Prague is an odd concept. In its right hand, it holds dark clouds, bitter weather and a dark, morbid, solitude. In its left, it holds warm, cozy taverns, a glistening nightlife and a spinning whirlpool of culture. And so often when it snows, these two hands, cupped together form a snowball so thick and mysterious, one is left at an utter loss if hit by it.
So in a city where the clouds are as dark as the gothic castles under them, where do its citizens gather for warmth? As an inhabitant of this mysterious playground, I began to wonder this myself. Without knowing it, each day I began to dig just a little deeper into the plethora of rabbit holes here. And in turn, each day has included its own set of adventures - some positive, some negative; all perplexing.
It was Saturday morning, and the street clock showed a little bit after 8 am. Across the square, a crane moved sluggishly as it reached to pick up a cinderblock. An aged woman passed me, shopping bag in hand, a puzzled look in my direction.
I had just stepped out of a movie theater. From midnight, into the morning, a marathon of independent european films ran. And as students of this city, we, of course, ran with it.
A movie theater here is worthy of an aside.
As a visitor, you may forget about the popcorn scent that usually greets a moviegoer in the US. Instead that scent is replaced by a warm haze of cigarettes and the cool scent of beer. Black and white photos line the walls, and an eclectic mix of locals and foreigners populate the small tables, hands dancing in conversation.
So my verdict on European movies? Unfortunately, nothing to write home about. Those in search of French post-modernism, I wish you much luck in your quest. And should any discoveries occur, please do let me know. Thus far, however, my opinion is that the European movies I have seen have been simply a stale collage of recycled cliches from Hollywood. It is an opinion, however, that I hope will soon be proven wrong.
Not too long into the marathon, my gaze shifted from the movies onto the moviegoers. Each local place here has been a small theater for me, and this was certainly no exception. While the nature of entertainment will vary from place to place, one thing is for certain: as the night finds the city empy and cold, its belly - the endless network of caves and cellars - pulsates with life. Initially introduced into the old town by the Romans, cellars seemed to have become a cultural staple of nightlife. Each night, it seems, the worker ants of the city enter its endless tunnels and caverns, their tongues beating with conversation until the morning rays signal a return to their assigned roles.
Coming above ground, we are met with cautious and puzzled glances of passersby's. They wonder as to why we are beaming with life at the beginning of a new day. But of course, we dont tell them.
Naturally, this is no different from other cities in which the youth attempts to carve itself a home. But if you are in Prague, do stop by a cellar or two. In their uncirculated air, you will finally be able to breathe. And in their darkness, your eyes may even find the sparks so long ago muted by the sun. And at the second table from the wall, you may even spot my outline.
I'll be waiting.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Ramble No. 249
It was the coldest day this far in the winter, and I walked out of my building. The frost scratched my unshaved face, and wrapped its cold hands around my neck. I pulled up my collar and zipped up.
There is a park that lies by my apartment. It is lined with birch trees and dark hills. As I walked, my feet slid across the frozen ice. It clung to the unpaved paths, the dead leaves caught like fish within. In the distance, a father and a child slid down a small hill on a sled. Towards the end, the sled hit a bump, and threw them onto the snow. The child rolled over the snow and laughed. Somewhere in the distant darkness, a dog barked in response.
For each of the million of details that remind me of childhood, lie another million that are completely opposite. If anything, the past ten years have been spent in an attempt to cleanse any Russian influence imposed here for the second half of the previous century. Anything from movies to the styles of small kiosks confirms this. Yet, looking out of my window later that evening, I could not help peering into the homes of those across the street and noticing fragments of my past. In an attic apartment, a bearded man in worn sweatpants struggled to balance himself as he replaced bulbs in a chandelier. In a lower apartment, a small child ran from her room into the kitchen. There she peaked in from the corridor, showing off a drawing to her parents. Even on the tram, I would hardly spot the age-old conflict between children who are raised by television and the grandparents who were raised by the revolution. Watching a teen giving up his place for an older man, I wondered if this dichotomy was limited to those shores within which we have made our new home of the past years.
But hearing of my Russian background, any Czechs, young or old, failed to share the excitement of common roots. There was no hint of animosity, but the feeling of deep reserve was not difficult to miss. Perched on a crate, along one of the many cave clubs here, a shorthaired girl with 8-inch earrings confirmed this. However an unlikely ambassador, she mentioned that there are two types of Russians and Ukrainians: the illegal workers who occupy most of the manual labor jobs, and the leather jacket mafia who occupy most of the Audis. So, while of a different origin, the reserve still remains strong. The mantra here has seemed to be that of fending off the many oppressing forces that come over the country. It is both comical and sad to watch these forces seep into the culture through the backdoor. However, judging from the language and architecture, it seems that this is an old and established tradition. That fact, however, does little to alleviate the burden one feels after even a day of bearing the actions of his predecessors.
Coming up a hill, I stopped and leaned on a tree, catching my breath. Through the small patch of forest, I saw an old theater ahead. A theater in a park - of course. And at home - my great-grandmother waiting for me with dinner and a story.
But my great-grandmother is no longer here, and neither is that theater where I used to play so often. They are simply lonesome fragments of memory, awaiting resurrection. And if nothing else, their resurrection is all that I thrive for.
"And so we beat on - boats against the current." And so we beat on. Circling in our own orbits through the darkness, looking down for the places we once called home.
I lit a cigarette and swallowed the smoke. Exhaling, I looked once more at the birch trees and turned back. If memories could not be real in reality, a process must take place to bring them to life.
I needed to write.
There is a park that lies by my apartment. It is lined with birch trees and dark hills. As I walked, my feet slid across the frozen ice. It clung to the unpaved paths, the dead leaves caught like fish within. In the distance, a father and a child slid down a small hill on a sled. Towards the end, the sled hit a bump, and threw them onto the snow. The child rolled over the snow and laughed. Somewhere in the distant darkness, a dog barked in response.
For each of the million of details that remind me of childhood, lie another million that are completely opposite. If anything, the past ten years have been spent in an attempt to cleanse any Russian influence imposed here for the second half of the previous century. Anything from movies to the styles of small kiosks confirms this. Yet, looking out of my window later that evening, I could not help peering into the homes of those across the street and noticing fragments of my past. In an attic apartment, a bearded man in worn sweatpants struggled to balance himself as he replaced bulbs in a chandelier. In a lower apartment, a small child ran from her room into the kitchen. There she peaked in from the corridor, showing off a drawing to her parents. Even on the tram, I would hardly spot the age-old conflict between children who are raised by television and the grandparents who were raised by the revolution. Watching a teen giving up his place for an older man, I wondered if this dichotomy was limited to those shores within which we have made our new home of the past years.
But hearing of my Russian background, any Czechs, young or old, failed to share the excitement of common roots. There was no hint of animosity, but the feeling of deep reserve was not difficult to miss. Perched on a crate, along one of the many cave clubs here, a shorthaired girl with 8-inch earrings confirmed this. However an unlikely ambassador, she mentioned that there are two types of Russians and Ukrainians: the illegal workers who occupy most of the manual labor jobs, and the leather jacket mafia who occupy most of the Audis. So, while of a different origin, the reserve still remains strong. The mantra here has seemed to be that of fending off the many oppressing forces that come over the country. It is both comical and sad to watch these forces seep into the culture through the backdoor. However, judging from the language and architecture, it seems that this is an old and established tradition. That fact, however, does little to alleviate the burden one feels after even a day of bearing the actions of his predecessors.
Coming up a hill, I stopped and leaned on a tree, catching my breath. Through the small patch of forest, I saw an old theater ahead. A theater in a park - of course. And at home - my great-grandmother waiting for me with dinner and a story.
But my great-grandmother is no longer here, and neither is that theater where I used to play so often. They are simply lonesome fragments of memory, awaiting resurrection. And if nothing else, their resurrection is all that I thrive for.
"And so we beat on - boats against the current." And so we beat on. Circling in our own orbits through the darkness, looking down for the places we once called home.
I lit a cigarette and swallowed the smoke. Exhaling, I looked once more at the birch trees and turned back. If memories could not be real in reality, a process must take place to bring them to life.
I needed to write.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Absinthe
On the second night, I made a new friend. He is light blue, transparent, and when lit, he burns. Oh how he burns..
He told me about his comrade Van Gogh, and about their adventures. He told me that the moon is really a lost button hanging off the jacket of the sky. He told me that the curls of cigarette smoke over the table were really the hair of his mistress. I kept on exhaling, and he kept on burning. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.
The tram moved forward, and I sat back. It was late night. Or early morning. In the distance, the grim, black statues of the Charles bridge stood freckled with white dots of snow. I suddenly felt amiss of the old russian cab driver who would usually take me home at this hour. The long expanse of the Verrazano was now replaced by the stretch of statues and the gothic castles piercing the river fog. I felt an urge to find someone with a common tongue and reminisce about the old times we never shared.
The aged, soviet tramvai bulged forward, empty save for myself. But Van Gogh tickled softly from within my stomach and I smirked. Perhaps this tramvaichik would not be so bad.
After all, who knows what stop would come up next?
He told me about his comrade Van Gogh, and about their adventures. He told me that the moon is really a lost button hanging off the jacket of the sky. He told me that the curls of cigarette smoke over the table were really the hair of his mistress. I kept on exhaling, and he kept on burning. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.
The tram moved forward, and I sat back. It was late night. Or early morning. In the distance, the grim, black statues of the Charles bridge stood freckled with white dots of snow. I suddenly felt amiss of the old russian cab driver who would usually take me home at this hour. The long expanse of the Verrazano was now replaced by the stretch of statues and the gothic castles piercing the river fog. I felt an urge to find someone with a common tongue and reminisce about the old times we never shared.
The aged, soviet tramvai bulged forward, empty save for myself. But Van Gogh tickled softly from within my stomach and I smirked. Perhaps this tramvaichik would not be so bad.
After all, who knows what stop would come up next?
Saturday, January 14, 2006
New Beginnings
New beginnings are a tricky thing.
Every beginning of the new has its fine print, and it usually pertains to the end of the old. A jump has to be made – but what if one is left at the station, with both trains already departed? Is the risk worth it?
I thought about this as the plane gained altitude. Barely awake, I peered into the window, where the silver wing brushed apart the thick fog. A few lights flashed in the distance, and I thought finally we were at the altitude of other planes. But the lights did not move. Rising over the fog, I saw they were the tips of skyscrapers, blinking as lost ships within the white cloud sea. Like islands, they stood there, tips pointed upwards. Then they disappeared. I doubt anyone else saw.
So. Prague.
Coming from the airport, the college pattywagon moved forward along the roads into the city. Overvalued kids flashed their overpriced cameras and talked the talk of a tourist. I sat quietly, watching the scenery pass by. Fields covered with snow blurred into the outskirts – deserted mcdonalds and rows of khruchevski apartment buildings. A few aged women and an estranged husband waiting for the tram.
As the bus proceeded, I felt less and less in a new city, and more and more in an old memory. Everything I saw brought back flashbacks to my childhood, and I could not help but feel sad. And I could not fathom why.
Perhaps I felt that I was simply going backwards – retreating into my past. But was this necessarily a bad thing? Is life simply a matter of finding locations for escape that were previously unvisited? And in that case is a new beginning simply a new shell for our old complexes?
The city gave me no answers. But it gave me questions, and for that I am already grateful.
Stay in tune.
Every beginning of the new has its fine print, and it usually pertains to the end of the old. A jump has to be made – but what if one is left at the station, with both trains already departed? Is the risk worth it?
I thought about this as the plane gained altitude. Barely awake, I peered into the window, where the silver wing brushed apart the thick fog. A few lights flashed in the distance, and I thought finally we were at the altitude of other planes. But the lights did not move. Rising over the fog, I saw they were the tips of skyscrapers, blinking as lost ships within the white cloud sea. Like islands, they stood there, tips pointed upwards. Then they disappeared. I doubt anyone else saw.
So. Prague.
Coming from the airport, the college pattywagon moved forward along the roads into the city. Overvalued kids flashed their overpriced cameras and talked the talk of a tourist. I sat quietly, watching the scenery pass by. Fields covered with snow blurred into the outskirts – deserted mcdonalds and rows of khruchevski apartment buildings. A few aged women and an estranged husband waiting for the tram.
As the bus proceeded, I felt less and less in a new city, and more and more in an old memory. Everything I saw brought back flashbacks to my childhood, and I could not help but feel sad. And I could not fathom why.
Perhaps I felt that I was simply going backwards – retreating into my past. But was this necessarily a bad thing? Is life simply a matter of finding locations for escape that were previously unvisited? And in that case is a new beginning simply a new shell for our old complexes?
The city gave me no answers. But it gave me questions, and for that I am already grateful.
Stay in tune.
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