"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.
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