With Prague as a home base, it was my intention to visit a couple of small towns in the Czech Republic. The next morning I boarded a train for a day trip to Kutná Hora, a medieval town settled by a group of monks in the year 1142 and well-known for its silver mines.
In his hilarious account of European travel, "Neither Here Nor There," Bill Bryson writes of this same borough. I remembered Mr. Bryson's admonition to avoid, at all costs, one particular and gory monkish site. Duly noted and thank you, Bill.
I disembarked and, unsure of where the train station was in relation to the actual town, trailed a group of Czech students on their own sightseeing excursion. Surely they would lead me to the town....Oh, hey...where are we going...? In there...? Okay, then—
And I landed in the exact spot I wanted to avoid. The one place Bill Bryson alerted his readers to shun: the Sedlec Ossuary, or the bone church of Kutná Hora.
The Black Plague of the thirteenth century swept across Europe, killing millions. Here, in the town of Kutná Hora, a monk went completely cuckoo as bodies piled high. With the assistance of his half-blind brother monks, he constructed a ghastly "holy" shrine to the victims...using the bones of the dead.
I found myself trapped in this stifling, horrific and cramped display. Stuck behind a gaggle of giggling teens, retreat was not an option. Forced forward, I tried not to even glance at the bone chandeliers, the bone candelabras, the bone chalices and the hundreds of skulls hanging from the ceiling. I failed.
Hard to miss the cavernous holes where eyeballs used to be. I pushed my way through the crowd, out the back door and into a fenced graveyard to suck in the clear October air and....good Lord, it went on. Skeletons of bony scarecrows were everywhere. As if randomly dropped, skulls lay staring at a blue sky. The joint was seriously creepy and foreshadowed my further misadventures in Kutná Hora.
Climbing hilly territory through the picturesque and walled village, I arrived at a gothic, fortressed peak. A painted sign advertised visits into a defunct silver mine. The ticket seller informed me the current tour would be led by a German-speaking guide, and perhaps I would be better served by a private English guide. Yes, please and thank you I agreed, using my entire Czech vocabulary.
Dressed in a white raincoats and hardhats, we began our excursion. Glass cases held exhibits of miners' clothing. Elfin leather boots and child-size chainmail leggings made the point that the adult miners were tiny in stature, and the low-ceilinged caves further proved it. The silver mine tour of Kutná Hora is not for the claustrophobic.
Similar to my experience in the bony chapel, there was no going back. The caverns got progressively narrower to the point that my backpack bumped off the walls. My guide pointed down, down, down to a pale and creamy pool of greenish water. He explained a typical miner's week required six days of hard labor in pitch-black conditions, and each work day consisted of a fourteen-hour shift. Such a workload would cause great thirst, but it would be a terrible mistake to drink the water far below. Highly toxic, it would result in sure death.
Between the mad monks and tiny overworked miners, I was privately calling Kutná Hora...Kutná Horror.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
PRAGUE: October, 2000 (Part 2)
Prague, mostly left intact after World War II, is often described as the Paris of the nineteen-thirties. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, the city's fairytale architecture and the adolescent exuberance of its citizens have quickly made it a must-see for travelers. Hollywood started making movies in the Czech capital, and one could see why. Prague has castles, a winding river, and stone bridges, including the impressive Charles Bridge. Also, Prague is cheap — almost as cheap as the Paris of the thirties, I'll say. For thirty-four dollars a night, I snagged an entire apartment for myself.
Arriving late in the evening, I was hungry and tired after navigating my way from the train station to the pension. Its front door opened into a small foyer. Not completely sure I was in the correct place, I crept down a hallway like a suspicious cat. Past a small kitchen with a table set for two was a door leading to a bed-sitting room with couches, chairs, a black-and-white television and two large beds. Shuttered windows opened to a view of the city. I looked around, fully expecting others to show up and share my new home.
I went back outside in search of a light dinner. In a dark, lamp-lit pub, I quaffed a large draft beer, ate a bowl of onion soup and dark bread...all for a buck and a half. Maybe the Paris of the eighteen-thirties, I was thinking.
Breakfast, included in the apartment's nightly rate, became a major highlight. Every morning I rode the elevator to the top floor for breakfast. Actually, "banquet" would be more apt: old-world sideboards laden with platters of cheeses, cold meats, bananas, pears and apples. Baskets filled with breads of all shapes. Jams, jellies and blocks of creamy butter. Boxes of cereals and containers of creamy (read: high-fat) yogurt in myriad flavors. I put aside all thoughts of an American diet and dug in.
Fueled and sated, it was time to hit the streets of Prague. I wandered over bridges and through stone portals into secret gardens where large, abstract sculptures sat under trees dripping with yellow and red leaves. With no one around, I sat on a bench and opened my novel for a quiet read.
Later, I walked through Staré Město (Old Town), with its market square and shops filled with amber bracelets and necklaces. Its cobblestone streets led me past pastel-colored buildings covered in posters for theatre, music and dance productions. Outdoor cafés welcomed both locals and tourists with frosty beers or caffè lattes.
Old Town's Jewish neighborhood, with an ancient synagogue surrounded by a black iron fence, brought to mind the evil cleansing masterminded by a Führer to the north. An outdoor farmers' market overflowing with peppers, apples, breads, meats and cheeses reminded me of Communist food lines of the not-too-distant past.
Now Prague hummed with internet cafes. Political and artistic voices were free to express opinions. Like I said, it had an adolescent charm. I saw a new generation forsaking cynicism, anxious to participate in the world at large. As in Berlin, the city's young people embraced the English language, and fast. Certainly quicker than I could learn Czech.
I took a lunch break at a cottage-style restaurant next to the Charles Bridge. Seated at a wooden table, I looked out a window with diamond-shaped panes. I wrote in my journal, and like a character out of a fairytale, dined on a cheese plate and a bowl of cabbage soup with a glass of wine.
Arriving late in the evening, I was hungry and tired after navigating my way from the train station to the pension. Its front door opened into a small foyer. Not completely sure I was in the correct place, I crept down a hallway like a suspicious cat. Past a small kitchen with a table set for two was a door leading to a bed-sitting room with couches, chairs, a black-and-white television and two large beds. Shuttered windows opened to a view of the city. I looked around, fully expecting others to show up and share my new home.
I went back outside in search of a light dinner. In a dark, lamp-lit pub, I quaffed a large draft beer, ate a bowl of onion soup and dark bread...all for a buck and a half. Maybe the Paris of the eighteen-thirties, I was thinking.
Breakfast, included in the apartment's nightly rate, became a major highlight. Every morning I rode the elevator to the top floor for breakfast. Actually, "banquet" would be more apt: old-world sideboards laden with platters of cheeses, cold meats, bananas, pears and apples. Baskets filled with breads of all shapes. Jams, jellies and blocks of creamy butter. Boxes of cereals and containers of creamy (read: high-fat) yogurt in myriad flavors. I put aside all thoughts of an American diet and dug in.
Fueled and sated, it was time to hit the streets of Prague. I wandered over bridges and through stone portals into secret gardens where large, abstract sculptures sat under trees dripping with yellow and red leaves. With no one around, I sat on a bench and opened my novel for a quiet read.
Later, I walked through Staré Město (Old Town), with its market square and shops filled with amber bracelets and necklaces. Its cobblestone streets led me past pastel-colored buildings covered in posters for theatre, music and dance productions. Outdoor cafés welcomed both locals and tourists with frosty beers or caffè lattes.
Old Town's Jewish neighborhood, with an ancient synagogue surrounded by a black iron fence, brought to mind the evil cleansing masterminded by a Führer to the north. An outdoor farmers' market overflowing with peppers, apples, breads, meats and cheeses reminded me of Communist food lines of the not-too-distant past.
Now Prague hummed with internet cafes. Political and artistic voices were free to express opinions. Like I said, it had an adolescent charm. I saw a new generation forsaking cynicism, anxious to participate in the world at large. As in Berlin, the city's young people embraced the English language, and fast. Certainly quicker than I could learn Czech.
I took a lunch break at a cottage-style restaurant next to the Charles Bridge. Seated at a wooden table, I looked out a window with diamond-shaped panes. I wrote in my journal, and like a character out of a fairytale, dined on a cheese plate and a bowl of cabbage soup with a glass of wine.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
PRAGUE: October, 2000 (Part 1)
I spent a couple of days doing laundry, filled our hotel room fridge with groceries, cuddled my boyfriend, kissed him goodbye, and left on a foray into two countries. I purchased train tickets to the cities of Prague and Olomouc in the Czech Republic. These would be followed by visits to Krakow and Auschwitz in Poland.
The train pulled away from the modern landscape of Berlin and... here it was, the Europe of pure fantasy. Mountains in autumn light rose high and I pressed my cheek against the train window to see...to see...trees abundant in red and gold.
The train sped over trestles across winding rivers and we rolled straight into the picture books of Hans Christian Anderson...castles. Also embedded into the green hillsides were homes cut in gingerbread patterns and villas like small palaces with turrets. Their shuttered windows opened wide to inhale the clear October air.
A tiny crumpled woman sat across from me in the train compartment and smiled. I nodded a silent greeting and she proffered a wicker basket. I looked inside at the apples she was offering. I chose one and bit into the fresh-picked sweet-and-tart fruit. Without a word, we shared. The trip to Prague lasted four-and-a-half hours. I could have skimmed through the countryside for days.
Doesn't he miss doing this? Isn't he curious?
With me away from Berlin, William worked, ate the food in the fridge, worked, watched television, worked, read, worked, and slept. We would exchange brief phone calls. I felt slightly guilty gallivanting around the Czech Republic, but he assured me he was fine and not missing traveling.
Is it possible to be so different and be a couple?
The train pulled away from the modern landscape of Berlin and... here it was, the Europe of pure fantasy. Mountains in autumn light rose high and I pressed my cheek against the train window to see...to see...trees abundant in red and gold.
The train sped over trestles across winding rivers and we rolled straight into the picture books of Hans Christian Anderson...castles. Also embedded into the green hillsides were homes cut in gingerbread patterns and villas like small palaces with turrets. Their shuttered windows opened wide to inhale the clear October air.
A tiny crumpled woman sat across from me in the train compartment and smiled. I nodded a silent greeting and she proffered a wicker basket. I looked inside at the apples she was offering. I chose one and bit into the fresh-picked sweet-and-tart fruit. Without a word, we shared. The trip to Prague lasted four-and-a-half hours. I could have skimmed through the countryside for days.
Doesn't he miss doing this? Isn't he curious?
With me away from Berlin, William worked, ate the food in the fridge, worked, watched television, worked, read, worked, and slept. We would exchange brief phone calls. I felt slightly guilty gallivanting around the Czech Republic, but he assured me he was fine and not missing traveling.
Is it possible to be so different and be a couple?
Thursday, August 4, 2011
BERLIN: October, 2000 (Part 8)
When William and I first started dating, we spent a lot of time at my place. Finally, it came time for an overnight in his house and I drove across town full of curiosity. He greeted me at the door with a big smile as he held tight to his rambunctious dog's collar. Stinky was a mere pup, overly exuberant, and shot his snout right for my crotch. Nice to meet you too.
Once inside, William led me on a tour of his house. Basic, white walls, exceptionally clean, big television, red couch...a guy's place. I noticed all the window blinds were shut tight. No light. It would take years for me to truly understand the depth of William's need to travel under the radar. Incrementally, it became clear to me.
His clothes fit two sizes too large and other than occasional gatherings with his high school friends, he didn't socialize. After attending a party or dinner with me, he'd question everything he said or did and then cringe if he believed he'd made a misstep.
I didn't know how to respond to these insecurities because I thought he was amazing. What I saw was a confident man willing to be alone. I saw a man sure of himself at work and a man who could make me laugh as I wandered the world, spilling self-doubt. It can take a long time to see the whole picture.
He'd spent the day of my first visit cleaning his house, but what was really impressive was when he started opening cabinets and cupboards. I was at the latter end of healing my hot wax burns, but William wanted to be certain I had all I needed. In the bathroom he showed me bandages, gauze and ointment for my injuries. In the kitchen he showed me my favorite snacks I'd mentioned in passing over our time working together. There were Pringles, bagels, saltines and ginger ale. In the fridge he had angel food cake, whipped cream and strawberries.
William listened. William took note. I saw, for the first time in my life, that love was an action more than it was a notion or a feeling or a squiggly rush up the arms.
On that anniversary night in Berlin, I recalled our fiery first date and looked at the regret etched across his face. I read his love note, threw my arms around him and hugged hard. It's a "doing" thing, this love business. Also, I was about to leave Berlin for another adventure, and I was already missing him.
Once inside, William led me on a tour of his house. Basic, white walls, exceptionally clean, big television, red couch...a guy's place. I noticed all the window blinds were shut tight. No light. It would take years for me to truly understand the depth of William's need to travel under the radar. Incrementally, it became clear to me.
His clothes fit two sizes too large and other than occasional gatherings with his high school friends, he didn't socialize. After attending a party or dinner with me, he'd question everything he said or did and then cringe if he believed he'd made a misstep.
I didn't know how to respond to these insecurities because I thought he was amazing. What I saw was a confident man willing to be alone. I saw a man sure of himself at work and a man who could make me laugh as I wandered the world, spilling self-doubt. It can take a long time to see the whole picture.
He'd spent the day of my first visit cleaning his house, but what was really impressive was when he started opening cabinets and cupboards. I was at the latter end of healing my hot wax burns, but William wanted to be certain I had all I needed. In the bathroom he showed me bandages, gauze and ointment for my injuries. In the kitchen he showed me my favorite snacks I'd mentioned in passing over our time working together. There were Pringles, bagels, saltines and ginger ale. In the fridge he had angel food cake, whipped cream and strawberries.
William listened. William took note. I saw, for the first time in my life, that love was an action more than it was a notion or a feeling or a squiggly rush up the arms.
On that anniversary night in Berlin, I recalled our fiery first date and looked at the regret etched across his face. I read his love note, threw my arms around him and hugged hard. It's a "doing" thing, this love business. Also, I was about to leave Berlin for another adventure, and I was already missing him.
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