The Beginning

The airplane wheels screech on the runway tarmac. Finally, after years of waiting, I had landed in Prague. I swiftly made my way to claim my baggage and approached the security gate. Well, having never been to the Czech Republic before I was unsure of the protocol at security. Thankfully the signs on the wall by the security window gave some rough guidelines. Here we go, the obligatory no smoking symbol, OK. Next to that, a no food symbol, OK. And then something curious, a no handguns sign. There it was, displayed just as routinely as the others. No handguns. Thank God I left my Beretta at home, or I'd be in for a jolly good ticking-off, and who knows what that would involve.

I had decided to start this trip off frugally by ignoring my hostel's airport pick-up service and going straight for the counter to buy a ticket for the bus and metro, which would take me to within 3 minutes of said establishment. A prompt transaction ensued, followed by a swift entry onto the bus, which conveniently pulled up within seconds of my rucksack being slung off my ill-prepared back. This was going too well. So, with a satisfying 'click-click' I cheerily verified my ticket in the machine on-board, which is, by the way, mandatory, lest you receive a tasty fine for your laziness. Oh, and a half ticket for the backpack. And there was me beginning to feel suddenly alone in a strange city. I was buying a ticket for my bag for Pete's sake. I wondered momentarily if I might begin building up a friendship with my pack in a scene somewhat reminiscent of Tom Hanks on that Island with his beloved football Wilson.
Not 30 seconds had gone by had I sharply- but evidently not sharply enough- realised that the instructions to my hostel, along with my travel insurance documents and names and addresses of everyone I intended on staying in contact with were now forgetfully perched on the counter at the bus ticket office without their owner. Shit.

I began to make the inevitable twitches of despair, half getting up from my seat. Should I? Shouldn't I? Bursting through the closed doors at this point was certain to cause injury, and in any case, was I prepared to show myself to be the bumbling British traveller I so hoped I wasn't to a bus full of strangers? The more I though about it, the more I decided that there was nothing important in that pack of paperwork. This, of course, was nonsense. I was screwed.
But wait! I remembered briefly reading through the instructions to Chilli's Hostel. Was it plausible that I might actually have retained that information so I could at least get to my bed and cry myself to sleep in private? Although I'd booked a dorm room with, at best, 3 other people. But wait! My travel insurance contract was stored on my email as well. Even better, no need for a paper copy. Lastly, there were the names, phone numbers and addresses of my friends and a few travel notes in that pack too, but with any luck this might be a viable way out of sending any postcards.
Right, so it's not that bad after all. I could stop my bum twitching and try to enjoy the fact that I had arrived in this new city and would soon be having a good time. Except, amongst the lost paperwork was my savings account phone number and customer code. That, coupled with my name and address adorning the travel insurance document and I could be in for a painful loss. And...clench.

Bus, metro and walk. I was sure I could manage this. It's always hard to judge whether a dark alley is just a dark alley or a big mistake. As it turns out it, walking from the metro station, it was just a dark alley. Little did I know that with a bang I would be in for my first truly authentic Czech experience on the first night, watching one Skoda back into another. I couldn't have wished for a more amusing and ironic gesture. Thank you Prague for that one. Having got off at the right stops, walked in the right direction and turned into the right roads Chilli's Hostel stood before me like a glowing little backpacker grotto, a welcome sight after a silly start. I checked-in and sat there in the common area feeling like the new child in class, trying to appear cool and experienced. Eventually, feeling myself failing at that, I decided it was best to get an early night and start afresh on a new day.

A thin mattress is a death sentence. This was my second lesson in as many days. This bunk bed flexed and creaked in usual hostel fashion, and on the morning of day two it would take the guile and steady manoeuvrability of a chameleon not to wake my fellow dorm-troopers. I had set myself the chance of an early start, to take in as much as I could manage in a day. So, off I went into the deep end of sightseeing.

The first major point that I came across was Charles Bridge. Built in 1357, it was dotted with a spattering of 18th century statues, and seemed like a charming place to start. I arrived before the hordes and had the bridge to myself. Well, sort of. A dozen or so construction workers were diligently constructing away on what I assume were repair works, which covered one whole flank of the bridge behind a make-shift hoarding. There's something about orange hazard fencing and cones that puts work to spoiling a perfectly good view of an attractive structure, but like the man with two faces, it looked all right from one side.

I decided that if my usually casual walk was to turn into a brisk march, it would only be to serve the purpose of warming myself up due to the bloody freezing temperatures here in Prague in November. I was determined to bring my pace down to holiday speed, and having only left England the day before, it was a comforting instruction. The bridge, despite the workman in the tipper truck following me 5 metres behind (come on, we're in Europe now) all the way, was a delight. The theatrical statues of Dvorak and Jesus (still not entirely sure which one is God in this notably atheistic country) were quite impressive. Still, I didn't want to stand motionless for too long, I may be a warm-blooded mammal, but I didn't feel like it. A few photos, and on to the west of the River for an exploration of Prague Castle.

Wow, this is one huge Castle ground. Apparently, being the world's biggest castle complex was not enough for the folks that built it, they had to fill it with a plethora of awe-inspiring Baroque cathedrals, basilicas, stately government buildings and trading streets which beg to be explored into every nook and dark corner. Approaching St. Georges Basilica, I noticed a friendly looking red-haired gentleman standing by a table for tickets to a concert which began in a few hours. Pachelbel's Canon, Mozart's Divertimento in D and Vivaldi's Four Seasons would be performed by the Prague Royal Orchestra. Now, not being a regular listener to classical, I surprised myself by a positive inner-jolt at the thought of watching such great works in such a beautiful and historic building. I had, in the past, always enjoyed the odd classical concert that my Father had taken me to, so there was no reason to assume this would be any different. I just had to fill a few hours and return in time for the start of the performance.

Walking towards Starometske nam (Old Town Square) back across Charles Bridge, I noticed how much busier it had become. The bridge had become a business. At one stand the wandering tourists were being played to by an earnest-looking lady with a ceramic flute. I remember thinking first of all that this was basically just a small piece of pottery with some holes in it, and secondly, how can such an authentic and quite legitimate range of notes be coming from that thing? I walked on. If there's one thing the backpacker quickly learns it's not to show too much interest at market stalls, in case you end up selling all your valuables to raise just enough funds to buy that overpriced bamboo elephant you never wanted. Along the spine of this stone Bridge more stalls vied for equal attention from the gathering multi-lingual tourist crowd. Paintings, panoramic photography, operatic singers, a guitar-playing clown puppet, it was all here.

On the other side of the Bridge the old Town Square appeared and immediately took me in. This was a special space. A large pedestrianised, stall-filled, and consequently crowd-filled area, surrounded on all sides by stunning, colourful Baroque architecture. I could wander here for a bit then go back to my Hostel to put on some warmer clothes for my return to Prague Castle for the concert.

Big sausages! Admiring glances from passers-by at the stall selling huge sausage meat and gigantic wheels of cheese amused me, these stalls were going all-out to impress. Vintage open-top Rolls Royce cars were lining up on one side of the street and beautiful horses and carriages on the other. Prague was really beginning to shine. This place knew how to provide a good service. As luck would have it, as I approached the old Town Hall clock tower the clock stood suspended at 11:59am. The huge crowd seemed expectant. I was convinced that a spectacle was about to appear from some part of the astronomical clock, as I had heard it did something quirky on the hour, every hour. But this was noon, I had come at the right time. In truth, nothing different happens at noon compared to any other hour of the day. The little gold skeleton man tugs on a chord which rings the bell and a some holy-looking figures circle around through 2 openings above the clock face. A trumpet sounds and it's all over. The revering crown cheer, whistle, clap and disperse. I was too busy trying not to get pick-pocketed to fully enjoy the whole routine but I liked it nonetheless.

Sitting in the VIP section of St. Georges Basilica, front row, middle seat I was waiting for something special from the orchestra. As they tuned-up you couldn't help but feel very lucky to be in such a fine establishment, and as a backpacker, very lucky indeed. This was not bungee-jumping. Maybe I had just convinced myself I was a real traveler, I'm sure this type of thing is not allowed in the backpacker's handbook, it was way too sophisticated. Then it happened, in those first few gentle notes of Pachelbel's Canon it dawned on me that I had arrived. I had left my home in England and come to a stunning location and was being treated to a very special human achievement in this piece of music. Tingles, gulps and utter fixation all became completely involuntary. The music reverberated perfectly off the stone walls and high ceilings and for an hour and a half- the scene, my life and that moment was just perfect.

Walking out of the Basilica, the darkness had enveloped the sky and my daytime experience inside these castle walls transformed into a completely different animal. At night, the castle complex was utterly astounding. Anybody that comes here and doesn't see it at night has missed out on more than half of its charm. I spent the next two hours wandering, gasping and shaking my head as I took some of the most beguiling photography I had ever had the pleasure of witnessing through the viewfinder. Today, was a good day.

On my third day in Prague, I set myself an equally busy task of walking the city and seeing some unique features.
On the road which lay juxtapositioned to the River, the silvery tramlines glistened in the light rain. It occurred to me that driving across tramlines in the wet would require a certain amount of poise because of the slippery surface. Not a moment later, a frisky little Fiat came hurtling around the bend, and in a Starsky & Hutch-style manoeuvre, slid sideways, nearly side-swiping the oncoming traffic. The car came to a halt and then pulled away again as if nothing had happened. As the car passed, the female passenger looked extremely relieved and at the same time intensely determined to show a placated expression. Brilliant.

Walking across Charles Bridge was beginning to become a well-trodden routine. With a simple map, the City was easy to navigate by foot. What was more challenging however, was trying not to become a part of a Japanese family portrait. As soon as you begin to admire the sights, that's the point at which you step into a flash of light and a disgruntled man-with-camera gives you a confounding look as to why you didn't see him pointing the camera at his grinning relatives. This was becoming somewhat of a slalom.

Pacing behind me were two American ladies. There was one part of their conversation I couldn't help but enjoy so very much. 'You know, you have to give the Communists some credit; they spent a decent amount of money on building a lot of statues.' My eyes lit up and the corners of my mouth curled into a subdued state of pre-laughter. Did I just hear an American praising the communist's artistic policies on public spaces? I'm no expert on this issue, but it did amuse me no end.

The walk up to the Strahov Library was an uphill monster. Out of breath and thirsty, I stood for a moment in front of the library, taking in the atmosphere in the leafy courtyard. The area of Hradcany was quiet and winding, perfect for a stroll on a leisurely day, and the Library was a welcome assuagement from the chill in the air. Having bought my ticket, I began looking around the first room at various artifacts purporting to be something to do with the history of the literary word in Bohemia.
I was approached by a lady guide, who, in a mixture of Czech/English and rudimentary finger-pointing, told me the Library was closing in ten minutes; it wasn't even midday yet. I politely soldiered on, guide-lady in tow, just in case I didn't get her instruction. As I peered inquisitively at the displays, the curious old lady began to describe each artifact in amazing detail; the trouble was I didn't speak Czech. So I did what any apologetic foreigner would do and nodded, a lot. 'Hmm, da, da'. The facade was beginning to get a little tiresome, until I reached the end of the hallway and saw the most awe-inspiring side room; filled on all sides with old wooden bookshelves and some seriously old books. The room was not for entering; clearly shown by the wooden plank stretching across the threshold at chest-level. This wasn't really going to stop an intrusion, I thought. Looking into the fresco-painted hall was like staring through a window back in time, maybe five hundred years or so. It was entirely worth the hill climb alone. Some more informative, but ultimately useless, Czech commentary spewed from the dear old guide's wrinkled lips, and that was my lot. A succinct visit if ever I had one. Lovely. Time to go then. You know that feeling when you exit an establishment and the keys are already in the door, ready to lock out the last customer? Well, today, that was me, and I took great pleasure in that. With a swift 'Na shledanou,' I was out of there.

Walking back towards the downhill retreat, the library bells began to sound. I stood on some high ground and gazed at the panoramic view of the whole of Prague below me. Distant bells rang in an echoing response from the vista below. I took that time to stop and soak up the moment; it was what this trip to Europe was all about.

Descending the Uvoz road was much more enjoyable than the climb. In front of me were a couple. A man stood behind his marginally shorter wife and proceeded to, in my opinion, ingeniously use his wife as a kind of human tripod. With his camera perched on top of her head, he lined up the shot of the view below and snapped away. If only I'd thought of that. I'd have left my tripod at home and just approached random people in the street asking for a favour from time to time.

Feeling rather satisfied with life, I stepped into a café for a cappucino. I noticed after another attempt at greeting a waitress with 'Dobry den,' that no one was really getting it. Perhaps it was customary not to respond with a similar greeting, or maybe they were all foreigners too; at any rate, I wasn't too offended. On the walls of this café were an assortment of photographic images, each one for sale, and each one of a professional grade. Views of Prague, pictures of performing celebrities and a quite extensive portfolio of framed images of a man named Karel Gott. I was lost on this one. Flittering through my notes and sipping this rather distasteful coffee, I was notably optimistic that writing a book about the random idiosyncrasies of man and country would indeed be a good idea. So far, I was pleased with the content of this intriguing city, and besides, the many faces of Karel Gott seemed to appease my ideas from across the wall. So I had a good feeling it would all work out OK.

Walking around St. Nicholas' Church was a pleasant sight. It is one of the most indicative Baroque creations in the City, but more importantly, why did these parking meters look like profiles of Roman Soldier's heads? This was the kind of stuff I wondered about. Was it intentional? Was it a ploy to put the fear into the casual motorist so that they would perpetually feed the Roman's mouth with their pocket change? I fear I may never know.

The Old Jewish quarter around Josefov seemed like a good idea for an informative, if slightly depressing, holocaust reminder. Entering the Pinkas Synagogue, the first thing you notice are the names of the victims inscribed on almost every viewable wall surface in the building. A poignant illustration of the loss that this community suffered. In a few steps and a few moments of scanning the names, I saw one name which caught my eye- Adolf. Not even a Jewish man named Adolf managed to escape the wrath of the Gestapo. The names were so numerous that after pondering that though for a moment, I couldn't find that name again for looking. It became one big haze of lettering. A donation box sat meekly in the corner of the room, partially filled with the gratuities of passing tourists. As I looked up at the walls, the Bose speaker system spoke volumes; I don't think these people are short of a buck or two.

Each synagogue on the walking tour brought with it something only slightly different from the next. So to my delight, as I entered the last of the lot, the Spanish Synagogue, I was immediately thankful for spending out on the ticket. The interior, completed in 1893, was nothing short of breathtaking. Every square inch of wall and ceiling surface was decorated with stylised Islamic motifs. The arches, the domes and the stained-glass windows all shaped this wonderful place to epic proportions. It was not a particularly large floor space, but the high ceilings and walls were gracefully and patiently painted with burgundy, deep green and gold brushstrokes, and as you tried to take it all in, your eyes would shift from one corner to the next in disbelief of the level achievement and artistry. Going back out through the lobby, the greying and pensive-looking man inside the ticket booth called me over. I told him where I was from and he asked me if I had taken any pictures of the synagogue interior. Knowing that it was forbidden, I told him no, and he gave me a little secret. In broken English 'If go upstairs, the lady is guarding the silver, go to other side and make picture, no one will know,' wink. I thanked him and left, reluctantly keeping my camera in the bag.

Stopping at the bridge, South of Charles Bridge, was an ideal viewpoint to capture the skyline in the dimming night sky. The floodlights illuminated the cathedral in the castle grounds in the distance. The old street lights reflected and shimmered across the Vltava River, and with the feint scent of Weetabix in the air (I have no idea,) a perfect scene was set for an hour or so of patient photography to end another glorious day.