KUTNÁ HORA: October, 2000 (Part 1)

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.

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.

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?

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.

BERLIN: October, 2000 (Part 7)

I arrived back at the Madison hotel in Berlin at two in the afternoon to find William, on his day off, tucked asleep under the duvet. I crawled in next to him and melted into the perfect bed. Ah yes, this is what money can buy. My six days in cheap Parisian hotels gave me an appreciation for luxurious linens, a bathroom brimming with hot water and a shimmering kitchen.

The next day was our two-year dating anniversary. William planned on being home by eight at night. I made omelets and salad for dinner. I bought small frosted German cakes, opened a good bottle of red and set them next to a lovey-dovey card. The KaDeWe gift bag with the leather wallet rested next to his dinner plate and I waited. And waited.

He forgot. He didn't call. This oversight was a throwback to our first few months of dating. He'd say, I'll be over at five-thirty. I'd say, Okay.

Back then, I believed him. I prepared. I was ready and I waited. Sometimes for two hours. Absolute stubborn martyrdom prevented me from phoning to ask, What the hell are you doing? Why aren't you here?

By the time he would arrive at my apartment, all chipper and nothing's wrong, I would be a chilly, tight-jawed, don't-touch-me mess.

This is not going to work if this seems normal to you.

What? What?

It feels like my time with you is unimportant.

That's not true….It's really important.

You say that but when you show up two hours later than you said….

He got it and showed up on time from then on. This is one of William's more winning attributes: he owns his stuff, wants to improve, then does. I own my mistakes, want to improve, and forget.

However, back in Berlin, he slipped. I thought we had worked this issue out two years earlier. It was well near eleven when he made his entrance into a clichéd scene out of a crummy B-movie: me asleep on the couch, a table set for two, candles burned to the quick and....

Look, the guy is working his ass off while I trip around Europe like a kept woman. I had no business griping — but that didn't stop me. I peeled open my groggy eyes and glared across the room. He opened the card and dropped his chin. I gloated. He unwrapped the gift and shook his head. I silently shrugged in an uppity way.

What can I do? How do I make this up to you?

Write. Something corny. Really sugary and you'll be forgiven.

William went to a desk and found a small pad of hotel stationery. He sat down with a pen and wrote. I kept quiet, curled up in a chair and marveled that he was writing anything. I thought back two years to when we worked on my movie and he virtually cupped me in his palm at the mix sessions. How he took care of me and my work. Of how that had never happened to me before, with anyone. I was acting witchy and whiny when he sat across from me on this October night in Berlin and handed me a note.

October 18, 2000

Dear Mel,

In the past two years of my life, I have made advances at work, settled into becoming a homeowner and taken care of a dog. But all these things wouldn't mean nearly as much as they do if I didn't have you to share them with. Thank you for not only making my life interesting but also for making me a better person as well.

Love (I may not say it often, but I do mean it),
William

Note to self: get over self.

PARIS: October, 2000 (Part 5)

I lay on my Parisian hotel bed and thought of William and his ambivalence toward travel. He's especially put off by my style of peregrination. I like to get lost and find my way home. I like non-chain hotels. I like trying new food and chatting to locals. William prefers luxury and secure surroundings. He wants to know exactly where he's going, how long it will take and what will happen when he gets there.

These differences do not make me right and him wrong. But they are differences nonetheless, and how can you join lives together when the rims of the canyon are so far apart? I wondered this as I lay on my bed in the "Irma la Douce" garret (I changed movies in my head).

I traveled by train to Versailles for a visit to the palace. So did everyone else. A mass of fellow tourists created a sardine-in-a-can experience and made it difficult to imagine what the day-to-day might have been like in the seventeenth century.

I'm a snob about these things, these people....I know I set myself apart and think I'm better — I do and I have no defense, none at all — and then I run. I got out of the palace rooms with their ornate wallpaper and brocade furniture, and went far away from the chattering crowd. I tripped lightly across the gardens in the backyard of the palace. I raced from the grandeur and found myself alone and wandering the town of Versailles.

I would guess most people take the train to this place, visit the main event, and then leave. A-ha, I discovered gold in my act of escape. I came upon a farmers' market where locals filled baskets and net bags with flowers and red apples. I ate an authentic Salade Niçoise in small restaurant. I read my book and listened to the beautiful language spoken by a group of women as they chatted and sipped white wine. I fantasized a life in a town like this. I would dress simply and my voice would ring musically in French.

I walked back to the train station, stopped at a pâtisserie and bought a raspberry tart. I unwrapped the tissue and bit into the sweet red berries floating in thick, pale yellow custard. William would like this aspect of my adventure. Maybe that was the answer: tempt him with tarts (or become one).

For my last two days in Paris, I planned trips to a flea market and a blues club. Because I now understood the late dining protocol, I left my hotel at six forty-five p.m., rode three metro trains and walked five blocks to the blues/soul food joint for a seven-thirty arrival. I was ready for some music and collard greens.

The tables, quaint with their in red-checked cloths, sat against stone walls decorated with photos of American blues and jazz masters. It made me proud to see the appreciation the French have of our music. It may be the only thing they admire about us, but it's a good choice.

I settled into a seat and looked around the candlelit room, dismayed that I was the only person in the place. This was after I killed time at the hotel and traveled slow to make a decent entrance. I crawled blocks, window-shopping to ensure this wouldn't happen. Dammit to hell, turns out I wasn't getting the Paris thing down at all.

I nursed my way through two beers and a fried chicken dinner until ten-thirty, when the musicians arrived to set up. I had the sad realization that Paris at night is not for the single woman who'd spent a long day sightseeing. I look forward to one day visiting Barcelona and Madrid, but I hear it's worse there...They don't eat dinner until midnight. That's a lot of gazing in windows and kicking pebbles over cobblestone.

At eleven I paid my bill and set off to locate my three trains back to the hotel. I hadn't heard a single note of jazz or blues, but I looked like someone living them.

My last day in Paris was spent at les Puces (the fleas), the largest location of antiques for sale in the world. Of course, I wouldn't be buying furniture, or anything, as it turned out; the plaisir is in the looking.

Because we are so young in North America, a European flea market is an overwhelming world of preserved history. Fine, polished carved wood expertly inlaid with ivory or tile could be an everyday bed for two. Marble side tables, gilt chandeliers, art-deco lamps, the paintings and the books....

I wandered awestruck for the entire morning. At one o'clock I was charmed by dealers setting up lunch in their stalls, for customers and themselves. Platters of fruit, cheeses and meats were presented on tea tables. Wine chilled in silver buckets sat next to etched glasses waiting to be filled. As a non-buyer it seemed inappropriate to partake, but I found a nearby restaurant to enjoy a salad, cheese platter and glass of wine. Civilization at its best.

My only regret on departing France was that I hadn't spent more time outside the city. Other than my trip to Versailles, I missed the gentle quiet of a small town and would have liked that. For now, au revoir, Paris, and merci beaucoup.

PARIS: October, 2000 (Part 4)

Warm October sunshine and freshly washed air sent me into a new day. The Metro in Paris is a cinch and I easily found my way to La Tour Eiffel. I elevatored up and oohed and aahed at the view. Since I'm not a fan of crowds, especially crowds of tourists, I duck and avoid them where I can. So I walked down, down, and more down to street level.

When I think of Paris, I think of its parks. Lovely, green, open spaces with inviting armchairs scattered under trees. Children riding on carousel horses or giggling at marionette shows. Old men flipping through newspapers and tossing baguette crusts to pigeons.

Or the small overgrown glen where I discovered benches and curvy walkways. I settled for a picnic lunch of camembert, bread and red grapes. Purchased, I might add, with the requisite angst of terrible language skills. I got everything wrong and suffered the disgust of various Parisian shopkeepers. They threw their hands in the air at this American stupey-dupe. Had I not been prepared for the snobbery, I might have taken it personally, but much has already been written about this and I was right at home playing my part. No...money goes here, not there....No, no, no...you pay for the fruit there, not here....No...that's not enough....

Lord, kill me now. I thrust my palm forward with a wad of cash. Take what you like, just give me some lunch.

I did not go to the Louvre. Crowds. I did go to the Musée d'Orsay and highly recommend it. Housed in a former train station, the museum is dedicated to the Impressionist period with a dazzling collection of furniture, sculpture and paintings. I was entranced for hours.

The Jardin des Tuileries provided a satisfying rest stop to people-watch and sip hot chocolate. I took a spin on La Grande Roue, the giant Ferris wheel, and marveled at the city from on high. The white stone buildings and lush green of tree-filled parks far below made me want to stay, study and converse in flawless French. This would, of course, not happen and as I examined Paris from that high-flying perspective I was reminded that observation was the task and assimilation a mere fantasy.

I was only able to book my hotel room for two nights, so I arranged other lodging for my final four nights. I moved into a hostelry for thirty-five dollars a night, including breakfast. I opened the door to an attic room perfect for one person. I smiled at the slanted walls and the single, tiny paned window. Not only was it cheaper, but it was also better and cleaner.

No two ways about it: I'd found my "American in Paris" garret. Off the bedroom, an itsy-bitsy bathroom with a sink and shower for, again, an ice-cold dousing. A water closet was situated down the hall, which wasn't a problem because no other guests were on the floor. The room, cozy with flower-patterned wallpaper, had a staying-at-Grandma's feel.