Day 17 - Prague


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Europe » Czech Republic » Prague
July 18th 1997
Published: December 10th 2009
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Day 17
It was around ten bells when I was awoken by the clattering hoofs of the Ox-lady. Clomp. Clamp. Clomp. Clamp. Hearing the racket rumbling from those disheartening hoofs, instinctively I yanked my sleeping bag as far over my head as possible to block out the awful clamour. Then the ringing of the bell joined in with the symphony of hoof stomps. Immediately, the image of a monstrous beast clad in mud encrusted Kodiak boots and a square cow bell tied round her neck popped into my head. Realizing, none of the other passed out zombies were waking to let her in, I rose to do the deed. Yep. Upon opening the door, my weary eyes were greeted with the sight of the beast coming in to collect her pound of flesh.

This scene repeated itself each morning we stayed in her flat. At exactly 10:00 AM she would crash through the door, wake us from our alcohol induced slumber and shake us down for 250 Kroners. Bursting in like she owned the place, the meaty creature stomped throughout the room from guest to guest demanding her cud. Often cowering over her guests who littered her flat floor, I was concerned that she may inadvertently trample one of them the death. Luckily we all survived, less the few Czech shecks that were tossed her way. Once she had her fill, the menace clambered off and left us awake and ready to begin our first full day in Prague.

At the top of my day’s itinerary was to investigate what my bible referred to as “one of the most impressive buildings you will ever visit”. After about an hour and a half rounding up the collection of clueless twits, we finally set out to find Prague Castle. From reading the description, my mind visualized an ancient castle with towering walls and menacing turrets, perched atop a cliff that overlooked the medieval city. The storied city spread outward from the walls across the wide plain below. Now picture in reality seven disoriented vagabonds scurrying around, lost, two of us wanting to locate the castle, two most interested in trying to pry their way into two Hawaiian girls’ pants. Let’s call it a personality flaw. I wanted to find the castle.

Therefore, Margo and I set out to find the castle together. Now, how hard can it be to locate the most prominent structure in the entire country of Czech Republic? It would even be easier to find due to the fact that I had a handy map of the place within my bible. Yet…the pair of us pathetically wallowed along, criss-crossed streets and passed through parkettes, all the while staring skyward in search for the damn place. Using my bible as a witching rod without regard for trees or buildings, I aligned my body exactly with the direction dictated by the map and walked. Nothing was going to stop me finding that frickin place. We had walked 45 minutes to over the three centimetres of map space and still no castle. The moat we walked down was not going to stop me. The forest thick with brush I barged through? Nope. Nothing. Well, there was the stone wall that I walked alongside, but nothing else. Then like the seeing the proverbial castle on the hill in far off distance, we looked up and saw the bloody place. The castle was standing, just as the bible said, atop a cliff, overlooking the entire span if the city.

Prague Castle or Hradcany Castle stands prominently atop a rocky ridge on the eastern bank of the Moldova River. Built in 850 AD, the castle has been a centre of power and prestige for well over a millennia. Rather than merely being a place where the rich played and pranced, it served as both the administrative and spiritual force of the city. Many of the administrative buildings remain standing today. While extremely dull and uneventful (as they are still used as administrative buildings) they do serve as an example of what made this such an important place in Czech history. Today, upon approach to the castle compound one is greeted by a numerable series of gargoyles perched atop the walls surrounding the castle. However, the most fascinating features are the two sculptures erected above the entrance gate to the compound. Oversized gothic warriors impale their vanquished foe upon their blades and demonstrate the prospective fate to enemy intruders. Beneath their bulk are gatehouses manned with members of the Imperial Czech National Guard. Very impressive entrance indeed.

Upon entry, I found that the building appeared less like a castle and more like a compound. Expecting turrets, arrow slots and towers, I found a series of rather non-descript municipal buildings anonymously arranged behind the protection of the foreboding walls. As the buildings are still used by the Prague municipal government for community and civil purposes, exciting and interesting they were not. Once again, we found that the most interesting part of the tour was a tour to the cathedral.

St. Vitus Cathedral must not be missed. Standing just within the gates in the gravel compound, I looked straight up and marvelled at the intricately designed carved stone frames accenting the majestic stained glass windows. Upon entry, I proceeded to check out the art, study the stained glass windows from the inside and investigated the monuments to military ventures and victories of yesteryear. We continued down to the crypt of the cathedral and looked for dead folks. These are all standard fare for one visiting a medieval cathedral. However, the most impressive part of the visit included scaling an endless series of steps that took us up a narrow passageway to the belfry tower. From its' perch, I could finally see what the bible spoke about. Standing well above any other structure within the region, I was provided a panoramic view of the entire Czech capital. It was amazing. Snaking its way through the ancient capital, I watched the Vltava River flow down and past on the plain below. From my perch I could see the entire expanse of the cityscape. Thankfully, I was able to use the special option on my camera to take panoramic photographs of the views.

After spending a considerable amount of time enjoying the scenery, Margo and I returned to the main floor of the cathedral. It was upon re-entry when I encountered that oh-so-familiar grating sound. It was a noise that I despised like no other. A look of aggravation and anger instantly overtook my previous air of wonder and amazement. The cathedral was a sanctuary. It was a special place for those who seek silence, thought and reflection. Instead, I got tour guides. Tour guides as very recognizable. If you ever travel to Europe, take notice of the people surrounding you in every single tourist attraction. Consider those crowds of people clogging up the lines and passageways. You know…the ones sporting huge sunglasses and straw hats, old ladies with their old men companions in tow, or Americans speaking American, wearing American clothing and asserting that everything is so much better back in America. Leading the troops of misfits are always small people with very big mouths. They carry sticks with socks tied to the top or thrust umbrellas into the air. They scream incessantly. I hate them. Sure, I hate tourists, but I really, really hate tour guides.

Why? Because those bastards tramp through every church in Europe like they are the leaders of a three ring circus. Belting out the history of the structure, they point their bloody sticks at everything and blabber on about the art, the sculptures, the tiles on floor, the ductwork, who mopped the floor, who lit the candles and who blew them out at the end of each day. They drone on relentlessly about anything and everything. They also do it in every possible language. Chinese, Japanese, French, Spanish, English, and American. (American tour guides have the most demanding job as they must have complete knowledge of the exact location in imperial feet of every McDonalds or Taco Bell in the area) Anyone who comes to the cathedrals searching for rest, solace and time for quiet contemplation are left wanting and frustrated. I understand that visitors need and often request an informative tour on the history of the church but why do these bastards have to do it at such an insane decibel level. It is a church fer Christ’s sake. As a good buddy of mine used to say…"Have some respect…have some respect for people!" Yet, ignoring consideration they soldier on, bullhorn at the ready.

While I continue my diatribe on the pervasive ignorance of tourists, I must address the ‘No Photo’s Please’ issue. Why is it that as soon as one of these jerks set their eyes upon one of those signs, the fuckwits instinctively pulls out the old picture box and start snapping away? The boorish bastards resemble spastic fashion photographers, using up rolls upon roll of film, in a desperate attempt to record every moment of their vacation. The more sophisticated tourists use camcorders. Like Cool Hand Luke, as soon as an iambic column or weathered storefront appears in their line of sight they unholster their weapon, trigger the record button and chronicle the momentous occasion. If they are so desperate to have momentos of their big day exploring Joe’s Church wouldn’t it be better to actually look at the place through their own eyes rather than through a eighth on an inch square viewfinder? Think about it, a year or so later, Herbert and his wife Betsy snuggle together in front of the television on a cold winter night and proceed to break out the holiday tapes. “Oh honey, look, its Junior knocking over that priceless statue of St. Peter. And here is the look of disgust on the priest’s face. Rewind it, I want to see that again. I also want to see how you brilliantly catalogued all the Stations of the Cross, the trip to the mortuary and the walk up the winding staircase to the belfry.” Sounds like fascinating way to fritter away a Saturday evening while also destroying my enjoyment of the visit.

The previous concerns that I have addressed pale in comparison to the feelings of those who constantly photograph the inside of Cathedrals. I have taken a lot of pictures on my journey. The subject of many of these happens to be churches; however my shots are always taken from the outside. I do not go into stranger’s homes and videotape or photograph their living rooms. Therefore, why should one disrupt somebody else’s place of worship just so we can gratify ourselves with a shitload of pictures we will never look at? Said.....'nough said.

After leaving the church we proceeded down the hill and through the Lower Town. This was a quaint section of town built at the base of the cliff below the castle. The steep steps led us to the famed Charles Bridge. Charles Bridge was the bridge in the movie Mission Impossible where Tom Cruise jumps off of and escapes. It was known for that and for being the pathway where Czech Kings walked upon during their coronation. Cool. The venerable structure was even more appealing than Prague Cathedral. The entire span of the pedestrian passageway was decorated with statues of religious and historic secular figures. They are very old and in desperate need of restoration but I was pleased to get an opportunity to see them while they are still standing. Atop the bridge, a cluster of artists and craft merchants plied their trade and try to peddle their wares. I picked up a postcard and went on my way.

That evening the ladies treated us to a home cooked meal. The gaggle of hens took over the kitchen and after an hour emerged with a fantastic four-course meal. While they were cooking us up some grub, us lads did the manly thing and downed a seemingly endless supply of 33 cent beers. Once the meal was ready we sat down before a delicious masterpiece. The meal consisted of soup, baked potatoes, potatoes with onions, chicken with soy sauce and sweet and sour chicken. Throw in a side of mixed vegetables and this weary traveller was graced with a palate-enticing feast. It was a feast fit for a king.

The evening’s entertainment was in a word 'entertaining'. Mike, the guy from Vancouver, had an idea of where we should go for the evening. I should have expected this outrageous idea just from the person suggesting it. Rather than dismissing the event as childish I decided to come along. I blindly followed the troops to an outdoor concert and expected to take in some post-communism Euro-trash band. Brian did not disappoint. As we marched across the bridge leading to the concert grounds, we were greeted by a steady stream of punk kids and long hairs. After paying 200 Kroners we gained admittance to what turned out to be a skateboarding concert. Now it is not everyday, actually it is not ever that I find myself in the company of skate-boardin’ punks but the rest of our group was going and I really did not want to hang out by myself. It turned out to be a good move. The atmosphere was so fitting for the night at the freak show. The sky opened up just as we entered through the gate. Quarter pipe and half-pipe ramps were scattered around the grounds. Many of those in attendance came with their boards in tow but a large number were there just for the show. Representatives from all the national breweries as well as European heavyweights such as Stella Artois and Guinness lined the edges and duly hawked their pints to the parched crowd. Then there was me, university graduate, recent employee of a large multinational corporation, small-c conservative mingling with those usually looked down upon by society. It should not have fitted, however when you mix Czech beer, a rainy night, a popular Californian hard rock/punk/thrash band up on stage called NOFX and a wild mosh pit you cannot achieve anything but success. The night was one of those unexpectedly incredible events that cannot be planned and rather, just happen.


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