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.
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