The Past as Present

We rise in our yellow hotel room. It’s early June and we see sunlight streaming through thick muslin curtains covering sweet bay windows which peer down upon a dusty, untidy, cracked cobblestone alley. Stray cats scatter themselves along the way. Directly beyond this rustic outlook, peeking out from surrounding buildings, lies a river flowing placidly eastward on this soon-to-be-hot day. Spokes of emerging canals (dingy until the daily deluge at 4:00 sharp) meander towards the river under multiple bridges, all connecting dull streets. Clearly—and I mean this literally because I am wearing my new glasses which for once I haven’t forgotten to bring with me—the day seems primed for Rosie and me to explore this ancient city. We are in Prague.

As we walk downstairs into the breakfast room a smell of freshly baked sweetbread and boiled eggs wafts in the air and we hurry to a cute room outfitted with hewn wooden tables and chairs seating couples devouring, eagerly, a warm international meal. We are struck with a contrast in sounds, for in any American diner or café, the party at even the smallest table chatters and laughs, while this Czech breakfast is mostly silent except for the occasional hearty sigh and witty exchange of an English couple sitting next to us. Here, however, mostly German blokes sit in serious contemplation of the richly ornamented plates before them holding cold cuts, cheese, and soft rolls. This silence is almost unnerving to me, but then again, I have become accustomed to it while living in Germany where supermarket checkers are sternly taciturn. However, after a few minutes the savory bread and fruity jam, washed down with cold whole milk helps me forget the serious mood of the breakfast room and we are soon ready to embark on our day’s adventure.

We step outside onto a dusty street, already warm from the early morning’s direct sun. Suddenly, from several directions, a sonorous clang of church bells rings out, proclaiming mid-morning hour tierces. In Prague we are never far from the importance of liturgy upon the culture either because of the presence of ancient churches or these kinds of bells. Each bell sounds, each tower clangs a different progression in yet another key, pushing and playing with my expectation of certain harmonies. After a tenth deep “KONG,” the neighborhood is again overtaken by increasingly forceful city noises. We march to the first streetcar stop.

Although it is still morning the air is already turning hot and sticky. Pretty soon, a rusty, vintage pre-war streetcar clanks up the forlorn road and we hop on, where we are immediately trapped in a mini vortex of heat, dirt, and the smell of sweat. Every seat is filled with Central Europeans, diverse in appearance and destination. Some are businessmen, others homeless and begging for money, while still a few are travelers like ourselves. As we shift to the back of the car my shirt slowly sticks to my back and even my feet begin to slide in my slip-on shoes. Finally, it is our stop and we scuttle out, grateful for some air, only to be assaulted with the beeping horns of tiny Smartcars and ancient Volkswagens!

Our streetcar has dropped us off in the middle of a traffic circle and along with other stunned pedestrians, we observe, outside of the circle, traditional European rows of shops, three stories high, housed in buildings warped and leaning over the walkway a bit askew after centuries of harsh weather. To the left a line of cars rumbles and honks, sometimes with drivers even smiling at us as they honk, while above us hang exquisite flower baskets suspended high on ancient lamp-posts. To the right another line of equally undignified cars toot and make their presence known as they pass a tall white marble building. It is, to say the least, a surprising picture that is at once both chaotic and orderly! There is no apparent organization of traffic, and yet cars stop and proceed by some oddly regular and invisible scheme, and we safely cross the street with no mishap and with even cheery encouragement on the parts of several drivers.

As we make our way up a stone-paved hill to a castle overlooking the city like a watchful uncle, I observe buildings tall and crooked, cobblestone roads, some with make-do cement and amateurish patching. Red geraniums plentifully punctuate gray walls as they sit serenely in baskets in the windowsills of homes and businesses. Rosie and I reach the top of the hill and Prague Castle and we turn to look out upon the entire city laid out in front of us. It is truly beautiful. A warm and almost sticky breeze flows about and the sun is hot and stifling on our faces and backs. However, all heat is forgotten as we gaze at the city below.

The Moldau River, of Smetna fame, surges in the near distance sparkling and flitting with sunlight. Red bricked rooftops sheltering sweet and crooked houses can be spotted with proud weathervanes jutting higgledy-piggledy all over the horizon gently turning and twisting in the oppressive heat which rises in ostensible waves. Majestic and humble spires of Greek-Orthodox and Roman churches are visible in a sweeping glance at the abutting neighborhoods around the city. Most prominent from our perch is the Charles Bridge down below with its golden statues every ten feet apart, each covered in soot from centuries of exposure. It stretches across the river, a grand entrance to the city for traders in the Middle Ages and now for caricature artists, tourists, vendors and today’s Czech Republic citizens getting to and from work.

Everything is blackened—oxidized with age. Because Prague didn’t need to be rebuilt after the World Wars, the city is like a living museum and Rosie and I become aware that we are experiencing life in the thirteenth and fourteenth century, and earlier. I can imagine a girl my age on a hot summer day in scratchy muslin batting flies and preparing pork and root vegetables for an evening meal. Modern life seems strangely separate.

Awestruck, we tour Prague Castle, medieval in every way, and follow this by an exploration of a Byzantine chapel which makes the medieval castle look advanced and developed by contrast. It is here in a structure made by thick stone walls built, undoubtedly, by late Roman citizens that the true perspective offered by travel dawns upon us. Not only is this chapel a retreat from the heat of the day but it brings the reflection that human experience, even in the eight century, was similar in so many ways to the life I lead. People had need of shelter, of food, of friendship, of ideas, which for them were given out in small doses by ecclesiastical leaders. Here I realize that the sweep of human experience is really made up of simple individuals, really no different than I, solving everyday problems with shared light.

We complete our exploration for the day and I begin to grasp the wonder of Prague with its link to the past and its lesson that today requires energy and beauty no different from the builders and worshipers in the Byzantine chapel. Despite grit, dust, grime, crowds, hot streets, tired feet, shockingly many beggars huddled in masses on doorsteps, in the buses, and outside tourist attractions, Prague is striking. It preserves the authenticity of Europe before the wars, the routines and rituals of another era, to say nothing of the smells of daily life from foods prepared in old, classic ways, the sounds of footfall on cobblestone, and the endless ordering of church bells every three hours. Prague is living history.