Trains, buses and Japanese tourists

I peered through the train window to check the sign, which read- 'Cesky Budejovice'. I had arrived, it was 10pm, dark and unnerving. On the street I consulted my map and made my way towards the Hostel. As I approached I could see it was a high-rise affair devoid of any of the artistic Bohemian trimmings I had been used to. The lift was ancient and tiny, but marvellously efficient. It was a cosy fit with my backpack and me taking up just about every square inch available. There was no protective door and consequently the floors were gliding past about 2 inches from my nose as I cocked my head back in mild discomfort. With a positive 'clunk' the door to the room unlocked, the room was large, with 3 wardrobes, 3 coat hooks, 3 desk spaces and 3 beds with 3 bedside cabinets. I was beginning to feel like goldilocks and hoped I would not be disturbed tonight by a drunken Daddy bear stumbling through the door after a night on the Budweiser.

A morning walk should be full of discovery and newness, but it was, well, mildly disappointing. Expecting to see a cascade of culture at every turn, I was starting to wonder if I had gotten off at the right stop. There was a sense of industry in the air. A slow moving river licked over some languishing weeds under a badly graffitied bridge. The women were noticeably less attractive. The streets only alive with the sound of passing cars.

The narrow streets began to promise something more interesting and as I navigated these city arteries looking for nam Premysla Otakara II, which is the told town square I could feel it was close. Gravitating towards it like water through a bottle neck, the streets opened up into the square. It was one of the largest squares in Europe, but somehow didn't feel like it.

Walking onto the square the sun began to pierce the clouds, the pavement lit up, people started to walk with purpose and the bells of the old Town Hall let out a chime. It was classical in style, with a big dong (pardon the expression) at the end of every phrase. The Town Hall sat on the West side of the square and painted a pastel blue shade with typical Baroque styling. On top were 4 statues representing the 4 cardinal virtues of Justice, Wisdom, Courage and Prudence. The purpose of the square in this modern day was to attract shoppers to its multitude of clothes shops and designer boutiques which laced the outer edges. Every pub advertised Budvar beer, and every foreigner felt obliged to try it.

When I returned in the evening, the square and it's Baroque-heavy circumference was now, in typical Czech style, a night time set of stunning Bohemian lines, colours and form. The Samson fountain set in the middle became the social hub for a few folk wise enough to visit during the hours of darkness. I noted that every time I passed this area there was always at least one clamped car complete with traffic official and embarrassed driver filling out paperwork. With crowns in hand, the drivers were instructed to pay on the spot for their heinous crimes and with any luck, the local authorities might light this place year-round with parking ticket fines alone. I was also beginning to notice that there were a lot of bearded old drunk men, cans in hand, loitering on street corners. If it wasn't for the fact that they could barely put one foot successfully in front of the other, I might be worried. The teenagers with large plastic bottles of luminous alcoholic concoctions posed a bigger threat.

I ventured out of my room later that night for some food, my stomach was calling out for something fatty and fulfilling. I reached a point not 5 minutes from the hostel when I heard what sounded like a gunshot. I turned around and saw one lady in the distance stop and face a side-street. I doubted myself for a moment, then she took out her mobile phone and seemed to dial a number. I could see her looking my way, but I was still unsure of what was happening. The other few people in the high street were walking about in a regular manner. The lady continued on her way and began to walk towards me from a distance, I carried on. Now, unsure of myself I found myself looking over my shoulder and judging indeterminately as strangers strolled past, wondering if they were in on something. This was just the type of paranoia I was intent on avoiding, so I gave myself a quiet talking to and went on to enjoy a lovely Turkish kebab in the high street. A kind of fat-based reward for being brave. Well, they didn't sell lollipops.

I returned to the hostel to find 4 young German backpackers trying to check-in with the lady behind the glass partition. It always makes me smile watching 2 different nationalities trying to communicate using English as an intermediate. It's such a difficult language, and you can see the desperation in their eyes as they offer broken sentences in hope of a comprehensible response. I walked towards the lift and realised the young travellers had backpacks and might need it more than me, so I took the stairs, which conveniently gave me plenty of privacy to laugh my way to my room as I decided that there really was nothing funnier than 4 Germans trying to squeeze into a lift.

Later that evening I decided to make a phone call to a pension in Telc, which was to be one of my next destinations. A pension was a private living quarters, often with bathroom, multiple beds and kitchen facilities, a step up from a hostel dorm and the only choice in many smaller towns. The lady on the other end of the line spoke in Czech and I interjected with my preferred choice of languages. I became clear however, that we were going to have trouble understanding one another as she offered Deutsche as an alternative. I quickly harked back to the days of GCSE German with Ms Belsey and attempted a sentence. "Ich habe eine.....reservation" I couldn't remember the word for reservation. You see, I already had a reservation and wanted to say sorry for not turning up and could I book a reservation for 2 days time. I knew this would be beyond me, not having any need to speak German for the last 13 years made me more than a little rusty, at best. Nevertheless I continued when the silence became too much to bare, silence on the phone is always a worrier. "ich möchte eine.....reservation......für Sonntag", after another reattempt at the same statement, this time with my best German lilt the lady confirmed my request with one of her own, but of course now I was out of my depth and couldn't respond with anything else. She asserted her point and after a long set of 'beep beeps' the phone went dead. The old crone had hung up on me. "How dare she?" I said to myself staring blankly at the handset, and with a sense of indignation I retired for the evening with intent to head in the opposite direction towards Cesky Krumlov instead.

The digital clock ticked over at Cesky Budejovice bus station and as I sat there people-watching I couldn't help thinking that folk in these parts walked, sat and stood without the faintest hint of a smile. I thought about Thailand, the so called 'land of a thousand smiles' and the difference was immense. The women in particular seem particularly troubled and defensive. Streaks of communist oppression gone by remain in the hearts and minds of the Czech Republic's people. I thought about something Pavlina told me in Teplice, that it was such a beautiful town with spirit and stunning old baroque architecture, but then communism swept though like a dark shadow and the buildings were replaced with concrete blocks of flats for fear that the bohemian style was 'too German' in appearance. Creativity suffered, the state told you what you could read, what you could watch on TV and how you should live; hard working and faithful to communist ideals. On the whole, it seemed positive that the Czech Republic was on the rise and derobing from the heavy garments of Soviet dogmas. I boarded the bus, it was only a short ride to Cesky Krumlov and all the way I made plans and notes, deciding when and where to move onto tomorrow.

Arriving in Cesky Krumlov, I was slightly bemused at the isolation of this bus stop and where I should head to find the centre. So I donned my rucksack and consulted the map and trusty compass. I bought this compass on a former trip to Bangkok and I was sure that one day it would get me out of a real dilemma. So with my life on my back I crossed the road, looked at the large town map displayed for tourists and started walking West. The sun was low and shining bright, straight through the golden brown-tinted trees, the leaves drifted down as the wind blew gently past the branches. A small cafe with tables outside selling Budweiser Budvar beer caught my eye. There was something in the air, the peaceful breeze of content, a blissful feeling of something special around the corner. As I turned the corner the majestic sight of old city walls rose up like a lofty cliff face from the grass verge, elongated stone arches allowed passage underneath. More cobbled pathways led through the entrance to the city. It had all the hallmarks of a true medieval city, small in size but big on atmosphere. The cobbled streets were clearly made for walking, not driving. I walked over one of the many city bridges which crossed the Vltava river, the same river that slices Prague in two. I was in total shock and awe at how amazing this small town was and how well preserved it appeared. I was on my way to Hostel Postel, a silly name, but a bed nonetheless. Little did I know that I had marked the hostel on my map on an adjacent road to the correct one. I spent the next 45 minutes lugging my belongings up and down hills, city steps, narrow side streets and what was once the fascination a few minutes prior became the source of frustration and a string of breathless curses. Outside a guesthouse a lady, looking distinctly gypsy-like offered some aid to what must have been the vision of a near-broken man, "do you need some help?", and with the sweat pouring from my brow a simple "yes" was all I could muster with the exhalation of relief evidence of my current lung status. She was clear and concise with her instruction, exactly what I needed. Realising my error I apologised to Cesky Krumlov and proceeded to the correct road. Hostel Postel was small, private, quiet, homely and warm. Fantastic. The solid wood furniture, tiled floors and little courtyard reassured me that I must have picked the best hostel in town. It didn't take long before I scrapped the plan to leave tomorrow and stay an extra day in this extraordinary location. I sat in the kitchen gratefully sipping my free coffee and with the tick-tock of the mock Grand Central Station clock, I quietly contemplated the next couple of days here.

The winding streets are flanked by Renaissance and Baroque buildings. With uneven old brickwork underfoot you have to watch out when perusing the crooked angles of the surrounding houses and businesses. With my camera mounted on its tripod and slung over my shoulder I strolled into a small garden, which gave a good viewing point over the river and houses below. I stared for a moment at the city plan when a man standing beside me turned and asked "is that one of those digi-cal cameras, you know one of those new fangled digi-cal things? It's impressive isn't it....digi-cal?" His Liverpudlian accent and toothy smile threw me for a moment, I replied "yes, DIGITAL is good, much more convenient" putting vernacular stress on the correct pronunciation. He seemed unperturbed and continued "yes, our Nephew Paul has one of those new digi-cal cameras, they're quite good" as if teaching me something I didn't already know. "Are you a photographer?" I paused a moment..."Yes, a photographer and writer". "Oh who do you write for?" he enquired. Immediately regretting my decision to talk myself up I turned on the swagger for fear of being found out. "Oh, you know, I'm independent at the moment". "Go on, what's your name then?" he said, I told him my first name "Adam what?" he insisted. "Adam Lucas" I replied, knowing that he was mentally recording my every word for later examination. "I'll look out for you". At this point he began randomly telling me about a tour he had been on earlier that day, something to do with a place maybe 20 km North of here here where there was a stone monument built by the Russians or Americans where they met during WWII and that this was a place that they met every year to commemorate the joining of forces. As I write this I may be completely wrong about the details, but the important message is that neither did I ask to hear about or want to hear about this highlight to his day. Don't get me wrong, I like the random meets you experience as a traveller, but this was just weird. The low point came when he called over his wandering wife to ask her what date it was that the Russians and Americans meet at the statue in question. Woe betide you if you get to a point in a one-way conversation that the person begins to question them self in the manner of "oh, no but was it May 1st, or was it in June? No it was definitely in May. No it was June! I'm sure it was in May.....darling...when was it that the Russians and Americans meet at the statue" "What?" she replied portraying a lifetime of endless and pointless questions from her tired eyes. "You know that statue we went to today, when was it that......" and so on an so forth. Losing the will to live might be an over-exaggeration, but I was getting close. Then he called over his Czech friend and repeated the question, my blank expression didn't convey its intended message and even at the point at which his friend offered to "draw me a map" to a place that I had not even asked about, he didn't click that I was beginning to think about throwing myself off the garden wall to escape the verbal assault of random recommendations. The juncture came when my opportunity to express my malcontent at the way this conversation was going arrived, my eyes wandered at his feet and the awkward silence turned to a nod and "Well ok then, see you". I was free.

As I approached the garden wall which looked over the city a young Japanese lady was asking a European tourist to kindly take her photo for her. She took photo number one and the Japanese girl offered a charade like indication to take another in portrait for her. "Thank you", "you're welcome". I got the feeling that she was not too happy with the result and I looked over at the Japanese lady thinking she might ask me to take her photo. I was after all carrying a rather large tripod-mounted camera. Various exchanges of wondering glances went back and forth in an aloof fashion, but neither of us offered or asked anything. It was clear she was travelling alone. She had that inquisitive look in her eyes and smooth, interested walk that only a lonesome traveller has when navigating through a new city.

A couple of hours later I walked back to the hostel and greeted the group of backpackers gracing the kitchen, I noticed the Japanese girl was in the middle of the bunch. Surprised to see a familiar face amongst some new ones I waved and said "hi" in a suggestive manner to indicate I had seen her previously. She didn't seem to be enjoying the young Aussies' conversation and after a couple of minutes came over to talk to me in the kitchen. "Do you have big, nice cam-era?" "Yes, I saw you in the garden today" I replied. Her name was Tomoko, and it was clear she had a totally adorable nature, the way only a young Japanese woman attempting English could have. We talked awhile and realised that she wanted to ask me to take her picture and that I wanted to offer, but neither of us did. The group in the kitchen were going out to dinner, but we managed to avoid the invitation and go out for food and beer by ourselves. At the restaurant the waiter asked if she wanted a large or small beer, "big beer" she replied with impressive vigour. The next five beers at the Havana club went by like a breeze with plenty of laughs and friendly chit-chat. We made our plans to do breakfast early the next morning.

Waking up late, it was clear that 'breakfast' would turn to 'brunch'. So we ventured out for something to eat. A small stall was selling authentic Czech sausage and a kind of fried potato cake, so we took our food down to the riverside below Krumlov castle and ate in the afternoon sun. The river rushed past and the conversation flowed freely. Walking up to the castle and through the castle gardens, we talked about everything from Japanese culture to the Beatles to our respective trips. We sat amongst the autumn trees and I wondered if the leaves continued to fall at this rate, how long they would take to become bare. They drifted in the light breeze and the squirrels went about their business collecting whatever it was they were collecting. Craving some more of the Czech Republic's authentic street food we lined up for a cinnamon-baked treat that wafted gorgeous aromas from two streets away. Trdelnik was a pastry which was coiled around a hot spindle, grilled and then dipped in cinnamon and sugar. We took our warm trdelnik along with some hot wine with lemon and sugar we had picked up from another stall and sat at the same riverside spot for the late afternoon sky to turn towards the hours of dusk. A nice day was becoming quite perfect.

Returning to the hostel, it was totally empty and the entire place was devoid of any other inhabitants. We spent the next 10 hours doing not very much and being totally glad about it. The sense of peace and quiet was almost overwhelming. Two days later we were sat at Cesky Krumlov station waiting for the bus to Ceske Budejovice. At Ceske Budejovice we exchanged details and went on our respective paths. Tomoko towards Prague and the end of her trip, me towards Telc and still skimming the surface of mine. I knew I would miss her smiley charm and cute phrases. I sat on the bus and felt the space of one-person travel surround me once again, this was the way I had planned it, this was the way it was to be.