Prague: The Life Not Lived

As my time in Prague draws to a close, I am beginning to feel the bittersweet sadness that I feel at the end of most of my travels. When I leave behind the places that I have only begun to know, I cannot help but imagine the alternate life that I am also walking away from: The life that I would possess were I not - exactly - 'me'. It is certainly not a reflection of any dissatisfaction with my present life that I feel this way. It is, instead, a regret for the inevitable closing of doors that we all engage in as we move through life: Choosing one meal over another; one job over another; one love over another; and - ultimately - one life over all the others that could have been.

I suspect that there is no cure for what ails me, and I would not dream of giving up the many things that I gain as I see the world simply to avoid these mild pangs of regret. I think, in fact, that these uncomfortable sensations ultimately cause me to appreciate more the life I am fortunate enough to lead. The truth is this: When I leave, I take a little bit of each place with me. Inside me, there is a growing cosmos - a galaxy of knowledge and experience that colors and lights me from the inside. These experiences - the moments that create the place that builds within me - are the choices that I make. They are the doors that I open.

Prague: 4: Day Two (Friday) - Worship

Yesterday, Katarina assured me that there was really no way to get too lost in the streets of Prague. This morning, I cheerfully proved her wrong in a matter of just a few hours. After rising late (odd, considering the insane amount of sleep I got) I visited the hotel breakfast buffet before heading out for my day of exploration. I deliberately set out with no real objective, which is undoubtedly how I found myself wandering the streets quite aimlessly before happening upon the Church of Our Lady Victorious, which houses the famous Infant Jesus of Prague. Though I am sure you are all quite familiar with the Infant Jesus of Prague and the stories surrounding the statue, I will recap: The small statue was brought from Spain in 1628 and is believed to have protected Prague from plagues and wars. Some believe that it bestows miracles, which - naturally - draws a steady stream of tourists from all over the world. When the pope visited Prague, I was once told, he went first to see the Infant Jesus, before arriving anywhere else in the city. Knowing all this, what choice did I have but to go inside the church and see for myself?

Generally speaking, I like churches - particularly old churches. I find them peaceful and comforting, and often feel compelled to sit quietly in them for long stretches. This church was no different...except for the steady, annoying chatter of tourists. From my seat in a pew close to the Infant Jesus, I watched with - in turn - horror and amazement at the behavior of the visitors. Despite the prominent signs requesting silence and forbidding cameras, the air was heavy with chatter and the periodic flashes of photos being snapped. This was disturbing enough in itself, and I could barely contain my amazement as I noticed that the trend was - bizarrely - to take one's photo with the statue in the background. After positioning, affecting a sober face (Italians), and reviewing the photo, the photo's subject would generally throw in a cursory prayer at the railing surrounding the Infant Jesus. Transfixed, I watched this happen, over and over, for nearly an hour. As I sat there, observing, I was struck with the realization that these people had traveled from all over the world (many of them - it appeared - from Italy and Spain) only to stand in front of the statue with a barrier erected between themselves and the very object that they had come to see. Unaware of the irony, they stared purposefully into the tiny screens in front of them, zooming the focus in and out to get the "best shot" of the object of their quest.

What would it take, I wondered, saddened by the spectacle, to ground these people? How difficult would it be to reconnect people - without gadgets and distancing mediums - with the essence of life itself? A miracle?

Prague: 3: Day One - Walkabout

Immediately prior to my departure from the US, I was suddenly struck with inspiration and sent an email to a woman who organizes personal, individualized tours. My hope was that I could secure the services of someone on my first day in Prague, which would - in turn - make it easier for me to get around for the remainder of my trip. Because it was such a last-minute idea, and because I was then unable to check email until I arrived in Prague, I had no idea of whether or not someone would be available to walk me about. Fortunately, someone was - indeed - available.

So it was that I found myself at 9 am, in my hotel lobby, bent over a timeline of Czech history with my guide - Katarina. Katarina appeared to be in her mid-fifties, well-educated, and - as I later learned - well-traveled. Her grasp of Czech history is - frankly - astounding. I understand that her role as a guide lends itself to the development of said expertise, but at times it was truly inhuman. Her conversation would be peppered with phrases like 'why do I mention this,' which - I learned - did not necessitate a response from me. She would launch without hesitation into the reason for mentioning it. In fact, very little of what was said required any input from me. It was, perhaps, little wonder that after five hours of intensive Czech-related education, not broken by any respites or refreshments, I was so exhausted that I could barely understand the ongoing narrative. Perhaps, I allow now, the fact that I landed here only yesterday afternoon also contributes to the fatigue. Regardless of the reason, shortly after calling an end to the tour I found myself back in my hotel room where I napped for three hours.

Despite the chill in the air and the deluge of information, the day was fantastic. I suspect that I am forever spoiled by the personalized nature of the tour. I felt free to ask random questions (Question: Why are there no family members at that wedding? Answer: Russians. What do you expect from them? [insert derisive face, following by face of slight horror as face-maker remembers that she is with a tourist, followed by 'just making a joke face.'] There is much bad blood between the Czechs and the Russians, something that I knew but not in the way that I know now.) When Katarina talked about Prague, particularly about the communist occupation and subsequent Velvet Revolution, she talked about it as someone who has experienced it. She attended the meetings that led to the Velvet Revolution. She described the communist state, and the fear that people felt as they fought against it. She was also an incomparable resource when it came to understanding the 'quirks' of the Czech culture.

So interesting was the day spent with her that I am considering engaging her services again before I leave, to cover other areas of the city. In the five hours that we spent together, we covered only the Old and New Towns. I have so much yet to do! So much, in fact, that I felt a bit guilty when I woke up from my nap and saw the darkness hovering outside my window, pressing eagerly against the glass, hoping that I'd dare to engage it tonight. I did not. I spent some time answering emails, then went for dinner in the hotel restaurant.

As a vegetarian in the Czech (meat-loving) Republic, I am leery of many menu items. This is the standard excuse that I employ in all European countries to explain my wicked-bad bakery habit. I adore European bakeries. Before today, I felt the French and Spanish bakeries to be the best that I had experienced thus far - ranking above Italy, Monaco, and Germany. The Czech bakeries, as it turns out, are giving them a run for the shared title. The pastries (only 1 1/2 days here and I've already had several) are fantastic. This is actually NOT a good thing. What did I have for breakfast? Pastries, albeit with a side of raw vegetables and a bit of cheese. What did I have for lunch? A pastry. What did I have for dinner last night? Pastries, with a side of cheese peanuts and some bizarre rolled tortilla chips. When I am at home, I eat what is possibly an absurd amount of fresh produce. I eat so many fresh fruits and vegetables during the day that I have little room for the sorts of indulgences that I am now stuffing myself with. In the Czech Republic, this does not seem to be practical because 1) produce is more expensive, and 2) I can't figure out how to buy it at the grocery store.

While I would love to exist solely on pastries while here, I realize that it would cause me to have even more sleep-laden days like today, and that I will probably not fit into my clothing for the return trip. That - of course - is why I forced myself to eat an actual dinner this evening BEFORE my pastry dessert. At the hotel restaurant, I evaluated the menu at length, despite the fact that I had already perused it several times in the elevator, where it is handily posted on the wall. After much thought, I ordered the salad with "gratinated goat cheese and toast." I was not sure what "gratinated" meant, but I could tell by the waitresses' limited English skills that she would not be able to enlighten me. The two other salads on the menu were suspicious for fish-related reasons, so I felt that "gratinated" was the safest option.

The salad arrived, topped with a slab of what appeared to be pan-seared goat cheese, adhered to a thin round of dark bread. Perhaps it was toast, but it had already absorbed so much of the vinegar and oil salad dressing that it was impossible to be sure. I stared for a bit, trying to decide if I now understood "gratinated." I did not. Despite this, the salad was quite good, and was the perfect prelude to my final destination: the pastry dessert.

Now it is 8:30 pm here. I debated, at some length, whether or not to go out again this evening. I feel a bit of pressure to 'use my time wisely' while I am here, but I am trying to talk myself out of that approach. It is - I feel - smarter to rest when I need to and to really enjoy myself when I am out - well-fueled and rested - rather than forcing myself from one location to the next, battling exhaustion and forcing 'good memories.' It is with that reasoning that I am putting myself to bed early tonight. Tomorrow I shall - once again - tackle Prague. I do, after all, have to retrace my steps from today. Naturally, my camera battery died one hour into my five hour travels, on what might have been the only sunny day that Prague will see this month. I am certain that - somewhere - the Russians are laughing.

Salad with "gratinated" goat cheese and toast. I don't know why I'm labeling it, really - how could there be any question?

Prague: 2: Layover, Frankfurt, Germany

I am in the Frankfurt airport, where I have tucked myself away in a corner of relatively isolated benches. To my left, seated at a cluster of small round tables, businessmen chat over their open laptops and two woman take up as much space as they can manage. The locals seem to think that it is mid-morning, when I - in fact - know that it is actually the absurd hour of not-even-4-am. According to our pilot, we made excellent time on our way here. The flight from Chicago to Frankfurt was - in total - under 8 hours. While this may be true, it might as well not be. When sleep is not accessible, it is a well-known fact that time moves miserably slowly. I calculate that I have slept somewhere in the vicinity of 2 1/2 hours, albeit fitfully. Fortunately, my seatmate - a young Frenchman - and I got on smashingly, which made the long hours much more bearable.

The Frankfurt airport is insanely confusing to traverse, something that I had managed to forget until my arrival. The signs are seemingly contradictory, resulting in clusters of people muttering in assorted languages and asking the people next to them if they are in the right line. Generally, those people were about to ask the exact same question, creating an instant bond. The brethren of confusion, as it were. Fortunately, this "early arrival" has allowed plenty of time for me to wait patiently in various lines, including a long security line, where the German security officers tear apart the luggage of each individual that appears to be of foreign soil. I watch as an official and a Norwegian traveler engage in a heated argument over a boxed set of "spa products." In the end, the official removes one of the items - which does not pass his inspection - as the Norwegian man rants about the 'trouble with Germans.' He repeats his accusations, directing the comments at each of us in line for emphasis. I smile politely.

The German security guards shrug, unconcerned with this opinion. As if to spite him, they promptly wave the next two people through with barely a glance at their luggage. I am one of those people, much to the annoyance of the Norwegian man, who has now discovered his missing cell phone. As I step away, I can hear voices rising behind me as he builds in preparation for the accusation of theft that I suspect is coming.

I walk...and walk...and walk, following misleading signs and completely ignoring the departure board. I had discovered, earlier, that - while it lists the flight that I am taking to Prague - it does not actually list the gate that the flight departs from. This is exactly the sort of minor detail that the Frankfurt airport does not concern itself with. Instead, there is a steady stream of announcements overhead as people are constantly called to the gate of their soon-to-depart flight; flights - I'm sure - that they've been wandering around in search of for hours.

I am slightly headachy and slightly melancholy. Both of these attributes are typical for me when I have not had enough sleep. Sleep, at present, is not an option, so I opt for my longtime allies of caffeine and sugar, and then for a quiet place to consume them. Thus, I find myself here, in this nook. I have devoured a croissant (how I miss the European bakeries when I am at home!) and a latte (I had managed to forget - also - how small and bitter the coffees and espressos are in Europe) and - to ensure the proper amount of sugar - have consumed nearly an entire package of malted milk balls, purchased in Chicago. It's working, for now, though I know the dark shadow looms: I am certain that I shall crash - without grace - from this sugar and caffeine mountain that I have ascended. It will not be pretty when it happens. I find myself hoping that I will be in my hotel room by that time.

Unfortunately, I can already feel the sleepiness pushing at the edges of my vision, and my stomach is objecting to the treatment to which it has already been subjected. It was unhappy with the in-flight vegetarian food selections, and it's even more unhappy after the caffeine and sugar invasion. As I consider this feeling, and the potential implications, I am momentarily distracted by the flurry of activity that accompanies the woman taking a seat to my right. The strong scent of wool hangs in the air about her, which prompts my curiousity enough that I begin a clandestine evaluation of her. She is sporting what appears to be riding apparel, which is accented with a wool cape - undoubtedly the source of the fragrance that accompanies her. She is, I notice, covered in bits of wool. I am fascinated. Why is she wearing riding apparel? Where is she going?

The woman leans toward me and begins asking a series of questions about internet access. After a succession of brief conversations, which do not have the satisfactory result of getting her computer connected to the internet but do have the satisfactory result of allowing me to see that her computer speaks Spanish, she abruptly packs up her computer and begins picking wool off her pants. Perhaps realizing the impossibility of the task, she desists after a few seconds and resumes adjusting her bags. Moments later she is furiously picking at the wool once again. She has an extraordinary talent for creating motion, I decide. Nothing that she does is quiet. For a reason that I can't identify, I am pleased by this.

This, I think to myself, is my life. I have removed myself from my normal element, I have pushed my senses to the point of over-fatigue, and now everything has taken on a surreal edge. Still, even through the slight haze, I can see well enough to know that I am in the right place.

Prague: 1: Pre-Departure, O'Hare

As is customary, my obsessive need to embark upon a chosen course of action at the earliest convenience (really, in my ideal world I'd be able to act upon decisions the moment that they're made) has resulted in a typically early arrival at the airport. It is four hours before my plane departs, and I have already checked my bag, cleared customs, and deposited myself into a restaurant seat.

The restaurant of choice is billing itself as Italian. This is an assertation that - while it lacks support in the food itself - is strengthed by the fact that several members of the waitstaff appear to speak a foreign language. What that language is - precisely - is relatively unimportant in the mind of most of the diners that pass through. Assumptions will be made, and perhaps the food might be more favorably received as a result.

My waiter is a handsome young man with an accent that definitely could be Italian. He is very polite, and I am very polite in return. I order minestrone soup with a side of waffle fries. They arrive in mere minutes. I notice that this is the norm at this restaurant - no doubt a necessity when a restaurant is located within an airport. I imagine that the alternatives - anger, walking out without dining or without paying a tab - have forced this efficiency. I wonder if my waffle fries were partially fried, then re-dipped in oil for a warm-up before they appeared in front of me. The prospect sounds delicious.

The tables around me are filled with a mixture of single diners and a few couples. The common theme, I see quickly, is detachment. Those who are not immersed in a book are immersed in their PDA. I feel a bit of sadness for the waiters, interacting with these shells of people who can barely tear their eyes from the media in front of them. They barely glance at their food before they start eating, looking briefly only to secure the latitude/longitude so that they can reach for - and eat - without actually looking at it.

In an effort to compensate, I double my politeness efforts with the waiter and attempt to make eye contact with all staff members. Based on the gradual uneasiness that they each seem to develop, I decide that such behavior is now construed as "strange," which only serves to reinforce my concerns. At the end of the meal, I thank the waiter profusely, leave a generous tip, and pick my way between the tables of people. No one looks up.