kafka for the traveler's soul

"I am a cage, in search of a bird"
- Franz Kafka

It is Saturday, late in the afternoon, and I am in the lobby of a hotel in the center of Prague trying to preoccupy myself with writing something substantial in hopes of warding off much needed bitter sleep because last night was spent tossing, turning, and sweating due to broken central air and vivid nightmares of the end of the world. Travel is not easy. I first arrived in Prague on Monday after taking a very scenic 4 hour train ride from Berlin and my very first impression of the city at 10pm was contained in 2 words - sketchy and cold. The following morning, well rested and free breakfast in my stomach, the city began to change even though the early morning hours carried with it the unwelcoming chill of the previous night, and at about 12 in the afternoon, the sun as promised took over the sky. The first days of the week were framework for a fairytale vision of the city. Minimal crowds allowed for strolling rather than swifting and a reassuring silence hovered in the air, making this tourist's-most-sought-after-travel-location much more leisurely than I had expected.

One can in fact 'feel' a city. And just the same, one comes to a new city always with a preconceived notion of 'how' to feel in it. I have experienced this everywhere I've been, and have yet to find that these two states of feeling match.

Prague. The spoken letters leave the mouth gaping and the tongue hidden. The name sounds regal, prestigious. The city is the oldest to still be preserved in (mostly) all of its original construction and maintains a very gothic romanticism. It's funny how different one finds themselves upon arriving here. Despite the deceiteful photography you might have seen, the famous Charles Bridge is not always covered in a sheet of thick fog.

In the springtime, one can almost say this city is more romantic than Paris, the infamous city of lovers. Prague remains untouched, like an aged virgin, with evidence of her decay in the sooth that covers the exteriors of once gold statues and once white stone roofs. More evident, is the religious presence in this city. Every corner you turn and every little cobblestone path you take somehow reminds you of being watched over, sometimes with a gesture of guidance and sometimes with a condemning stare. There is an old legend that runs through these streets that says when Hitler came to Prague during World War II, he couldnt shake off the feeling of guilt the city aroused in him, and so he left after staying only a short while without any bloodshed. Walking here, I think I can feel why that might be true.

The landscape is mountainous but richly green, and while reading Kafka in one of the many natural parks, it's hard not to fall into a dreamlike trance with all the heavy pollen flying around, sometimes making it hard to see yet all the more rewarding when the wind blows through your hair, the sun warms your face, and you think that perhaps Kafka himself once felt this nostalgic pain for a fairytale either long forgotten or never begun.

In the early 1900s Kafka wrote that he felt good in this city because it seemed to match his ugliness. He infamously never grew to like his own appearance and had a strong disregard for mirrors much like Prague's very own disregard for renovation. The city is slowly aging but more quickly filling up with tourists from all over the world who are obsessed with an image they have themselves created long before having arrived and letting the city speak for itself.

About 190 km and 2 hours southwest of Prague, is a small town called Karlovy Vary, known for its hot springs and key spas. I traveled there by bus to spend two days with my grandmother and her childhood friend. Karlovy Vary is nothing like Prague in that living there means removing yourself from the rest of the functioning world. I spent my 48 hours tanning 10,000 ft high, getting much needed back massages by a man with very strong hands, and absorbing key nutrients by soaking in a tub filled with chocolate. Karlovy Vary is a European woman's dream, even though there is no shortage of men profiting from the deeply honest relaxing state this place puts you in. The key element of this far from traditonal spa getaway is the numerous drinking water fountains it provides. Rumor has it, that back in the 9th century, when the King of Bohemia first discovered this place, he had ridden in on a wounded horse which tripped and fell into a hot spring. Moments later, the horse reappeared fully healed. The king settled and word spread that the multiple springs found in these valleys contained impressive healing powers. Since then, Karlovy vary has become the leading European resort, welcoming residents such as Mozart and Goethe.

I felt so incredibly good there that when my grandmother told me she wanted to pay Prague a visit, I felt horrible cofessing that I wanted to stay in this wonderful place forever, and so I promised I would return with her to the city. And so here I am, taking up the past 2 hours of the lobby's only computer while my grandmother and her best friend are on a Russian tour of Prague, which is no longer charming, dreamy, or fairytale-like on a Saturday. Instead it is swarming with too many tourists, making it hard to walk or breathe or invent romantic kafka-esque stories in which I can momentarily place myself.

//Coming up: Some photos, and my thoughts on Berlin.

chez jim

If you ever find yourself in Paris, hidden in a charming courtyard shaded from the orange sunset sky by free growing trees, you will realize that this is exactly the kind of life they don’t tell you exists here. Because if they did, you probably would never leave. And if you stayed you’d risk becoming one of those people who actually believe their life has turned into one miraculous dream, symptoms which I have begun to develop.

For the past 30 years, Jim Haynes, has been generously hosting a dinner at his Parisian atelier for anyone who wants to attend. There are usually 50-70 guests, depending on the weather and availability of the outside space, and besides some of his closest friends, he usually doesn’t know anybody yet. Lavish only in its conception, one can expect good food, good drinks, and even better conversation. Since conversation is really what it’s all about at Jim’s house.

The dinners start at 8pm and run until about 11, at which point at least half of the guests remain pretending they don’t know what time it is because there is so much left to say. But, if you are like me, three hours is barely enough time.

Last Sunday me and my good friend Thomas, who was kind enough to accompany me in hopes of easing my social awkwardness, spent the first half of the day trying to figure out what to expect and also semi planning a back-up plan if we turned out to be the couple who looked like they had made a wrong turn off a nearby street. It just so happens we were some of the youngest (in age not spirit), except for the pubescent boy from Boston who was dragged there by his very, lets just say, interesting father. It seems best not to come with any preconceived notions but instead to arrive with an extremely open mind and an empty stomach.

I spent the first thirty minutes staying close to Thomas while observing the turn out and working alcohol into my system to shake the jitters caused by a room full of strangers dying to talk. Pretty soon we were approached by a lovely couple from Washington DC, whose names I no longer recall. She, was a critical essay writer, and he, was a doctor specializing in internal medicine. They were charming and lively and the conversation ranged from the cultural diversity of Washington DC (which was a shock to me) to their obsession with New York and soon to a commentary on the hip Marais area in Paris which lured three young French girls into our circle. At this point, having ejected ourselves from the conversation, Thomas and I were slowly making our way towards the real hit of any party – the food.

Plates stacked high with braised pork, black beans, rice, and steamed spinach, we took it all outside and sat next to no one other than the cook for the evening, who got to talking about her favorite outdoor markets in Paris and the cooking book she is in the process of compiling. While we chewed, she dished out some secrets to successfully putting together a meal for such a large group and we reassured her that the food was delicious, even though the pork was the only really good element on my plate.

As the crowd moved around, the night started to set in, and the wine was loosening me up, I managed to have a whole one hour conversation with a brilliant man in his fifties who used to be an English professor in Vancouver. I must have charmed him with my excessive jabbering about how much I love all things literary because before I knew it he was giving me hugs and referring to me as ‘a seed I planted that has begun to sprout’. We discussed the power of three little truths called chemistry (the thing which you can't define), good, honest writing, and the power of understanding how unique everyone is. We also talked about the fine line between fiction and non-fiction and simultaneously came to the conclusion that all art forms, whether they be done by brush or pen or other, transcend the categories of right and wrong, and make it possible for open interpretation and an uncanny ability to reach into each and every soul. I concluded that we need more professors like him in our classrooms.

I was so utterly engaged that when I snapped out of it and excused myself to use the restroom, I had realized how many more people there were to meet. I found Thomas near the bathroom talking to three lawyers. He introduced me to one of them and after a little chat, I dragged Thomas outside for a much needed cigarette and an update on the conversations we've been having - he had met an Australian with a handlebar moustache and spent some time practicing his French with a native. Unfortunately, the one person who I expected to be there and was very much looking forward to meeting, Jim, was not at his own party. But I happened to catch the eye of his best friend, a sixty plus year old German named Martin, who told me my pants were sexy and invited me to spend the summer with him in the French provinces. Since the early 80s, he has kept a small publishing house overlooking the Jardin du Luxembourg, which he has taken to calling ‘my very own backyard’.

I spent the last hour of the dinner talking to Martin over fresh strawberry shortcake, which he had two portions of under my watch. He told me about the dying publishing industry, the shortage of good contemporary French literature, and the Jim dinners of course. “It’s a hit or miss really. Most of the time, the people are great and you can't seem to get to everyone in the room quick enough. Other times, I find myself so bored that I have to sneak out.”

It’s true. Besides the wonderful reputation that Jim has built over the years due to his charismatic love for people, the success of each dinner is all about the people. But it’s proven that there must be at least one person worth exchanging words with. And the greatest thing about it? You never know who is going to show and where in the world they are coming from.

As the voices settled, only a handful of people remaining, I sat down for the first time in the evening to give some of Jim’s books, which covered one entire wall, a good look. I left with Thanks for Coming! – a short autobiography of Jim’s remarkable life – chronicling London in the 60s where he co-launched a sexual liberation magazine called Suck, stories about how he knew Yoko Ono and John Lennon before they met each other, details about putting together his book Everything Is, excerpts from other works, some letters, and many photographs taken over the years. If I never again return to a Sunday dinner, at least I will have this book as a keepsake. But I don’t think that is at all possible considering that I am still very intent on meeting the man of the hour.

Here is a short clip from a documentary being made about Jim Haynes and his famous Sunday dinners in Paris. Also please check out his website (www.jim-haynes.com). If you are in Paris, and enjoy meeting people, you will want to pay him a visit.

from zero to sixty

Okay, truth?

Lately it has become increasingly difficult to imagine life on Earth without a computer or a cell phone. How much slower would morning coffee go if it wasn't paired with checking the Facebook news feed? By the looks of it, it's safe to say we are being bred into machines whose programing runs rapidly and solely towards the future.

But if the desire was strong enough, and we gave up Facebook for good, how much of our social status would still exist?

I know that I can't speak for everyone, but a lot of my daily plans are often made via Facebook. In theory, I don't even need a cell phone. This makes me wonder about how many people I would never see if I didn't have a Facebook account, and whether or not that makes me want to see them at all. Because Facebook eliminates the obstacles standing in our way of contacting others, there is a certain level of fight that is lost. Our ability to go from "I wish I could get in touch with Joe and see how he's doing.." to "that dude Joe, he just came back from saving polar bears in Alaska for a year and is living in Chicago with his fiance who is way too smart for him, she graduated Harvard with honors last semester.." is beginning to take all the surprise out of life. These days it is no longer necessary to call up a friend and ask them how their vacation went. It's much simpler to flip through the album they uploaded the minute they returned. Had you called your friend anyway, you would have saved yourself a good ten minutes of recounting the unrecountable, because a picture's worth a thousand words, right? Wrong. Facebook is the death of chance, whether you believe in that sort of thing or not.

It is also a huge paradox. While its function is to increase social interaction, it's directly resulting in a lack of genuine human communication. So while we can arrogantly accumulate 365 friends online, everyone knows we only have about five to ten real ones. And maybe if we weren't worried about staying in touch with people who we've met only once and didn't even like, then we'd get closer to the ones who actually play an active role in our lives.

Last month, when my birthday rolled around, I was shocked that people who I never spoke to, people who I met once many years ago, were leaving fake fingerprints all over my wall. This is the problem with today's world, I thought. The need for self-affirmed egos by way of unauthentic altruism.

A friend of mine experienced the same problem and was slightly upset when his 'friends' were a day late in sending him their best. "Is your birthday up on Facebook?" I asked. "No, I took it off because I didn't want people I dont know congratulating me, it's so stupid.." "Well, there's your answer," I said, "At least they're only a day late, If I tried removing my birthday, I think all I'd get would be a post from my mom.."

And that makes me wonder - are we obsessed with Facebook because we subconsciously crave recognition from others? I dont know. We submit, because face it, if you are young, working, and looking for success, there's hardly no other way to properly function in today's society without succumbing to the digital world like slaves who grow to love their chains. Our generation's need for digital interface makes it impossible to do anything these days without a Facebook account, a Twitter page, and a blog – all running simultaneously. A lack of these resources certainly wouldn’t have me doing this.

But as much as I'm enjoying bashing our seemingly mindless generation, I would like to point out that I am not excluding myself. In fact, because I don't watch television or read the newspaper, the Facebook news-feeds have become my way of obtaining actual 'news'. Because of Facebook, we are not only connecting but we are spreading information faster and wider than has ever been possible.

Having said that, I guess I'm due for a status update.

Don't worry, I'm kidding. On the contrary, maybe I will give my trusty Facebook a little rest and instead direct my energy towards enriching this blog. Trade a small cell for a bigger one. If we must communicate, and I believe we must, I prefer to do it with a bit of individuality. Unfortunately though, the best way to promote this blog will be via Facebook, so maybe I shouldn't have just laid a huge, hot dump on it...

It suffices enough to say that I don’t think I, alone, can beat the system by avoiding it. After all, this is the only one we've got. Who knows what past generations could have accomplished had they been given such a blessing and a curse. But for us, it's time to take advantage of how fast we can spread the word.

Hop on for the ride by either following this blog or checking in from time to time. I promise to keep the content as fresh and as reading worthy as possible, and if there are any comments or suggestions I am always all ears.

xx