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 Travel brochures regularly refer to Prague as one of Europe’s most charming cities. We find no reason to disagree
A janitor at the railway station was my first guide. He was followed by
a ticketing clerk and then a student from Brazil I happened to chat
with on the Metro. Together, they helped me find my hotel in a new part
of town called Vysehrad—allegedly the location of the first settlement
that later became Prague. It was no easy task, considering I had
arrived at their beautiful city a little after 11 pm. Armed with the
English language (now spoken by approximately 1.8 billion), I stood
dazed, luggage in hand, grappling with the West Slavic Czech spoken by
just about 12 million. For the first time in years, I felt unarmed. The
funny thing is, it also felt mildly liberating.
The Russian owner of my hotel was the next surprise. As I staggered
into his domain at midnight, he welcomed me with a shout. “Indian
friend, I thought you lost!” All I could do in the face of his
exuberance, despite the awkward grammar. A half -hour later, he was
complaining to me about how corrupt politicians were ruining his
country. I asked him, politely, to join the club.
Over the coming days, the list of surprises grew. Greeting people in
basic Czech got me smiles. I was stopped on the street by a couple of
strangers who had questions about India. Cobbled paths ended abruptly
with views of the ancient river Vltava, populated by swans. And despite
the fairly large number of tourists jostling for space at the more
popular attractions, I still felt my jaw drop a few times at the sheer
picture-postcard moments —featuring cathedrals, walled courtyards, and
the odd tower tipped with gold—strewn liberally throughout the
1,000-year old city.
In retrospect, I realize much of Prague’s beauty came simply from the
fact that, unlike many parts of Europe, it was relatively undamaged by
the violence of World War II. The city centre managed to astonish
tourists because it came across as an antique showpiece. It was like
walking into a museum and being confronted by regular folk in homes
that looked much like they did centuries ago. Nowhere was this more
obvious than at the Prazsky Hrad (Prague Castle) or the Karluv Most
(Charles Bridge).
Although the former was the city’s biggest attraction, it took me a
while to locate it. Its spires were visible for miles, but the streets
surrounding it held little information that could help. Eventually, all
I could do was follow a few tourists. Currently the seat of the Czech
president, the castle was formerly home to the King and was supposedly
Europe’s oldest. It looked it.
Even better, however, was the bridge —located a short picturesque walk
from the castle. Built in 1357 under the patronage of King Charles IV,
it finished crossing the Vltava only by the beginning of the fifteenth
century. Lining either side of it were baroque statues of saints. The
thing I found most interesting — leaving aside the structure’s history,
and its stunning Old Town bridge tower —was a legend that maintained
its sandstone was enriched with eggs to bind and make the stone blocks
harder. Apparently, recent laboratory tests had proved this to be true.
Thanks to the humble egg, the bridge had survived massive floods (the
last as early as 2002, which came close to destroying parts of Prague),
a 30-year war, horse carriage traffic, electric trams and modern
vehicular traffic. Now here it was, crawling with twentieth-century
tourists, populated by souvenir-sellers, popping up in music videos for
Kanye West, and making appearances in Hollywood blockbusters like s. It
was a rather strong argument for eggs.
On the day I was to leave, I walked through Vaclavske Namesti
(Wenceslas Square), the cultural heart of the city. Named after the
patron saint of Czech lands, it was a spot much loved by locals. Near a
big statue of Wenceslas on a horse is where a student called Jan Palach
set himself ablaze in 1969, protesting the Soviet occupation of
Czechoslovakia. It was a reminder of Prague’s violent communist past.
These days, the statue served as a meeting point. You could ask a
friend to wait near the horse, apparently, or ‘pod ocasem’ —under its
tail.
Later that day, after slinging my bags over my shoulder, I walked out of the Hotel
Vysehrad. “Come back soon,” my new Russian friend shouted. I nodded vigorously.
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