St Nicholas church

Prague, Day 2, Thursday

April 1, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Late start at 8, staggering from the upheaval in hours and, it must be said, my own foolishness. After nearly falling asleep the night before at 7, I decided to stay up until 10, and then kept myself awake until after 1:30 to finish the book I was reading.

Opened the window and made a sound tape of a Prague morning. Zipped up the stairs to Terasa U Zlaté studnē – the top floor restaurant with lush views and a lavish buffet. My breakfast was porridge made with cream, cinnamon sugar (my request) and ripe fruit, beautifully arranged. Shortly after I arrived the room filled up with older couples, lady foursomes, a family trio, and scowling, no nonsense businessmen. I chose a table in the farthest corner by the window and had a wonderful view of the lively April weather rolling in and out over the domes and spires of Prague. I spellchecked my blog entry and ate my gorgeous breakfast, while slugging back a double shot cappuccino.

I scampered down the hill, following Google to the Agnes Monastery and soon discovered that indeed, this city is made for walking. I crossed the Vltava River and saw the Charles Bridge across the way, packed out with a shuffling horde of tourists. I may continue to admire the bridge from afar, or get up very early to walk across it. Dawn, perhaps.

The convent art was mainly variations on the Madonna, with a few saints and disciples thrown in. Interesting for the individual artist’s interpretation of the maternal virgin:

I bought a six-palace pass. I forgot to ask for my senior discount. Dang.

By now my daughter Robin had landed and we were Whatsapp-ing. We decided to meet for lunch at Lokal. I wandered towards it, stopping in an optical shop – more tempting frames from Barcelona and Paris.

I took a card – I’ll be back. For a while I sat on a bench and sketched a statue of a winsome woman in a swirling gown holding a cornucopia on the street corner. I arrived at Lokal and sat across from this imposing fellow.

I wolfed down my sausage appetizers; three large hotdogs with mustard, rye bread and whipped cream and horseradish sauce in a gravy boat. A gracious plenty for lunch, along with a tart lemon and sparkling water drink. Robin arrived and told me the saga of her journey ( her plane was delayed, two hours sitting on the runway in Paris. Ma pauvre petite). She tucked into her own order of sausages and chicken.

Afterwards she went exploring, and I limped back to the hotel, happy as two clams. After a bit of a rest, I rallied for the 6pm oboe concert at the St Nicholas church. As urged by the fine print on the ticket we were early to claim our seats, but the church was nearly empty. The interior of the church was a visual feast.

Robin spotted a woman with a chicken by her side above the altar. The presence of a hen was puzzling, but it made a change from the plethora of putti fluttering around. The sacred decor more than enough to hold my interest, and the oboe solo was spectacular with phenomenal acoustics. Alas, more than half of the program was lugubrious and morose organ music. I was disappointed in the amount of oboe, plus the church was freezing – we could see our breaths. The evening’s concert was titled Oboe Encounters, Robin pointed out, not Basking in Oboes. I wrapped my scarf around my shoulders, pulled on my mittens and shivered. By the time the organeer played the opening notes of the closing piece, Handel’s Alleluia chorus, we were praising God we could leave and warm our numbed extremities.

More gorgeous doors on the way back, a photo op we could not resist.

Up to the room, did a bit of downloading iPhone photos via cable since the way the iCloud is doing it is slow, spotty and baffling. Robin conked out at 9 and I listened to Ludovico and wrote up today’s adventure. Tomorrow, my tour with Nina in the morning.

Prague, Day 9

April 9, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Thursday morning Robin ran out to climb more towers. I trotted up the private stair through the emperor’s garden to do the audio tour of the castle complex, then visit the Swartzenberg and Salm museums. Wandered Golden Lane, home of the original tiny house people, built as barracks for artillerymen. Now they are set up as vignettes of life back in the day; a bedroom, a pub, a kitchen, a seamstress (not the Terry Pratchet kind). It is sobering to consider that squalor, poverty, endless labor, and cramped housing were the best you could hope for if you weren’t one of the elite.

The bad old days — The olden days look better than they lived

In the not so distant past, Kafka rented one of the dank, miniscule rooms from his sister, a setting that befits his dark stories.

Stood in line and purchased an audio guide for St Vitus Cathedral. Zipped through the quickly moving lines, and skirted the eddying pool of people that stood in the entry to the side chapels. I knew I was tired when other tourists irritated the soup out of me. They wore too strong perfume, bumped me aside for their photos and pawed the ancient sculptures. I seethed, while part of me was aware that I am no better. I am just like them – another tourist that’s clogging up the holy aisles, gawking at the relics and stained glass, tramping over the graves beneath my feet. I’m sure I did some unnecessary glaring, but I didn’t accost anyone.

Have a seat — Welcome tourists. You’re next in line.

Mucha’s stained glass was gorgeous,

but my favorite thing was a tomb that was an open book, with colors from the stained glass window above playing over it.

If my reliquary making thing doesn't work out, I'd be fine with something like this. — If my reliquary making thing doesn’t work out, I’d be fine with something like this.

I watched a man cleaning a bas-relief. He used a machine that spewed something out in a controlled stream (water? steam? forced air?). He aimed the apparatus at a curve in the bas-relief and a cloud of particles surrounded his head. I wanted tap him on the shoulder and insist he wear goggles and a facemask. Safety first!

Put your mask on and don't forget your safety goggles. — Put your mask on and don’t forget your safety goggles.

That was another clear sign of my being a quart low in spiritual fitness. Mama said there’d be days like this.

Left St. Vitus and walked in a big circle, my mental compass spinning like a roulette wheel and Google maps confusing me, trying to find the Schwartzenberg museum. I ended up walking along the back of a palace. I could hear dogs barking, see some kind of terrace restaurant, and a gravel walkway with a rectangle of fir trees clipped into cones. Suddenly there is Robin! She walked around one of the trees I had been forlornly circling, trying to find my non-existent bearings.

We sat down on the terrace and ate lunch. I had a pair of sausages – grilled, with weirdly split ends – and a reviving cappuccino,

She had a hamburger and lemon-colored fries. She told me on every trip there’s an “I hate everybody” day, and this one was ours. Why that was so comforting I do not know, but it was. I ate my sausage, sipped my cappuccino and the world brightened.

Afterwards we went to the Salm Palace Museum. Meandered past paintings with occasional interesting elements – perfect eyelashes on a saccharine virgin, a gorgeously fat lizard in a floral still life.

A painting of a goldsmith with a wall of tools I recognize from metal class.

still in use today — I’ve used a saw just like this one.

I was in a room of interesting small works when I got a fraud alert text from AmEx. I called them back, conversing in whispers with someone with a strong accent I could barely understand. It was just a misunderstanding on their part, but it punched a hole in my fragile equanimity. All I wanted to do was take a nap. On my way out saw a statue that perfectly illustrated the way I felt.

Staggered back to the hotel, taking the long way because I was stupid tired. Robin bounded out to shop for tee shirts. I lay down, closed my eyes, and fell instantly to sleep.

At 6pm I hastened to St Nicholas church for the horn concert, discovered my printed out ticket was missing, ran back, found my ticket in the room, raced back to the church where the concert was in progress. Thanks to modern technology, I was able to texted Robin the situation and knew she was in the back pew. I slid in, caught my breath, and after the first flat notes knew it wasn’t going to be a sublime evening of music. But my coat was toasty warm – yay! Bring it, icy Russia. Gave up hope for a fabulous musical experience, and read a book on my iPad through the draggy organ parts. We left making jokes about the grim faced white-robed nun in the ticket office who refused to accept Robin’s iPhone ticket – ‘none of that!’ – and had to be overruled by the guard who had 21^st century email reading skills.

A lovely dinner followed, on the terrace restaurant of our hotel. Robin checked in for her flight tomorrow, and we had a last magical evening, overlooking the lights of the city of 100 spires. I climbed into bed with a sense of relief, and fell asleep while Robin was still packing her suitcase.

Monday April 11, Yusupov Palace on the Moika

April 15, 2016 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

At breakfast I edited my blog entries and set up a useful travel hack. I emailed myself exact addresses I’ll need for that day, so I can quickly copy and paste into Uber. I made sure to download that email before leaving the hotel’s Wi-Fi. The Hermitage was closed on Mondays, so I eased into the might and splendor of Imperial Russia.

I walked to St. Nicholas church, that baroque orthodox beacon of beauty with the golden domes and crosses.

As I entered, a mass was being sung a capella. I bought and lit seven slender tapers and took those moments to calm and focus my thoughts on something greater than myself. When I’m traveling, I’ll open any church door in hopes of finding art, and while I’m there, say my prayers. I lit candles for family, friends and myself. I need divine intervention to keep from being obnoxiously self-righteous when other tourists ignore the No Photographs or Video signs.

There were half a dozen ladies cleaning and dusting, policing candles, keeping a sharp eye on tourists. Women so small I could have mistaken them for children. They barely had to duck to walk under the swagged chains set up as barriers to separate the congregants from visitors. One lady in a kerchief and apron vigorously polished silver in the hall by the stairwell. Ceaseless communal effort, like devotionally inclined bees. The air smelled like honey and wax and layer upon layer of incense. Intensely sweet and spicy and musky.

The congregation stood on the other side of the chain, closer to the chanting and altar, but in no visible pattern or order. I couldn’t see any pews or chairs. During the service the priest prostrated himself many times, full length and face down on the floor. A tall, fashionable woman in jeans and boots did the same. A young woman with a toddler passed by me, ducked under the barrier chain and walked over to an icon of the virgin. She picked up her little boy and held him as he carefully lit and placed a candle in a round brass candle stand. You could see he was accustomed to having an active place in this spiritual community, one in which he was lifted, raised up, and he added to the light.

I left feeling better than when I arrived.

From there, it was an easy stroll to the Yusupov Palace. There was one line for the entry ticket, another for the coat check, a third for the audio guide, but then I was free to wander to my heart’s content. Though lady guardians firmly insisted I visit rooms in order on my first pass, they had no problem with backtracking. I noticed this in Prague too, the insistence on seeing every comer, in order. At the Yusupov I was between a large Russian tour group and Indian gay couple and an American tour group, trooping from one gorgeous, sumptuous, ornate room to the next.**

I loved the library with its secret safe that protected letters of Puskin not rubles.

{"focusMode":0,"deviceTilt":0.008337936364114285,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Pass me my Kindle and I’ll read right here.

The ballroom was empty except for a massive chandelier, but you could imagine the musicians tuning up, the swirl of skirts and dash of uniforms, the heat and chatter, the flicker and drip of dozens of candles burning over it all. Former residents were known for wealth and beauty.

I was particularly taken with the luster of pear wood furniture.

Blue bedroom to dream in.

Red room to entertain a small company of close friends.

I didn’t forget to look up.

{"focusMode":1,"deviceTilt":-0.2562002698567252,"whiteBalanceProgram":0,"macroEnabled":false,"qualityMode":3} — Above the art collection

above the basement bonus room. The one tricked out like a seraglio — Above the basement bonus room. The one tricked out like a seraglio.

While I was looking up, I heard this coming from the theater (yes, they have a theater. it’s a palace, yo.)

Lunch was at the nearby restaurant The Idiot, which takes its name from the eponymous Dostoyevsky story. Visually, it’s a worn leather book of place, stitched together from little odd shaped rooms filled with discarded Victorian furniture, dark pattered floral wallpaper, and a clutter of books, paintings and framed photographs. I ordered pumpkin soup and the server plonked down bread, cutlery, and complimentary shot of vodka. Um, nyet, I said, but complimentary tea would be welcome. I didn’t get any tea and the food wasn’t great either.

On the walk back, I noted that many bridges had their personal sphinxes and lions guardians.

I could hardly sleep for thinking about the Hermitage.

**this was before I saw the Winter Palace. Now I realize they were just making a modest effort. Though, gotta say, the Yusupov family, an older and richer dynasty than the Romanovs, had perhaps better taste. Decor shock and awe may be good political move, but it’s got to be a bitch to live with. I needed Oakleys for some of those rooms.