Olomouc, a town with a population of a hundred and four thousand, had been recommended as an agreeable stop on my way to Krakow. Across from its train station, a charmless, gray-slab high-rise hotel waited for me. For a mere fourteen dollars I booked a clean, top-floor room with pristine white sheets and a cozy duvet. Breakfast in the downstairs dining room was included. It became increasingly clear that prices in the Czech Republic would soon change as mobs of world travelers discovered these jewel-box villages.
The previous night, I had celebrated my exit from Prague with a farewell dinner. I cast myself in a movie from the nineteen-sixties: imagine Elizabeth Taylor circa "The Last Time I Saw Paris." A dining room, grandly ornate in gold and red, with heavy drapes framing floor-to-ceiling windows. An all-male wait staff on guard, straight-backed in black suits and white gloves, ready to serve.
Each course was elegantly ported across the room on a silver tray, then flamboyantly swooped to eye level as a shining cover was pulled away to reveal its contents. The entree was a dish of braised meat glazed in a rosy sauce, with a parsley sprig daintily adding color. Was I underdressed in my black corduroy pants and black sweater? The ambience screamed for a jade cocktail dress and strings of pearls.
Solitary travel sits well with me. The opportunity to silently observe and to embrace the challenge of getting from here to there. Reading books on long train trips, no problem. I'm fine with every aspect — except the evening meal. It's at the end of the day, as I sip a glass of wine and peer out a dark window, that the pangs hit and I want to be with him. To hear of his day and tell of mine.
Olomouc, perched over the Morava River, was delightfully free of tourists. A small town full of churches and palaces. The city, painted in pastel tones, spoke of a peaceful existence. Pale blues, yellows and creamy stone blended with windows trimmed in gold or sienna. The October light cast a pink tinge on the masonry. Stone trumpeters balanced on rooftops next to statues of bishops solemnly blessing the city down below.
Cobblestone streets and a village center with a towering fountain welcomed me on this warm, sunny day. Small store windows featuring fine Czech glassware and china clamored for attention. Workmen repaired streets, carpenters remodeled apartments and schoolchildren chased pigeons. Old men in hats and women in headscarves chatted in small groups.
A young tour guide in Potsdam, Germany, explained a social chasm that had occurred since the fall of the wall. Under the Communist regimes, people would retire by fifty years of age and the state would take care of them. As a new democracy replaced the old system, those in their late forties or early fifties panicked. Their children jubilantly stomped the Berlin Wall to pieces while the older generation was preparing to end their working lives. But now they faced...what? Who would pay their rent, their medical bills? Who would take care of them?
Suddenly, with a long future ahead, fifty looked far too young to call it quits. To make matters worse, as capitalist elements worked their way into society, an older citizen would notice a neighbor who suddenly owned a big-screen television, or a laptop computer, or a new car. A social competitiveness closed in.
The twentysomethings thrilled at no longer being forced to speak the Russian language imposed on them. Their vistas opened to include the entire world via speedy internet connections. Jazzy, stylish blue jeans and all kinds of movies and music showed up. Nightclubs sprang open and the possibilities for variety in higher education spoke of serious money in their futures.
But for the middle-aged, things could not have looked bleaker.
In Berlin, striking laborers camped in tents by the Brandenburg Gate. They argued for higher wages, but construction chiefs could hire new immigrants for a fraction of their pay. It would take years, perhaps generations, for these societies to adapt to their new democracies.
Olomouc townspeople huddled with worried faces as pigeons flapped for crumbs. Guilty twinges grappled at me when I ordered up a dinner of schnitzel, salad, beer and a cappuccino...for a total of four dollars. The area could benefit from an onslaught of tourists. I resolved to stop my joyous, secret buzz whenever I discovered empty towns. These places need an influx of western cash, not just western idealism. I left a hundred percent tip, and that seemed measly.
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