Closing Chapter

After three months, three weeks, and two days, my time living in the Czech Republic is coming to a close. Presumably, my last blog post in Prague should serve as a bookend for this experience, yet I can’t seem to see my departure as closure. I am still adapting; Prague is still changing. So maybe this entry is less of an ending and more of a transition.

Three months ago I couldn’t have told you what I wanted to do with my life. Yet while living in Prague, I have passed Letna Park, the Vltava, Kampa Island, the Wallenstein Gardens, Petrin Hill, and I have imbued each place with reflection. And as I retraced my steps across the city my final week here, I have collected my thoughts, and I have grown to be clearheaded, finally understanding this:

People and language fascinate me.

I am interested in how cultural identities are formed and preserved.

I am captivated by the insufficiency to fully communicate loss and trauma.

I want study what it is to be human and write about it.

I am deep in an affair with writing. With words, there is an infinite number of memories we can create, truths or non-truths, and I will never tire of playing with them.

People and books have an odd relationship.

Really loving a book is not so different from loving a person, you don’t want to be apart from it, so it is easy to read quickly.

Publishing houses, French-speaking countries, relationships I value, and any establishment that smells of coffee all feel like home.

As I leave Prague, I will take all of these revelations with me, but I know that they will continue to evolve. My departure is merely a transition. Years from now, I hope to return to Prague and track my changes alongside those of the city. In another decade, shops and stands selling remaining black-market goods from the Communist era will likely be replaced by corporations and retail stores. The city will continue to move from a high to low context culture; Prague will refine and polish its heritage, its European legacy. What will I refine? What will I polish? I guess it will take another arrival, and not a departure, to bookend my experience in Prague.

Na shledanou Praha, I’ll be seeing you.

Just Passing Through

I wonder how they choose where to build monuments, or when to clear forests? It’s as if we believe we are gods, born to carve out the earth, here to shape and reshape the world around us. 

Walls. Forts. Gates.

Through Pile Gate I enter Dubrovnik. As old stone walls guard the heart of the city, it is as if all the charm and culture from the past has been kept here in soft captivity. I walk along the Stradun, and as I glance to my right, I notice ascending stairs every twenty feet or so. As the top of each staircase nears the ancient walls, the walls pour out their memories and whispers and the past streams freely down to touch the city’s core. It all collects near the steps of St. Blaise, where the city’s rich past lingers and permeates the atmosphere. I could live here; this city is beautiful.

Stones. Bridges. Mosques.

As the modern cement turns to cobblestone, I greet Mostar. Known as the Orient of the West, this city is colored by the eastern influence and its legacy within the Ottoman Empire. I pass a hammam, markets gleaming with silk and gemstones, and Turkish monuments. This culture is new to me. My eyes and my mind strive to reconcile the visions of bazaars and minarets before me with stories I have heard and pictures I have seen. Though I peruse a mental catalog of images, nothing matches the stunning arch of the bridge or the scent of cevepcici that wafts through the air. I might stay here; I want to linger in discovery.

Again, I wonder how they choose where to build monuments, or when to clear forests? It’s as if we believe we are gods, born to carve out the earth, here to shape and reshape the world around us. Only now there are too many of us. We are running out of mountains to blast, and we have turned our gaze from to the earth to people. Now we grab fiercely to the hearts of those around us. We hold them close as we gently chip away at the cage surrounding the beat, until we can steal the very core with a soft tug and then marvel at our fine work and craftsmanship.

Just as the monuments of Dubrovnik and Mostar were crafted and then altered, so too were their inhabitants. As recent war scarred cherished cultural monuments of the cities, conflict also marked each citizen, meticulously engraving caution, fear, and understanding on the people. A missile did not merely target the flag raised above Fort Imperial, it also penetrated the lives of sailors, officers, and citizens who died defending the city. Those who did not perish fled, those who did not flee hungered, and those who hungered wondered: when will shelves once again bear food? As the souls of city and citizen intertwined, identities were given new lines and redefined.

Someone once made a path about my center, the way people tear at the earth to make green spaces in the hearts of cities. With a crooked smile as a spade and piercing eyes as shovels, my heart slid through the cracks created. As it hit the air, I saw it break into 47,493 pieces. I counted every. last. one. of. them. I wanted to find them…

As the war has passed, fragments and shards have been collected to rebuilt to cities. In Mostar, the same stone amassed for the original bridge hundreds of years ago once again made the journey to reassemble of the arch. Likewise, the people themselves have began to reconstruct. Inhabitants are still collecting their parings and pieces. They dust off the memories of laughter until they are once again visible, they place the horrors of loss on a bookshelf to serve as reference. They are retracing the lines and contours of daily life, again and again, until they have memorized a path well enough to make things seem as if they had never been broken. Yet, although time has allowed the marks seared onto people to burrow beneath their skin, traces can still be found flowing in their veins. New fragments align with the old, once again carving the human landscape.

These are not my monuments; I bear neither the burden nor the beauty of these foreign cultures. I am simply passing through.

Retracing Slovakia

Thursday March 14th, 2013

8:41 pm

“Hey everyone, we are going to continue driving through Slovakia on our way to Budapest. We should arrive in the city in about two hours, so just sit back and enjoy the rest of the ride there.”

click.

We are coursing through Slovakia, drifting through darkness as we pass the bright lights and cityscapes that adorn our path ahead. The night is young; the city awaits. Yet the red and ochre blurs outside my window slowly dissipate and grow more pronounced. Lightlightlight lightlight light  light    light.

We slow to a crawl, pressing towards Budapest, the Hungarian Oz, expecting us. But our crawl is now a stop. Traffic mounts as snow storms rise to public enemy number one. 

10:32 pm

Progress is minimal. Our tires are begging to offer fresh tracks to the snow; however, an array of police officers, abandoned vehicles, restless bodies, and obstructed roads thwart our best intentions. 

 

Friday March 15th, 2013

1:12 am

I peer out my window. 

A field laced in white. A truck veiled in mud. A hand tracing a clouded window. 

I turn my head inward.

Growing darkness. Impending uncertainty. Mounting anxiety. 

4:17 am 

I oscillate between the warring worlds of sleep and awake. It is becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate the two, as my reality assumes the surreal measure of a dream and my sleeping subconscious slumbers in simplicity. 

8:08 am

The Hungarian officer attempts to articulate the situation to our restless bus as he manages a terse, “Budapest, no.”

The coordinators dial number after number striving to contact embassies, locals, sources of aid or information. I hear them plead, “We do not understand the situation. 

The news reporters detail the circumstances affecting towns, tourists, and troubadours alike. I read mention of how a “snowstorm strands thousands…rescue units called…take refuge.”

Budapest, no.

We do not understand…

                    …strands thousands.

Take refuge.

 

Budapest, no.

11:38 am

As time lapses, desperation swells. As luck would have it, March 15th is a national holiday in Hungary; therefore, any nearby markets, shops, and restaurants are closed.

4:07 pm 

The lovely inhabitants of Gÿor, Hungary are in fine form. Bologna sandwiches, hot tea, corn puffs, vanilla wafers, oranges, apples, and all things edible sift through the hands of the locals to the eager travelers. Anything is welcome; nothing is left uneaten.

6:32 pm

Progress. Twelve feet.

 8:37 pm

After a dizzying experience threaded together by sleep, hunger, air, thirst, wonder, snow, and questions, we are turning back, we are retracing our miles covered to return to Slovakia. No, we will not be visiting Budapest as planned. Instead, as access is severed to nearly eighty towns, and weather impedes entrance to the Hungarian highways, we invite Bratislava to entertain our weary eyes and aching bones.

We will drown our traveler’s woes in her old town square, her white-washed castle, her foreign cuisine, and her cobblestone streets. We will continue on, meeting circumstance with accommodation.

 

As is ever so in Bohemia.

Doors and Details, Locks and Language

Tomorrow is the one month mark of my experience abroad. I feel like I should take Prague out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary and say, “well done city, our first month together was pretty great. Agreed?”

Sadly, I won’t be taking Prague out tomorrow night (as I simply wasn’t able to find a sizable enough restaurant). I will, however, take the evening to pull my memories of this past month down from the bookshelf, to gather my thoughts I’ve left hidden in cafes throughout the city, and to savor these pieces of living. 

This month has been one of discovery. Discovering a city, discovering myself, but perhaps most importantly, discovering who I am in relation to this city. In a sense, Prague and I have cultivated a relationship. Yes, it may seem unconventional for a person to be “seeing” a city, but underneath this strange veneer, it is akin to any other relationship. 

 

You begin to memorize little details, the minor scars and isolated pieces of perfection.

 

                           A hidden garden. 

               The way someone longs for truth. 

 

You begin to notice intricacies essential to one’s habits and character.

 

                               Cobblestone streets beneath a bridge. 

                 An aversion to letting foods touch.

 

You begin to understand yourself in relation to someone, or something. 

 

You 

are building 

a language through 

opening doors and touching locks. 

 

This was the first door I opened. It’s name was loneliness.

 

This was the first lock I touched. It’s engraving read loss.

 

This was the door that taught me to love this city. Her name was unfamiliarity. 

 

This was the lock that taught be to be cautious. It’s inscription stated freedom.

 

There are doors I have yet to open; there are locks I have not touched. But my time here is not finished. There is still time to deepen my relationship with this beautiful city, to grow, to explore, to let this landscape shape me. 

 

So, Prague, here’s to our time to come. Cheers.

 

The Great Affair pt. 2

“She left pieces of her life behind her everywhere she went. It’s easier to feel the sunlight   without them, she said.”
                        -Brian Andreas

As I wander through Vienna, I am captivated by the omnipresent sculptures. I am not the first to gaze upon the shapes of marble, bronze, and plaster. Moreover, I am not the witness at all, rather the statues are the spectators, as they have observed the spectrum of relations to revolutions before them. They have been silent witnesses to an infinite number of moments in the past that have created our present, my present. Here’s what this great affair called travel taught me, friends, our present is simply an art nouveau collage of millions of moments before it; our own lives are mere melting pots of all the lives we are not living.

I did not know the man who commissioned the statues of royal cherubs, but his thoughts were a part of a society that influenced my own.

I did not meet the artist who envisioned Hundertwasserhaus, but his creativity bled into artists after him.

I did not love the woman who is sculpted in the Belvedere, but those who did lived according to her wishes, altering the paths of many after them.

Perhaps I did not share the same hours and eras with sculptors, artists, and visionaries of the past. However, I will remember their worlds, as they have filtered through the ages to carefully constructed the present world I live and breathe in. I am merely a piece, a piece that one day will follow in creating someone else’s present.

The monuments of Vienna have sculpted me, refined my thoughts and perspectives. Perhaps that’s not what the artists originally intended, but as the carved monuments now carve people by causing them to reflect on the inseparability of the past and the present, things have come full circle.

Before I leave Vienna, I will leave pieces of myself with the sculptures of kings, angels, and lions that I pass. I tuck my optimism in the halo of one, I bury my solemnity in the mane of another. Someone will pick them up one day, and the world will carry on in perfect turn.

The Great Affair pt. 1

As morning light began to stream through my window, I gently turned the lock to the door and left the rays to gaze upon my vacant room. Today begins an affair of sorts; today offers an adventure. 

 

I am passing through the Czech countryside in search of Vienna. Fields. Snow. Suspended wires. More snow. Distance. Without maps or expectations I am embarking on a journey to a city that is wholly unfamiliar to me. I have heard it is lovely, beautiful, and captivating, but I have yet to see so much as a photo of this place. 

 

But I am happy to be going. Robert Lewis Stevenson once admitted, “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” I believe he was right to portray travel as an experience beyond a mere train ride or flight to a specific location. Travel is much less of a physical destination and far more of psychological realization. To venture, to be unknown, to be lost, to be humbled, in essence, to travel is to explore selfhood. In being removed from the familiar, sometimes you are left with nothing but your own hands and feet to carry you along. It is in these moments of nothing that we are able to find something, whether that is acceptance the fear of aging or understanding a want of peace, we carve out pieces of our humanity through this affair called travel. 

 

I do not know what I will find amongst the cathedrals, cafes, and castles; however, I lift my head upward with great anticipation.  

 

I feel my eyes brimming with excitement. I have resolved to lift the glass of uncertainty and feast on adventure. 

 

This is the greatest affair. 

Česky Krumlov

What a town. This weekend our group took a trip to Southern Bohemia to the remote town of Česky Krumlov. Upon arrival, the red roofs dressed delicately in snow suggested something of a whimsical fairytale. Yes, the town is beautiful, but disclaimer: everything is not as it seems.

Our first stop on the trip was the Eggenberg Brewery, established in 1560. Enchanted by the history and charm, the group eagerly perused the menus and beer lists. Thinking of breweries back in America, I had this fabulous idea that I should attempt to order something resembling fish and chips. To my great delight, I found “ryby a hranolky” on the menu! Content, I closed the menu only to lift my gaze to a fish tank. Great. I could eat Oscar’s brother as he watched. Needless to say, I reopened the menu and began to search for a less lively lunch option. Potatoes never sounded so perfect. As we finally got our food two hours later, a terrible suspicion that this town may in fact be a very peculiar place started to filter through my thoughts.

Well, we survived the brewery, and then sought off in search of our next destination: the castle. Again, as we approached the building, the ornate architecture and stunning frescos suggested an idyllic preservation of the past. Yet this veneer began to crumble as we approached the gate only to see a sign that read, “caution, bears!” Really? Apparently, in the 1500s, the royals thought that they were related to a family affiliated with bears (although this was a false assumption based on forged documents) so logically, there should be bear dens outside of the castle. Anchorman premonitions, anyone?

As we gathered to begin a tour, we noted that the castle does not officially open until April. Yet a tour guide met our group and led us into an apartment of the castle. Eccentric with a look vaguely resembling Ms. Frizzle from Magic School Bus, our guide Oltrichka began, “hello crazy Americans, please do not be children. We will see parts of the castle…here is a picture of a princess who drank wolf blood and was thought to be a vampire…here is a gold carriage, yes it is covered, please imagine the splendor.” Unconventional would be a delicate way to explain that tour. We did, however, get to see the best preserved Baroque theater in the world, which was incredibly beautiful.

Later in the day, as we were free to explore the town, a group of friends and I set out for food. In a small cafe, we ordered crepes. A simple, uncomplicated choice. Or so we thought. I was brought tredelnick. Crepe, tredelnick, crepe, tredelnick, yeah I hear the similarities too. Regardless, it was delicious.

From this point on, things just got weirder.

Lederhosen. Van Gogh.

British warnings. Equilavents of five days and twelve years.

Gypsy music. Steinbeck.

Silverware. Queen. Quesadillas.

Anyway, we hazily began the next morning with another tour of the city. But before this adventure, a friend and I went to get breakfast. Again communication fails us as we ordered waffles, but we were brought a single muffin…half an hour later. Desperately craving something resembling typical breakfast food, we struggled through the chocolate filled pastry (cue scene in Matilda where the boy is forced to eat chocolate cake). Well, after surviving mystery food order round two, the group divided for the tour. I set off with the first group, and within the first five minutes, we saw our castle guide from yesterday blazing down the cobblestone streets, in the same polkadot skirt and coatless fashion she had modeled the day before, to meet the other half of our group. Well played Oltrichka, well played. On this tour, we saw everything from toe candles to elk statues in time out. My personal favorite was a bench adorned by feet. If we had any doubts about the sanity of this town before, those thoughts were put to rest as our guide enlightened us with a tale of a illegitimate prince who fell in love with the barber’s daughter, brought her to the castle, and then defenestrated her. Oddly enough, this is not the first historically proven story I’ve heard about someone being thrown out of a window in the Czech Republic. For the sake of sensitive ears, I’ll keep the rest of the story from this blog, but ask me about it if you want to know. True to Česky Krumlov’s character, it’s quite strange.

As we continued our journey through this town, things continued to strike me as odd. Hearts buried in the church, silent restaurants, frescos of upside-down horses…maybe that’s normal? Maybe not. As two o’clock rolled around, the group finally loaded the bus. Eager to return to the city, the conversation between our coordinators went something like this:

“Well it looks like everyone is here.”

“We got different numbers counting students.”

“Oh we should be fine, let’s go.”

And off we went. You were really something Česky Krumlov, and you are sure to be remembered.

Stream of Consciousness

Arrival.

                Music bar

Old Town Square.

Narrow streets

                               Charles Bridge

Lennon Wall

Vino.

Little Quarter

Trdelniks

Locks and rivers

Sculpture

Bryan John Appleby.

Praha 7

Snowfall

       Cubism

Pivo

          

                      Kafka

Lamplight.

      Sunset

Adventure.

 

Dobrý Den

Good Evening, friends.

Yes, I have officially landed in Prague! After a brief interlude in Frankfurt, I have begun to settle into life in the Czech Republic.

Before I enlighten you with tales of my experience in Prague, it’s worth sharing my adventure in Frankfurt. As I had a seven hour layover, I blithely caught a train from the airport into town. Ready to stretch my limbs, I set off in search of three things: architectural gems, German pastries, and coffee. Within the first couple hours, my checklist had been completed, so I asked a woman in the coffee shop where I should venture with an hour or so to spare before heading back to the airport. With directions in a general left, I began what some might call “a very rigid search” for the old town square. And my efforts were met with success! The square was beautiful, and as I wandered around, I found a tower marked by a sign reading, “caution, proceed at your own risk.” In a state of traveler’s euphoria, I laughed at the warning, bought a ticket to the top, and began the climb. About half way to the top, however, I realized I snickered too soon. The stairs were incredibly arduous, but the view from the top validated the effort.

After catching my breath, I continued my journey to Prague. Trepidation and anticipation ushered me through the gates at the airport into the beautiful land of Bohemia. I arrived at night, wholly unsuspecting of the spendor Prague had to offer. Yet over the past few days, I have filled every free moment with wandering the city. Of course I have been busy making friends, finding an apartment, attending orientation sessions, among other formalities; however, I consider my vagabond soul searching equally as worthwhile.

Each tram ride, each cobblestone street, each stranger’s face, each is mired in what Kerouac might have deemed “the golden eternity.” As my body wanders through Mala Strana, my mind ventures down a path lined with contemplation. In a city so sublime in character and so rich in culture, Prague defines itself. Now it is my turn. So often, we seek to identify that which surrounds us, whether that be a person, a building, a landscape, a feeling. But Prague stands as is, wholly self-defined, thus spurring me to turn inward. Kerouac hinted at this idea as he avered that, “the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born.” Perhaps today’s Prague was never born, it simply exists. With my surroundings firmly in place, I am ready to discover and map my identity onto this lanscape.

Let the exploration begin.

Away We Go.

He is raising his hands to cover his face; fingers interlaced shield his eyes from light. We are going to play a game, we scatter ourselves helter-skelter in every direction. I want to win, I want to hide somewhere they will never find me. I need something less like inside a hut, less like beneath a bed, less like behind a door, and more like under skin.

100, 99, 98…

I have been counting down the months, the weeks, the hours, and the minutes until my departure for Prague. It is as if I am playing hide-and-seek, eagerly counting down from a hundred until I can at last begin my quest.

I remember playing in the woods when I was younger, and having a river of blood cascading from my toe, but not telling anyone, because I wanted to keep exploring. I was Sacagawea, I was passing through the brush near the river, on a quest for berries. I was a Shoshone guide, a vagabond spirit, carving paths with my own footsteps. That’s where the journey started; I’ve been hiding inside other people’s bodies ever since, feeling their experiences, capturing their memories, and living as if they were my own. 

76, 75, 74…

As the number of days grows smaller, so do my steps. I cannot leave yet, I must watch the leaves return to the trees; I am not ready, I am waiting to say, “I love you.” But the numbers continue downward in a relentless pursuit of zero.

I remember there was this beautiful jewelry store, downtown on Main Street. Every day couples would leap from the revolving door glowing, with radiance exuding from their faces. I wanted to know what happened in that magical two story brick, so I slipped into the jeweler’s mind, and I wandered through his thoughts as he helped a young man find a perfect combination of clarity, color, carat and cut. I was helping this man, so full of hope, as I felt my heart sinking, remembering the day I came home to an empty bed and a ring on the table. Each morning I fell in love with every couple I met; each evening I fell out of love with the woman in my bed, until there was no one to fall out of love with.  I carry on each day, wanting to give meaning to lives, but each day I am a little less convinced that I am doing what is right, and I am a little more certain I should be somewhere else. 

51, 49, 48…

I try very hard to be still. Perhaps if my limbs remain rigid and my breathing stays faint, time will leave me unnoticed. Unfortunately, I don’t think the universe makes exceptions on a case by case basis. Weird, right?

I remember the names of everyone in my kindergarten class. Everyone except for the girl with long auburn curls who sat at the table with Max, Sophie, Cecile, and I. I can’t remember her name, because I never heard her say it, but I wanted to know, so I slid under her skin. Each day I come to class and melt in my chair, the lower I sit, the safer I feel. I’m shy, I turn my head away from the things I want. I want to be friends with the laughing girls around me. I want to ask the boy if he would like to share the cookie in my lunch box. I would like to ask them to come to my birthday this weekend. But I don’t do it, instead I smile at the table as my windblown hair masks my face. I am Grace.  

23, 22, 21….

I take a deep breath. I am at the airport now, passport and boarding pass in hand. As I ride the moving walkway forward, I am struck by its parallel to time: regardless of whether or I not I continue walking, I am still propelled onward. In this moment, I must choose either to proceed with caution and foolishly fight the inevitable, or embrace the unknown with candor and anticipation. I inhale deeper now, and I begin to pick up my feet.

I remember wondering why magazine covers more often feature people who are successful. Acclaimed actors, successful billionaires, and innovational geniuses decorate the magazines in the impulse aisles of my hometown grocery store, but where are the other faces? Why don’t we see relatives, strangers, or better yet, criminals? I wanted to know what it would be like to be successful, so I hid in Dmitry Rybolovlev. I’m worth billions of dollars, I chair the board of Uralkali, I am the god of potassium fertilizers, and I emanate success. Nevermind that my wife has filed for divorce, nevermind that she is taking houses and paintings and my wealth along with her, nevermind that I may die alone. I am a perfect candidate for a magazine cover.

3, 2, 1…

Kerouac put it best when he claimed that, “happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream.” As I step foot on the plane, I thread his optimism with my determination, and I resolve to begin my journey. No, I do not know what my life will look like in these next few months, but I am eager to embrace the unknown and see where it leads me in terms of discovering what I love and who I am.

I remember all of these lives that I am not living, they define me, shaping me to a mold of misfits, with an outline curved by adventure, loss, and success. But now I am in the present, the hide-and-go-seek countdown has finally stopped. Where am I? I am sitting across a boy, on a rock with my back to the ocean, my face to a pair of lips ripe and begging. I could lean forward, I could melt my pink lips into his, I could live in this moment, but I don’t do it. I am ready to begin exploring.

ZERO.

Ready or not, Prague, here I come.