First Impressions

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First impressions can be dangerous things. If you get off on the wrong foot, you might never get on the right one. I have been guilty of letting my first impressions (of people, places, etc.) color my opinions for long stretches -“ one shot, that’s all you got!” So I am happy that I didn’t let that happen with Prague.

My first encounter with Prague was not the most pleasant, which was particularly jarring coming off a lovely train ride through idyllic Saxon and Czech landscapes (picturesque villages, castles on hilltops, forests, mountains, rivers). But I was disgorged at Prague’s Holešovice Station, a grimy jumbled mess. Where was the beauty of Prague so many people had praised to high heaven? Then, when I tried to break one of the large Czech koruna bills that the ATM had spit out at me so that I could buy a tram ticket, the woman behind the counter put on the blankest expression she could had said: “No”. I tried to sweet talk her. She said: “Impossible.” I pointed to the register brimming with cash. She said: “No small change.” Despite the fact that she obviously did have change, she wasn’t going to budge. I tried, to no avail, to get other shopkeepers in the station to let me buy something small, but all refused, claiming they also didn’t have any small change. In frustration, I finally changed a few of my emergency dollars. At last the woman with the implacable face agreed to issue me the 26 Kč ticket. Not a great first impression of the city or of the Czechs.

But how wrong first impressions can be. As the tram meandered into the city proper, the gritty neighborhood around the train station quickly gave way to a heart-achingly beautiful cityscape wrapping around the Vtlava River. Then, checking in to my pension, I was greeted by a bubbly, exuberantly helpful Czech girl. The antithesis of the newsagent/ticket seller. But it was stepping out on to my balcony (yes, I have a balcony!) and taking in the view that helped to wash away the last of the negativity. I looked out over the green hill of Petřín with its Eiffel Tower wannabe lookout platform, the red-tiled houses cascading down the slopes to the Malá Strana neighborhood, and fittingly (considering that one of the main reasons I am here is to explore the history of 1989) the imposing rooftop of the German embassy. (Fittingly because this was where a number of East Germans sought asylum with West Germany in the earlier part of 1989). THIS was the Prague everyone had told me about.

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