Obama Czech-s out Prague

(The photo album that was attached to the previous entry. With the following context, the second half might make a little more sense)

A bridge not built by Charles that still gets the same job done (without all the fuss).

Fortunately Marty was able to rest a little better the second night and we took off for a walking tour of the city. Since our previous day had focused on the castle, we thought the rest of town should be given its due.

Charles Bridge with the requisite veneer of tourists.

Every hour this clock draws hundreds of tourists to watch the Apostles parade by. Every hour pickpockets descend, drawn by hundreds of tourists who watch the Apostles parade by.

We started at St. Nicholas Church, a flamboyant Jesuit Church that was slapped together in the 17th century when someone apparently had a little red marble and gold filigree to spare. The place was almost too much to take in and we scrutinized every chapel, saying “Hey” to Ignatius and Xavier.

Ignatius, warrior turned priest raised to heaven in pink and putti. I don't think that's how it went down (or up in this case).

The church (like many in the city) is often a venue for classical music performances. This would be an especially appropriate place to give a listen, as Mozart himself played the organ on a trip to Prague (his favorite European city because they loved his work during his lifetime, while the snobby Viennese kept him at arms length).

After wandering around the altar and chapels, we climbed a spiral staircase to examine a series of dark painting depicting The Passion. It was hard to make them out since the light was reflecting off the protective varnish on the canvas and the images were painted in muted tones. We heard the faint rumblings of a school group coming towards the stairs, so we tried to make a break for it. But it was too late.

A line of Italian students began trooping from the stairwell. We waited patiently at the top, but they kept coming and coming. We thought there was a break, made it to the next landing and were trapped by the mass of pubescent bodies ascending to the loft. It was endless. The second floor seemed impossibly strained. They giggled, they texted, they glowered. They kept coming. Finally, our legs ready to give out and we were able to get down.

This seems to be a standard mode of travel for the Italian tourist: massive tour groups. The Japanese have a reputation for following umbrellas and flags held aloft in foreign lands, but the Italians deserve to suffer under this stereotype as well. You never encounter a family of Italians on tour, or a small knot of students. There is always a hoard that seems so cumbersome, so overwhelmingly awkward that the surrounding scenery must recede deeply into the Italian tourist’s subconscious in an effort not to be trampled by his countrymen. Mary and I managed to escape unharmed.

Across the river past concert halls and churches we roved. In the middle of town we encountered a whooping mop of people clad in blue. They weren’t yelling in Czech, and they weren’t yelling in German. The lettering on their shirts hinted they were Greek. The shirts further revealed the rowdy group was in town for the International Volleyball Semi-Finals. I had forgotten to mark my calendar. I have never seen so many grown men so excited for volleyball (court volleyball, mind you, not beach).

Very excitable Greeks getting pumped for some serious Volleyball action. It was never clear who their competitor would be.

Czech Pizza or Langose. Good for the heart.

Stuffed with fried dough doused in cinnamon and sugar, then fried dough doused in garlic, ketchup, and cheese (seriously), we rolled on, vaguely searching for a classical music experience for the evening. We visited the Mucha Museum to learn about one of Prague’s favorite artists (He became famous for his poster illustrations, especially women, in four poster sets called “The Seasons,” “The Elements,” and “The Arts.” He also climbed aboard the Nationalistic bandwagon, leaving Paris to forge the Czech myth.). And Wenceslas Square to see the wide boulevard that bills itself as the “Time’s Square of Prague.” The National Museum loomed over us along with the State Opera.

Wenceslas's view of Prague's trendy restaurants, clubs, and shops.

The Good King leading his posse of patron saints.

We wandered to the old Jewish Quarter to see the tromping grounds of the original Golem. Of course we visited on a Saturday, so nothing was open for further exploration.

As we meandered back towards the center of town we discovered the theater where Mozart debuted “Don Giovanni.” It’s still performed regularly and we suddenly hankered for some Opera. Unfortunately an opera by a Brit we had never heard of was playing that night, and tickets were steep. We walked back across town to the State Opera. An hour later we were on the second balcony watching a wonderful performance of Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” (Note: That link takes you to a trailer for an English language version of the opera. We saw it in the original German and had the joy of ignoring the surcaps during dialogue scenes.)l The Queen of the Night hit all of her notes and received her due applause, and Papageno elicited the laughs his character requires (though the singer could have used a little more energy behind his performance). During intermission, Marty revealed this was his first opera experience, and it wasn’t a bad one to start off with (though my brother would have offered better commentary than I).

The State Opera House

After the show we went to the Golden Tiger to discuss music and women. The bar is an institution even through it closes at 11PM, making it a difficult place to spend a long evening. The Prime Minister of the Czech Republic took Clinton there for an authentic experience. We had brusque waiters and plenty of beer. I think we had the authentic experience, too.

Then it was time for bed. We resolved to wake up at 4AM so we could be at the gate at 5 and among the first to enter the square at 7. Unfortunately our roommates weren’t getting up quite that early. The light was on until 2 when Marty finally asked to have the thing turned off. This made the girl watching the Final Four upset even though her glowing laptop didn’t seem to suffer in the dark. I was able to get about four solid hours of sleep. Marty had two, but we were up and checking out at 4:30. Of course there wasn’t any food available, so we would be riding on the previous night’s dinner and beer until God knew when (1:30 PM as it would turn out).

We wound through the streets of Prague, meeting stumbling drunk Americans who where headed home from the bars, including Steve, a highly inebriated student at John Carroll University in Cleveland. Normally I would have made sure an Ohioan made it home safely, but I had a president to meet. I hope he had a good story to tell his mom when she asked if he saw Obama in Prague.

At 5, after getting slightly lost and finally crossing the river towards the castle, we arrived at the pedestrian entrance. A crowd of about 100 people had already blobbed in front of the gate. It seemed like the perfect recipe for a Who concert-level tragedy as more people filled in behind us. The Czech police looked worried.

Someone had decided there really only needed to be one entrance for both people and trucks so periodically through the morning semis and ambulances would need to move through the gate. We would crush towards the walls of our narrow alley trying to avoid tire treads. The inefficiency of the system was quickly pointed out by the crowd that seemed to be comprised solely of American expatriates. We stood and waited and eavesdropped on the groups around us including a clutch of Spring Breakers who had stayed out all night and thought they might as well stay up for Obama. A semi appeared and had to cut through a crowd that had swollen beyond sight. We crushed to the sides and I heard one of the Breakers utter a phrase you never want to hear in a packed crowd: “I think I’m gonna get sick.” “No. No, you can’t do that,” offered her supportive and suddenly very sober boyfriend. “I think I’m going to pass out,” replied her friend.

The vomit never came, but the black out sure did. Fortunately when you’re in a crowd packed so tightly you can’t move your arms (I found this out the hard way by raising my arms to take a picture of the crowd and getting them stuck above my head) you can faint and never hit the pavement. She came to, wedged between Marty and the sober boyfriend.

Then the police decided they should do something. They would insert traffic barriers. We crushed, we attempted movement. We questioned the significance of the barriers that were now dividing us. We received Czech in reply and expressions of overwhelmed bewilderment.

Then they wanted to move us back ten feet. With an exasperated American from the embassy and a small megaphone, the police alerted the first three rows of souls that we needed to scootch. The front tried to move back. The rear saw movement and crushed forward. I experienced life in a vacuum.

Seven finally appeared. The gate didn’t open. They announced people with tickets were allowed to enter. We got antsy. Finally we were able to cross the threshold into the square. We would be able to see the podium, though it would be tough to make out the details. Marty and I were jubilant, though we still had no idea when the man would speak. The rumor spread we were waiting for 10 AM. We had a while to wait. I wrote postcards and we listened to all the characters surrounding us. A Czech bluegrass band performed. We all perked up at 9.

There he was! He was on the Jumbotron! What was he doing? The guards were moving around. They ran up the American flag, and everyone disappeared. More waiting. More standing. At 10:20. He reappeared with a flurry of motion that brought a gargantuan Czech with an even more massive lens directly into my line of sight. I jostled and I listened.

I was jealous of my friends in Ohio throughout the campaign season. I had cut out of town in August, just when things were really getting interesting (this was pre-convention mind you). I didn’t hear any of the campaign rhetoric every Ohioan is owed as a loyal member of a massive swing state. But here I was in Prague listening to the President speak to 20,000 people in attendance and billions around the world, and what he said mattered. Instead of a standard stump speech, I heard policy. Live.

Only a few hours earlier, North Korea staged a dubious missile test. So, the president discussed nuclear disarmament both in the United States and in Russia. He also wants to use this disarmament as a means of pressuring rogue states to comply or face sanctions. I guess we’ll see if it works (if we actually get rid of nukes). Apparently the U.S. is coordinating an Anti-missile net from the Czech Republic, kind of a latter day Star Wars program. There were protesters present to remove the country from our national security policy. There was also a protester who advocated clean fuel for Green Peace. He climbed a lamp post and was arrested for telling the president to do something he’s already working on. Someone didn’t do their homework (though he did score a great view over the crowd).

Favorite quotes jotted in the notebook and confirmed by this link to the speech transcript:

“I know that a call to arms can stir the souls of men and women more than a call to lay them down. But that is why the voices for peace and progress must be raised together.”

“Those are the voices that still echo through the streets of Prague. Those are the ghosts of 1968. Those were the joyful sounds of the Velvet Revolution. Those were the Czechs who helped bring down a nuclear-armed empire without firing a shot.

Human destiny will be what we make of it. And here in Prague, let us honor our past by reaching for a better future. Let us bridge our divisions, build upon our hopes, accept our responsibility to leave this world more prosperous and more peaceful than we found it.”

Good stuff. Here's the New York Times coverage of the event. Now we needed to get out of town. We joined a mass of humanity that flowed down the hill from the castle, darting through the crowd (“Where did all these people come from?” asked a confused and hung-over student walking up to the castle, oblivious his Commander-in-Chief was boarding a helicopter somewhere overhead). We had a bus to catch for Vienna that left at 12:30. We could make it if we moved and didn’t stop for food. Our stomachs had given up on us hours ago.

With our gear on our backs we dove into the subway system. The map of the route isn’t posted on the platforms so I dove onto a train, knowing there would be one to examine there and, worst case scenario, we jump off at the next station. I thought Marty was behind me when I turned to say we were on the right train. The door shut and I watched Marty’s forlorn face glide from view.

I had been in charge of the map for most of the trip and wasn’t sure if he even knew where we were going. I caught the next train back. He wasn’t on the platform. I headed for the bus station, antsy and praying he would be there. Miraculously the two of us, exhausted and hungry, found each other outside the station with five minutes to go. We scampered for the bus, dancing anxiously by the ticket booth behind a skuzzy Czech guy who clearly had his question answered but wouldn’t leave the teller alone. Finally, “Two for Vienna, please.” “We’re sold out.” “When’s the next bus?” “Tomorrow.” Damn.

Next bus company, same story. Well, that’s why God gave us trains (the bus was significantly cheaper, though, and not much slower than rail). We went to the station only to discover we were at the wrong train station for trains bound for Vienna. Back into the subway. Finally at 1:15 we were buying tickets for a Vienna-bound train that would be departing at 1:30. We had just enough time to grab substance from a food stand and get to the track. I ordered a sandwich and was given a slice of bread with lettuce, tomato, and onion wrapped in plastic. As Marty ordered, I noticed the white and green mold creeping over the crust. I switched the sandwich with an unphased cashier. I bolted it down and dove onto the train. I was hungry, tired, and stressed, but ultimately happy. I had seen Obama, and I was headed for Vienna.

Tschüss!

Marty Czechs out.

(The photos again.)

Prague: Czech

(The requisite photo album. You can also linger over the images when you're done reading, or after the next installment which will elucidate some of the images.)

The number of possible puns for this post title are truly mind boggling. Czechpoint. Czech it out. Czech yourself. Czech-ered. Getting Praguers. A Prague in the right direction. Prague-rock. Prague-ressive. Prague-gress….the list goes on. If you have any doozies, please leave them in the comments. Moving on…

An alternative perspective on this trip to Prague can be found on Marty’s blog.

Back in February I went for a little skiing jaunt with my fellow Fulbrighters. Around a cozy table in Mittelwald we discussed places we needed to see before real life begins next August. Nearly everyone I’ve talked to has said, “Prague. You have to go to Prague.” After the Iron Curtain took a bow, Prague became the “it” city to visit in all its unbombed-out glory. Unfortunately, this means everyone has been to Prague and most people have new places on their dance card. During the conversation I discovered Marty wanted to hit the Czech Republic and couldn’t find anyone who wanted to head East. Over dunkel beer we swore to make the trip.

The rumored beautiful Prague, seen through a fog of imagination or maybe just morning smog.

By the following weekend, we had our tickets booked. Thus, at the beginning of April I was cruising towards the abandoned-air-force-base-now-Ryan-Air-hub of Frankfurt/Hahn Airport (which is nowhere near Frankfurt). The bus was slowed up by a wreaked Audi that was hauling a horse trailer. The trailer rolled into view, and I wasn’t sure if I should avert my eyes or stare in agonized horror at what I expected to be inside. With a little more progress I saw the horse calmly standing on the highway. His owner was holding his reins and the animal glanced at the car as if to say, “Ya know, I know of a way to get around that wouldn’t involve engines and mangled steel.”

The rest of the ride I tried to take in the spectacular rolling scenery without making eye contact with the girl across the aisle who seemed mildly creeped out by my frequent glances in her direction (really past her direction and out the window). We arrived with plenty of time until take off with only a minor meander through the parking lot. Note: never follow someone who walks with purpose without first checking the signs. Chances are they have less of an idea where they’re going than you do.

Ryan Air is notorious for charging cheap fares but wringing you for every penny. I had to pay a couple of Euros for not having an EU passport. Then my bag was barely over weight and I had to check it and pay again. They’re even talking about charging to use the toilet on the plane to which I say, “Empty plastic bottles don’t cost a dime.” Side note: Actually in Germany they do cost roughly a dime. Every beverage purchase you make includes a deposit on the container which you can return to the cashier when you’re finished or take to your local grocery store’s recycling center.

An hour after boarding we were touching down in Eastern Europe getting ready to explore one of the jewels in the Hapsburg crown. But first we needed a bus ticket and cash. One of the pleasures of traveling is discovering the coinage in a new country (one of the minor tragedies of traveling so much in the Euro Zone), then trying to constantly remember the exchange rate, eventually giving up the cause and treating it all like Monopoly money.

After a long bus ride and subway connection with fellow Americans, Italians, and Mexicans, we emerged near the heart of Prague at Wenceslas square, but we didn’t have time to explore. We needed our hostel. The streets of the city are narrow and wind like an exchange student who drank too much Pilsner (the most famous export of the Czech Republic). Somehow we arrived at the Prague Square Hostel without event, dropped our bags and went for a wander into the ciy’s night.

Tyr Church, a crazy Gothic edifice that looms over Prague Square.

We were both told Prague can be a deal. You just need to wander off the tourist beaten track. Once the buildings ceased to be reminiscent of movie set, we decided we could start looking at menus. We found a restaurant that sported a witch’s theme, and had great prices. We stepped inside and found one other table of two people with beer in hand. I asked if they were still serving dinner (it was around 10 PM. I’m used to things getting ready to geschlossen around then). The waitress looked like she would resign herself to foreigner stupidity for one more table and said, “Yes.”

Traditional Czech spread (according to the guidebook. Know that I know nothing about tradition that Lonely Planet doesn't tell me.)

We feasted on roast pork, beef, cabbage, and dumplings as you only can in Prague. Washed down with Pilsner Urquell and finished off with a tiny bill. It all went down that much smoother. Another drink then bed. We had a castle to explore. Unfortunately our roommates were still up and about and the light was on. I rolled over and drifted into oblivion. Marty wasn’t able to shut out the light and only got a few hours of interrupted sleep. This would be a theme.

A view down Charles Bridge. Unclear what the concrete barriers are for. If it's to keep cars from barreling through, I feel like the organ grinder could take care of any vehicles. It's not like he does anything but spin a crank all day.

We started with the landmarks of Prague, crossing the Charles Bridge to the massive staircase that ascends to the castle. The bridge has been around since the 14th century and was built in the spot of an even older bridge that united the two sides of the river (Prague means “Ford”). It was spruced up by Baroque artists who wanted saintly statuary and watch towers to loom over the proceedings. Now the bridge is only open to pedestrian traffic and features sketch artists, kitschy baubles, and small music acts. It also features hundreds of tourists posing with the saints and even more taking their pictures.

The view of Prague Castle from Charles Bridge. The high steeples are St. Vitus Cathedral, the smaller white spires are St. George's Basilica. The rest of the surrounding building is where the Executive branch is set up along with a couple thousand tourists.

A view over our shoulders as we climbed up to the castle.

The weather warmed as we climbed the steps to the castle, finally dropping layers at the top. We queued for tickets in a tiny room with that dead-ended into the desk causing every member of the line to do an awkward waltz every time someone walked away with their admission. We also rented “the best and ONLY audioguide for Prague Castle!” available in both British and American English as indicated by the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes on the poster (I have a sneaking suspicion our flag, the last one on the poster, was required after one to many American tourists railed at the hapless vendors, “I don’t speak British! I speak English!”).


The castle complex is the largest in the world when you factor in the Cathedral, monastery, museums, ministerial residences, shopping district, and dungeons. Most royal families relocate a couple of times but the Bohemians deemed their hill suitable for 1700 years of development. Now you have a tourist magnet that actually has plenty of room to let everyone wander without fighting for elbowroom.

The highlight of our excursion to the castle was St. Vitus Cathedral. They broke ground in the 1300’s and didn’t finish until the 1920’s. Six-hundred years of construction (not constant of course) meant the design could be tweaked by each builder creating a living textbook of Czech history and art. In the cathedral we met the patron saints of Prague and the Czech republic who cropped up on street signs, town squares, Charles Bridge, the Opera house, royal clothing and so on. King Wenceslaus, a good guy who lead the Bohemians to Christianity. He was assassinated by his brother (who, ironically, ended up a pretty decent ruler) and had a Christmas carol written about him that dogged Marty and I until we made a break for Vienna. St. Ludmila, his grandmother who introduced King W. to Christianity. She was later strangled. St. Adalbert, who went north to convert the Poles and was thrown off a cliff by the Prussian. St. John of Nepomuk who wouldn’t break the oath of the confessional and was hurled from Charles Bridge (hurled from heights happened quite a bit in Prauge including the Defenestration of Prague which tipped off the Thirty Years War). And finally St. Sigismund, an early king who strangled his son for maybe plotting to take the throne (strangling apparently isn’t rare either) but felt just awful about it and became a saint. There are some hermits and martyrs as well, but these guys were the biggies and the Cathedral and St. George’s Basilica nearby had remnants of all of them.

The final resting place of St. John of Nepomuk's remains. He was dredged up from the river with his tongue still intact. This was considered a miracle since he was killed for either speaking out against the king or for not revealing the queen's confession (this is an ambiguous point). The tongue was later revealed to be a piece of his brain. It all looks the same after a couple years in the river.

Mucha's window in St. Vitus. He was an Art Nouveu master and brought it all to bear on Czech history in this window and The Slave Epic.

A view down St. Vitus's nave.

A close-up view of the spectacular St. Vitus windows.

Other highlights of the castle include foundations from the dark ages, armored corpses from the fourth century, and Czech art by artists whose names I won’t defile with pronunciation. Part of the royal gallery was on display, but most of the collection was looted by the Swedes during the Thirty Years War. Never trust the Swedes.

František Ženíšek's "Oldrich and Bozena" (1884). It tells the story of Oldrich, a Czech prince, discovering a simple Czech peasent to fall in love with rather than wasting his time with those stuffy German princesses. It probably helps that Bozena has forgotten some...support.

We ate expensive (but delicious) Goulash, and walked through one of the oldest shopping districts in town that included a flat once inhabited by Kafka (a more recent favorite son).

We also learned there is a fraternity of royal guards. It includes the guys who guard Prague Castle, Buckingham Palace, the Royal Palace in Copenhagen and so on. I don’t really know what they chat about, or what language they would do it in. Maybe they just vent their frustration at all the obnoxious tourists who try to get them to flinch.

He didn't move, though his eyes were covered, so it's hard to say if he gets distracted. At the fraternity meetings these guys get to claim the most wearable uniforms (the Brits come in last with those crazy, fuzzy poo-bah hats).

Our exploration continued around Castle Hill where we saw Baroque convents and the houses of Parliament. Doubling back to the castle to descend the hill we saw scaffolding being assembled and a guy getting his picture taken with a shabby cardboard sign. Our curiosity piqued we investigated the sign. “April 5. President Barack Obama. Usembassey.cz.” Really? The president was coming here? We scurried back to the hostel and free internet via the U.S. Embassy which was closed “As we prepare for the arrival of the President of the United States.” Great for us, bummer for a tourist who lost his passport to the Vltava river.

A sunset shot of St. Nicholas Church. We'll see the interior tomorrow.

After hopping a fence to investigate a mysterious building flying the Stars and Stripes over Prague (turns out we own several acres of Prague’s city park) we finally confirmed the president’s arrival the following Sunday. Gates opened at 7 AM. We spent the rest of the night in a state of giddy anticipation by first visiting Restaurant Mozart (creepily quite restaurant again, but cheap food) then on to Reduta Jazz Club, a venue Clinton played when he showed up in Prague a decade ago.

Yeah, we're hip.

We felt pretty hip, offering our cover and settling in to listen to a five-man combo led by an Alto sax. Marty had heard about my foray into Absinthe in Barcelona and was game to try it once. I went to the bar and ordered two absinthes. I was given a minty looking fluid with no other accessories. Being inexperienced, I supposed this was diluted or already had the sugar thrown in. Turns out you’re supposed to order the water and sugar separately.

The first sip was biting into a handful of black jelly beans set alight after a week-long soak in gasoline. Marty smacked his lips and brushed away a tear. I apologized and offered to get the water. “No, we need to finish what we began.” By the end of the set our mouths were numb and our esophaguses refusing to cooperate. We decided to call it a night.

Next: We meet the president along with 20,000 of my closest friends (in the most literal sense of “closest”)!

The photos again. Enjoy!

P.S. If you want a different perspective on Prague, here's a trailer for a movie that's coming out in a few months called "The Brother's Bloom." The cast got me pretty excited (Mark Ruffalo, Rachel Weiz, Adrian Brody etc.) along with the writer/director and mixed styles, but mostly I was just excited to recognize a few key locations (even if the say "St. Petersburg." I think that was the trailer's editor's error.