’m recovering from sleep. I’ve texted Coral in advance to let her know I might look a state. She collects me at the Flixbus stop, waving away my enquiries about where to buy a tram ticket. She’s taken care of it.

I feel more self-conscious than I banked on. It takes a while for me to make consistent eye contact. It’s the first time Coral’s seen me in my natural state. Even when she stayed round Christmas 2018, I was glammed up and ready to go in the mornings.

The Kulturpalast, Dresden
 (courtesy of Aasarchitecture)

If you hadn’t said anything, honestly I wouldn’t have noticed.

She’s being too kind, not with the traces of bygone acne still visible.

By the time we reach her cosy and inviting flat, my vanity is forgotten. Initial plans to shower and nap fly out of the window as we catch up. Apart from one lengthy autumn phone call, Coral and I haven’t had a proper face to face conversation since early last summer. In her enviably calm and softly-spoken fashion, she expounds on the drama at her new workplace. Her line manager has fallen on his metaphoric sword and tried to pressure her into doing the same. She came to her senses before making a rash decision. Nevertheless, the incident has taken its emotional toll. She describes it as a couple of years of stress condensed into a few months.

The discussion turns to happier themes. She has a new man in her life. I’m due to meet him the following morning. For now, I’m curious to know how their paths crossed.

Coral shares the backstory. Following a fleeting and disappointing romantic episode, a close friend encouraged her to sign up to a 'sophisticated' dating app. She met Sandeep after a few pleasant but unremarkable dates. The kismet was there from the beginning, she says.

Coral gently encourages me to consider giving dating apps a try. I demure as politely as I can. I explain I once signed up to a site many, many moons ago for a laugh. Since then I’ve had no inclination. I have strong feelings about the whole Lonely Hearts industry. I deflect, not wanting my aversion to be a reflection on Coral’s personal choices.

The day is far spent by the time I do freshen up and change clothes. The walking tours would be long finished by now. We step out at dusk, making a quick stop off at her local shopping precinct to buy some items I haven’t had the time of late to pick up at Kehl.

I’ll have to make do with seeing Dresden after dark. It has its own night time appeal, Coral reassures.

Indeed, the City is a revelation. I’m almost glad to have had low-to-zero expectations, only to be enchanted all the more.

Once the heart of the old kingdom of Saxony, I’m awe-struck by the majestic and imposing beauty of the baroque architecture.

A luminous modern-looking glass structure catches my attention. Coral introduces the Kulturpalast; a former government building from the era of Communist East Germany. Now converted into a civic centre, inside are plenty of seating areas, a gorgeous modern library and a concert venue dedicated to the City’s philharmonic orchestra. I'm enamoured with the rose-coloured space. According to Coral the locals tend to have a poor opinion of relics from the DDR period. It takes an outsider to appreciate it, I reply. She confesses she’s never spent much time in the building. That'll now change.

The Fürstenzag, Dresden
(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

Coral shows me more of the old town, pointing out historical sites such as the various places of worship and administrative buildings. Most have been rebuilt after Dresden was levelled by allied carpet bombing during the Second World War. We stand underneath the eye-catching, if intimidating, Fürstenzag mural. It depicts the various Saxon monarchs; many of whom have  blood ties to the modern British Royal family. 

Coral takes me to one of the bridges overlooking the Elbe river. She insists the view of the old town is even more stunning from the other side. As well as Germany, the Elbe traverses the neighbouring Czech Republic and touches the periphery of Poland. Prague, Coral’s favourite European city, is only an hour away by bus she tells me. That explains why my connecting coach was heading in that direction. The Czech capital is somewhere I feel I should know but have never visited. I suggest we cross the border if and when I’m next in town.

Coral’s Italian restaurant of choice is full to Saturday night capacity. We head home for some delicious home cooking via a quick detour to Aldi. (I want to see if the budget supermarket superstar is as good in its country of origin as its UK homologue. Not bad but not as good, either.)

The following morning after I've done my ablutions, Sandeep materialises soundlessly in Coral’s living room.

I have a key…

Still. Secret Service levels of discretion.

Sandeep and I hit it off immediately, thanks to his fascinating back story. I get so carried away in conversation I worry I’m neglecting Coral.

Having lived all over the Indian subcontinent and collecting a bevy of languages along the way, Sandeep is a fountain of knowledge. He’s well versed in linguistic, regional and religious history, disabusing me of many of my half-baked notions. ‘Hinduism’, for example, is a western conceit for something that does not fit easily into a single religious practice. We talk about the state of politics in India, Britain (continuing a conversation Coral and I started the night before) and across the African continent. Sandeep explains why he first voted for Modi and how he’s since become disillusioned.

At first horrified, I learn a lesson about those who support Populist-Nationalist leaders.

Dresden Cathedral: Restored after the original
was bombed during the Second World War
(wallpapers.io)

 An insightful polymath, Sandeep is as far from the ill-informed, frothing-at-the-mouth patriot you can get. The truth is always more complicated, as if I needed reminding. I’m very aware of aggressive comments and violence towards religious minorities in India. Sandeep argues there’s a history of some anti-Hindu sentiment that stoked nationalism. I’m a little sceptical (all the more given it proves hard to substantiate when I do my own research). However, out of respect to Coral and conscious that Sandeep would have first hand experience of things that don’t make the front pages, I give his account the benefit of the doubt.

We’ll spend the whole day together, in and out of the flat and eating establishments. Our topics of conversation seem to cover the length and breadth of the human condition.
Talk shifts around topics such as faith, misunderstandings around Afro hair (it's my turn to disabuse this time) and the ease of language acquisition for lifelong polyglots like Sandeep. We discuss post-colonial trauma, all three of us having lived through the reality in one form or the other. We broach lighter themes such as childhood literature and TV favourites, and the comedy of Eddie Izzard (of whom Sandeep is a fan).  

In spite of their efforts to be inclusive, Coral and Sandeep can’t help gazing into each other’s eyes or stealing a kiss. She wasn’t exaggerating when she spoke of their organic rapport. They could have known each other for years rather than months. Case in point: Sandeep has a passion for fine art and photography. At one point he shows me a life-drawing of an ex-girlfriend. Coral doesn't show the slightest sign of unease. I laugh nervously, telling her she's a stronger, less uptight woman than I would be. Theirs is a candid and easygoing relationship.

I’m happy for Coral. Yet as is typical when I’m around a couple, I feel like the awkward third wheel; as if my presence intrudes on a sacred intimacy. If it weren’t for my love and respect for my friend and curiosity to meet the man who captured her heart, I’d avoid the trio set-up like the plague.

Late afternoon, we head out for another impromptu dusk excursion.  Sandeep shows us around Neustadt; the Boho district of Dresden where he happens to live. The aesthetic is distinct from the Baroque Old Town. It rather reminds me of some of the major French cities like Paris or Lyon.  Sandeep has an impressive knowledge of the boutiques, novelty cafés and restaurants that characterise the area.  We take detours down side streets and attractive passageways. The whole neighbourhood is a giant canvass. Murals and artistic graffiti abound. Residential buildings double up as art installations. One spellbinding aquamarine facade in Kunsthof for instance, is also bestowed with cone-shaped water receptacles, said to create sweet music when it rains.

Kunsthof in the Neustadt district, Dresden
(courtesy of Welt)

Coral and Sandeep treat me to a delicious mango lassi. Later, we enjoy a hearty supper at a falafel restaurant serving generous portions at ridiculously good value. Whilst dining, Sandeep speaks more of his dreams to retire early from a career in architecture.  He plans to live off the fatta-the-land somewhere in his native India or The Med. He feels more affinity with the Iberian peninsula and southern Italy than Germany. The warm weather is better suited to him, for a start.

It’s my turn to treat the couple. I sneakily settle the bill in appreciation for their hospitality.

Late that evening, not long before midnight, I retire to my guest room. It's been a full day of verbal and visual stimuli. It’s time to leave the love birds to it.

On the way back from a late night shower, I see no sign of Sandeep. He leaves as inconspicuously as he arrived.

Coral takes a leaf out of his book the following morning, heading out earlier for work than she mentioned. She’ll explain later that she didn’t want to disturb me before my long coach trip back to Strasbourg.

It's not clear when we’ll next meet up. I don’t like emotional farewells. Still, I’m not happy to be deprived of a heartfelt goodbye hug.

Soundtrack: Free Nationals (self-titled album).