Yesterday

I went to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Though the dry museum air only irritated the scratchy throat I've got, I wanted to make some headway on a research paper. It is (or will be) a critical look at how African art in the MFA is presented  in comparison to how the Western art is presented. So I stood, squatted, knelt before the objects and texts of the Art of Africa room taking notes for about an hour. The woman guard on duty tracked me, lingering behind me in suspicion.

(Pause to consider:  Why was I so suspicious for taking time?  Because museum visitors usually don't.  I usually don't.)

I didn't get all I wanted out of the room (yet) but you can only hover in one place irritating one person for so long. I explored the rest of the museum, without real direction, but made a point to visit some Egyptian rooms because, hey, Egypt is a part of Africa, but, hey, not really, according to the MFA's floor plans/visitor paths.

Anyway, I tried to take a look at a range of the rooms. But I got scared. And not even in the dark basement rooms with the actual mummies where people should get scared. Because those rooms were populated, because they're dark and intriguing and showcase death. I got scared in the doorway of a well-lit, light-walled, second floor room because it was empty. And I attribute it (along with certain series of nightmares) to this:

Of course the mummy didn't answer Bert's questions;  Delaware and bicycles didn't exist B.C. And you can't deny that that rendition of 'Rubber Ducky' is particularly haunting.  I usually identify with Bert, but it seems I'm stuck as Ernie in terms of Egypt.

Perhaps next museum day, more bravery.

Living Freer

Or living more free? More freely? Living free more?

The matter of which is correct is a small one compared to the new Live Free legislation that was signed by Governor Lynch today.

If the Old Man of the Mountain were still with us today, I'm sure he'd give a great gaze of approval down his old nose of granite.

Back in the Familiar Vineyard

While I still have yet to replace all my European cards with my American ones (Charlie card, Bull Moose Musiccard, etc.), I have to admit that my UNH library card was snuggled into my wallet the day after I got back. Nerdy as it may be, it is such a good library, and I'd missed a decent selection of English reading. I just finished Thomas Wolfe's beast of a book, You Can't Go Home Again, last night. [See quotation that makes up the previous post.] My mum was concerned when she first saw the title, thinking it some result of reverse culture shock or your garden variety Garden State young adult angst.

Truth is, the "reverse culture shock" I experienced was minimal, if at all existent. And truth is, that was kind of disappointing. There's the obviously painful nature of the idea that "you can't go home again," but there's also, I think, something validating about that feeling. It's evidence that you've gone somewhere and done some things (apart from take more photographs of Europe's most photographed sites).

Interestingly, one of the last books of the novel dealt with the protagonist's time in Germany and the onset of World War II--issues that preoccupied a good deal of my semester abroad. Without really knowing it, I chose a very appropriate read to start the summer (after Ray Bradbury's more breezy Dandelion Wine). That "you can't go home again" is right, even if only in the smallest of senses sometimes. To finish the post (but not the pondering!), one more passage from the book. (Please excuse the angst that I'm indulging in.)

"It seemed that he had known it forever, and he felt as he always did when he left a city--a sense of sorrow and regret, of poignant unfulfillment, a sense that here were people he could have known, friends he could have had, all lost now, fading, slipping from his grasp, as the inexorable moment of the departing hour drew near."

(Below find a much more upbeat summertime mix that you can listen to if you so please!)

You Can't Go Home Again

"...And at the end of it he knew, and with the knowledge came the definite sense of new direction toward which he had long been groping, that the dark ancestral cave, the womb from which mankind emerged into the light, forever pulls one back--but that you can't go home again.

The phrase had many implications for him. You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing's sake, back home to aestheticism, to one's youthful idea of "the artist" and the all-sufficiency of "art" and "beauty" and "love," back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermuda, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time--back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

--Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again

Museum Manners, Part Dva

I like what this guy has to say. I just recently added "Taking pictures with cellphones" and "Taking pictures in art museums" to my list of Things I Think Are Stupid. (Yes, I do actually have a list of things I think are stupid.) Largely inspired by my visit to the Louvre on the first Sunday (read: free (read: terribly packed with tourists)) of April. I have no picture of Mona Lisa.

Please note I did not write "People who take pictures with cellphones" or "People who take pictures in art museums." If you take pictures with your cellphone and you are reading this, chances are I still want to be your friend. Also I have been guilty of both in the past (the latter more than the former). So, no offense intended.

In other news, I'M HOME! Maybe some pictures of what I have returned to are to come. Maybe this blog will die now that I'm not abroad any longer. Only time will tell.

Description of Another Struggle

It's the morning of two of my final exams and while perhaps I should be doing some last-minute reviewing, in the grand scheme of things, the fate of the Rose Art Museum at Brandeis seems more crucial. Though I think the public is helpless in this situation, it's still an important issue to be aware of. In this time of recession, the University is planning action to sell most of the museum's collection to ease financial hurt.

Read this interview in two parts--Part One, Part Two--with the Rose Art Museum's board chairman for insight into a struggle far greater than that of my own.

And now, off to tackle the politics of Central Europe and see to the collapse of Communism. Right.

Description of a Struggle

Only a handful of days left in Prague and it is difficult and upsetting that finals are consuming my last free weekend, and not walks along the Vltava and up hills of long grass where I can read and look out over the spires and orange roofs that I'll soon jet away from. I'd love to take some final photographs and reflect and instead all I can do is think in lists. To-write, to-study, to-pack, to-purchase, to-see.

This is my (poor) description of a struggle. A quick post to put off work. Apologies for not posting well recently (to anyone who reads this thing). Finals and class and finals and a good visit from my friend Andrew and finals have taken precedence. And finals have prevented much free writing and thinking. However I've realized that, though both the title and the address of this blog are literary, and though I love those things literary, I've completely ignored the huge literary presence in my Prague life: Franz Kafka.

I'm reviewing all we've covered and I think my favorite was the first story that we read, Description of a Struggle, written before he decided to do away with the ornate in his writing. (Maybe I like it because it reminds me of Kerouac, more sentimental than the classic Kafka. Not that I don't appreciate his mature writing and love for paradox.) So let's finish with a quotation and try and ditch the struggle.

"We build useless war machines, towers, walls, curtains of silk, and we could marvel at all this a great deal if we had the time. We tremble in the balance, we don't fall, we flutter, even though we may be uglier than bats. And on a beautiful day hardly anyone can prevent us from saying: 'Oh God, today is a beautiful day.'"

...To marveling, and the summer that fast approaches!

Buckled onto Barbed Wire

This weekend Prague delivered another few days of beautiful weather for my friend Gina's visit, which was much appreciated and very, very nice. As we were wandering from the Lennon Wall along to Kampa Park and some of Černý's creepy, grounded babies we crossed over a little stream. On one side a wall came up to our middles and was lightly fenced above that with barbed wire, and on the fence were various padlocks. It reminded me a bit of something I might have seen in Postmodernism last semester, thinking on Warhol's pack-ratting, Broodthaers' Department of Eagles, accumulation, maybe some fetishism in there. (It's been awhile.) Many of the locks had couples' names or initials scratched into the surface or markered on. Maybe it's sappy, but I really liked these chains of padlocks and pairs. At least the barbed wire gives it edge.

Below, some photos. (I don't know if anyone else will enjoy them as much as I do, so, apologies.) I tried to look this up, wondering if it was a springtime tradition for Prague, but Google failed me. (Or, more likely, I failed Google.) If anyone has some insight, I'd be happy to hear it. If not, I'll just enjoy the looks of it.
...And they all lived happily ever after?

Hungary

While I should be doing schoolwork in preparation for the looming end of my semester I choose to blog. To be honest, I don't have a whole lot to say about Hungary. We spent the majority of our time (about 3 days) in Budapest, but this photo is from Szentendre, a small town about an hour outside the city. This is the town's plague column. You can find one in every Central European city or town, usually in the Baroque style and meant to commemorate the horror of the plague as well as to give a sort of thanks for its end. We've seen a ton of these columns in our travels as a group, and most are very elaborately decorated with saints, angels, etc. In addition to being a monument, then, you can also say they stand as a sort of offering or appeasement to the God (not the gods) to continue to keep the place plague-free. After seeing the impressive columns of Vienna, Prague, Bratislava, etc., a fellow student looked at this relatively barren column and noted that in this town, "they must not have been very scared of the plague." Our program director thought this was great (as all plague jokes are?). I'm also blogging for the program as a "student correspondent," so he told me, still laughing, "That should go in your blog!" Here it is. (I will tweak the entry before sending it off to him.)

The most notable of my Hungarian exploits involved traveling to a park on the outskirts of Budapest with three of my flatmates. A free afternoon on our hands, we decided to go the the park where all the communist statues from the country (I think) were collected. The whole thing turned into quite the funny fiasco. Involving multiple buses and missed stops, expired tickets, being ignored at certain stops, crossing the city border about 4 times, and ultimately traveling for 3 hours in order to get to the park half an hour before it closed. The statues were cool. My camera battery was dead.

(A story better lived than read, as most are. We were all in that funny hysterical state that arises when things go awry like that. It made Hungary more fun.)

Now, back to the chores I should complete before I get to play hostess tomorrow. Gina, hurry up and get here!

Before Budapest

Post-crazy in Prague today, I guess... Here are a few springtime images of the city before I leave for the weekend to Budapest.


Cemetery detail, view of the Vltava from Vyšehrad, Prague Castle from Petřín (my new favorite spot), a statue around Old Town, the John Lennon Wall.

Well wishes for your weekend!

Lidice

While other small towns in the Czech Republic were experiencing the playful Pagan tradition, we were in a small town whose history was anything but playful. In fact, its past is so tragic that it largely doesn't exist anymore, and I feel wrong for even using the word "playful" in this post.

Lidice was a town that Hitler chose to destroy in reaction to the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich. The town was ravaged, all the men lined against a farmhouse wall and shot, while the women and children were sent to concentration camps.

Where a community complete with church and school once was now lies only grass and a few stone foundations. Donations were taken from all over the world to rebuild the town, in a space slightly removed from the former center. Walking through the 'new' town reminded me a bit of Pleasantville, or the first verse or so of Malvina Reylnolds' Little Boxes. Rows of little houses, somewhat crowded, a few people spotted on their lawns or in patio chairs, all begging the question that we asked ourselves when we walked the streets of Terezín: Who would live here?

What compels people to (re)start lives and raise families in places so dark? To try and heal the place, the community? To demonstrate a certain strength? That though everything here was destroyed, whether it belonged to them before or not, they can progress, maybe thrive? Build something positive?

Why do people persist in the towns of tragedies?

Easter

I spent a solo Easter Sunday this year, which was fine by me. Setting off to seek trees, grass, and sun I noticed that my street seemed extra quiet. I chalked it up to Easter, and figured the city would be relatively still. Some small shops on my way to Wenceslas Square were closed, but one of the main groceries was still open and I was able to pick up some snacks for my day.

When I hit the square, though, I realized that Easter would not prevent Praguers from passing the day out and about, or tourists from crowding for the (admittedly underwhelming) hourly performance of the astronomical clock. I was surprised that the Easter market was still open as well. Shouldn't it close by Easter?

Then I remembered that Czech Republic is one of the least religious countries. My maybe silly ideas of families gathering for an indoor rest from sidewalks and shopping started to dissolve. Perhaps it was the overwhelming, several-weeks-long presence of the Easter market that spans from the bottom of Wenceslas Square to Old Town Square. Perhaps it was the displays of foil-wrapped chocolate bunnies that dominate supermarket shopfronts (reminding me of home). Prague had me convinced that Easter was a bigger deal. Either way, it was more relaxed than I'd imagined.

Maybe the Czechs embrace Easter Monday more than they do Easter itself, practicing a Pagan tradition. Many of the market vendors sell wand-like whips, made of branches braided together and ending in an explosion of colorful streamers. Men are supposed to buy these, then chase and whip women on Easter Monday. For fertility, they say. The vendors also sell pretty painted eggs. Women are supposed to buy these as rewards for the men that whip them. An alternative gift from the women is a shot of alcohol (Becherovka, Czech Republic's national liquor or something, I am assuming). Also, women can splash the offenders with water. (This option seems most fair to me.)

Though this stuff was being sold everywhere in Prague, our professors assured us that we wouldn't be chased with these whip-wands by Czech men down Wenceslas Square. However, these traditions are still, apparently, in practice in smaller towns and villages. Though we did get out of the city to a smaller town for Easter, we visited Lidice, which was not exactly the spot for this merry flagellation and retaliation.

And while the feminist (?) in me gives a great big roll of the eyes to this tradition, I admit I'm disappointed that I didn't get to witness it in action. But at least I spared myself some mild pain and some crowns.

Promiňte.

Consider this my formal apology to the City of 1,000 Spires. Prague, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I've been complaining, "Everyone told me it's supposed to be the most beautiful city; I just don't get it."

I'm sorry with all your rain and clouds negative feelings toward you had fermented.

I'm sorry that I doubted you. You are beautiful.

Obscurity in Artistry

Obscurity, in both senses.

The warm April that's got plants and good moods springing up everywhere has cloaked it for the past week or so, but I was reminded today with a visit to the National Gallery's Fair Trade Palace.

Not only does a dark current of history pulse through the Vltava and the territories it touches, but much of it goes underexposed. How many Czech figures can you name? Three months ago, the only name I could drop was Art Nouveau's darling Alfons Mucha. And let's face it -- his popularity was born out of his success in Paris.

Today we saw a collection of František Kupka's work, including his Amorpha: Fugue in Two Colors, the first abstract painting ever presented to the public. (Who would have guessed it?) I don't care much for it visually so chose his Piano Keyboard/Lake to illustrate this post instead. Here you can see a snapshot in his shift from naturalistic to abstracted depictions. And a defining moment in art history that I'm willing to bet goes unnoticed in your typical art historical education. An ignorance, at least in my course of study, that permeates the greater Western education.

The Czechs' obscurity continues to be compounded by their Central (and sometimes even Eastern) European status. I don't know how much light can be shed, but I'm glad the April sun has lifted the veil at least for me. Maybe the warmest Prague spring (points for unintentional historical reference!) in half a decade will bring some new life to Czech scholarship?

Here's to hoping, here's to sunlight, and here's to you, František Kupka.

Pařiž

I have now known Paris in April, if only for a couple of days. This weekend I took the short plane ride to visit some friends from Tufts who are studying in Paris for the semester. And it was a beautiful weekend to visit a beautiful city -- arguably the best weather I've seen all semester.

It's funny that Paris is actually geographically smaller than Prague because it felt so much bigger. Perhaps it is because there is more to see in Paris. Perhaps it's because all of Prague's sights are rather concentrated. Perhaps it's a matter of my familiarity with the cities. Whatever the size, I was lucky to see a lot. I was sure to visit the Louvre, and perhaps before going had had more ambitious museum plans (being myself), but easily, gladly abandoned them. Instead I walked around with my friends lots. Growing blisters walking the dusty garden paths in good company was a much happier way to spend my couple of days than shuffling quiet marble floors from one Impressionist painting to another.

A weekend of sunny conversation in the Luxembourg garden, being surrounded by French (a language much prettier than Czech, and a touch easier to latch on to), sitting in the grass by the Eiffel Tower, being treated to a canal-side bottle of Bordeaux, and eating Parisian crepes was exactly what I needed. I got to see Paris and people I know and the streets and park chairs in which my friends spend their days. I was sad to go after such a short time but glad I'd had what I did.

Luckily Prague welcomed me back with a couple of seventy-degree (I still refuse to use or understand Celsius, I guess) days that coat the cobblestones in sun. I'd been doubting its reputation of beauty of late, but it's probably been the months of sour weather. With some sun in the sky and some buds on the trees things are looking brighter. I'll be able to stray from my more well-traveled paths and enjoy the City of a Thousand Spires. But I am glad to have kicked off my spring in Paris.

Brobama in Bohemia

As I leave for the weekend, Prague shuts down. It could be that Prague holds the seat of the EU presidency, currently, and Obama is to make his first speech in Europe as president. All of the American students I'm here with are enthused to get up early and hike it to the castle for our president's public speech. The Czech professors and students seem less eager, stating that "it will be on TV." Fair enough. Glad I am missing the security and closings-off and crowds, disappointed I'll be missing the speech, but quite looking forward to my weekend. I can always catch Obama stateside.

Some more detailed links if any are interested:

Prague Prepares for Obama Visit

Want to see Obama? Get up early and bring nothing

Barack Obama's Prague Trip News

Dobrou noc.

Vienna

The place where I felt sure I was no longer in the Czech Republic, the destination I'd been looking forward to for a very long time.

Vienna felt much more metropolitan, much more Western. (Better shopping, lolz!) The art history was what held my interest (no way!), as Gustav Klimt lived and worked and created and started things in that city. To the right, the Secession building, home to the movement Klimt was a founder of, housing his Beethoven Frieze (which our tour guide tried to tell me wasn't there, the dolt). I visited two museums with Klimt's work with others, then when nobody wanted to see him I set off on my own to find two more I knew of. I didn't get to it all (there was not enough time) but was happy that Vienna was relatively easy to navigate and that I had independent museum time with the art and artist I'd looked and thought and written about so much.

Vienna was also a beautiful city (lots of white and gold, it seemed) and the weather was beautiful as well (excepting a couple sudden bouts of hail). It had a more open, organized feel than Prague, which I liked, but it was such a comfort to return to the more cramped winding streets.

Strange that it was comforting to return to a place where I cannot understand ninety-nine percent of what is said or written around me. The traveling made me realize how widespread English is, and you can get by on that if you really need to. But numbers are the same, visual language is largely the same (though if you're getting deeper, learned meanings might differ), sometimes gestures can suffice, and that's what I had to rely on what little time I spent in Austria and Slovakia. And actually what I have to rely on a lot of the time here -- understanding numbers and images and not much beyond.

Once more enveloped in the familiar unfamiliarity of the Czech language, in what has been my norm for the past two months, I think of how easily I'll be distracted trying to read in coffee shops at home this summer, how annoyed I'll get at stupid things people say, what snickers I might get from the overheard English conversations that will welcome me back. There are many things I've known I've missed, but I didn't realize till now that eavesdropping is one of them. For now, I'll be good and abstain (I have to) and rely on people-watching, but listening in on others is one more pleasure I can look forward to upon my return.

Bratislava

Truth: This is not Bratislava. This is NATURE. I believe we saw it on our way to Bratislava. (I could well be wrong.) Not true nature, rather man-made. An English garden built out of bog and romanticism. Either way, I'll take it.

We strolled in the sun (some without coats!) and a few climbed to the top of a minaret erected to agitate surrounding Christians and that is where I found this view.

In Bratislava we stayed in a botel (boat + hotel, pure class) on the Danube and had a brief tour. Though the Czech Republic and Slovakia were once the same country(in a sense), you could feel a difference with currency and discrepancies in language (apparently the Czechs and the Slovaks can understand each other, but the language is not the same; I can understand neither). I wish I had seen more of how much these countries share and how much they distinguish themselves from each other.

Brno

Truth: Brno (the capital of Moravia) was nothing special. Its good points: it is on the crown (not the euro, thank God), and it is a good place from which to embark on many day trips.

To the right, a photograph from the Jewish cemetery in a town whose name I don't remember. Most of the stones were from the nineteenth century on. The town was sunny and quaint, with winding streets that had our guide walking in circles (he was not very competent or well-liked). We saw some castles, palaces, and caves.

During our stay we also visited the museum of Roma history and culture. "Roma" is the politically correct (...as far as I can tell) term for "gypsy." There's a good deal of prejudice against the Roma. The museum visit illustrated the persecution the Roma suffered during WWII. With my terrible history education (probably largely my own fault) I always think of the Jews as target group, but my time here (with visits to Dresden, Terezín, and Moravia) has reminded me that others suffered greatly, too. At the museum they actually had us do an activity that was perhaps childish but really underlined a lot of what I've been thinking about this whole semester: what would I have done if I were living here about 65 years ago? How far would I go to protect my family? Would I have done right? What was right? No answers, just questions.

Back in Bohemia

More about my trip to Moravia, Slovakia, and Austria a little later on in the week. For now, some illustrations. (Castle from Slovakia, I think. A few from Vienna.)

Commentary to come!

Nashle, Praha

A few favorite photos from Prague before I stuff my backpack and bus it to Brno, Bratislava, and Vienna.


Ahoj, Bohemia, until next Thursday.

Let there be light.

Today I walked around for quite a long time. It started out cloudy but ended with sun, and so was pleasant. Before heading away from the river toward the center of New Town I got a picture of this piece I'd been intrigued by since the first week I got here. It's part of a project focusing on "light art" (your guess is as good as mine) called Transparency in celebration of the Czech Republic's EU Presidency which will last until the end of June. I think I have missed a couple of Transparency installments already, but am going to do a little research and try and visit other light art. Having passed this on many a cloudy day, the glow it had in the springy sunlight was something new, illuminating this fractured figure, and entirely welcome. I can't wait for more light (art) in the days to come.

Bohemian Bones

Sunday was our mandatory day trip to Kutna Hora, a town about an hour's drive from Praha, known for its importance and affluence while its silver mines were prosperous. We visited St. Barbara's Church. It had some still in-tact Gothic frescoes, which was cool to see. We covered the few sights the town offered on a cold day. The best was the Sedlec Ossuary.

About 40,000 people were buried in the spot where church construction was supposed to take place. Naturally, they dug up all the skeletons. This was in the early 1500s and the bones were stored in the chapel where they are found today. But it was not until 1870 that a single man was put to the task to arrange the remains.

The result? Vaulted ceilings laced with chains of dangling bones, a chandelier featuring every bone of the human body, a coat of arms constructed of -- guess what? -- bones. Pyramids of bones, stacks of skulls. (I wish there were synonym of "bone" I could employ here.) Impressive, creepy, meant to remind us, as my professor told us, what we are now, they once were, and what they are now, we shall become. Morbidity entwined in the artistry. Or maybe the other way around.

Terezín

This past Sunday I was lucky enough to snag a last minute spot on a group trip to Terezín. Terezín was built as a fortress in 1780. It held Franz Ferdinand's assassin, Gavrilo Prinzip, earlier in the 20th century. In the World War II period, it served as a concentration camp, while its Small Fortress was a work camp for prisoners of war. The concentration camp was not an execution camp, however tens of thousands died there from the terrible conditions. Hundreds of thousands passed through Terezín, and relatively few survived. The guide for the Jewish Studies group from my program had not only survived Terezín but had escaped Auschwitz four times. I only got to hear him speak on the bus rides there and back, but it was awe-inspiring just to be in his presence for a bit, really.

Terezín's role in the Nazi campaign and propaganda is particularly fascinating. It was essentially known as the town that Hitler 'gave' to the Jews. Cultural figures--actors, artists, musicians, etc.--were kept in Terezín to create the appearance of a community creating and thriving. When the International Red Cross caught wind that Terezín might not actually be so swell, they scheduled a visit. The Nazis pulled the wool over the eyes of the Red Cross by spiffing up some buildings, scripting some Nazi-Jew encounters, and making Terezín appear much better cared for and quaint by driving around in circles. It is really astonishing how much the Nazis were able to get away with--convincing international authorities that hundreds, rather than tens of thousands, were absolutely walled in.

In a way, Terezín was quite desolately beautiful. The green-brown grass glowed against the grey of the sky and the red of the endless walls. It was difficult to imagine the atrocities committed there, and the terror that circulated through the brick corridors constantly. And, really, such a short time ago.

Doom and Gloom: The Good King's Dead Horses

Today I woke up and it was rainy and grey. SURPRISE. A New England native and born moper, I appreciate a cloudy day or two or five. But this month with all its cold and wet bearing down from above has grown a bit tiresome. Still, I suppose it's the essence of Prague. So late this afternoon I decided to embrace my sour mood as a celebration of the city, buttoned up my grey (of course) coat, donned my rickety headphones, and made a grocery run all the darker by searching out another Černý.

Above, Wenceslas (whom I pass every day) heading Wenceslas Square (really more of a rectangle, and horse market of old). Most know Wenceslas as the "Good King." He was never a king. He was Duke of Bohemia, and is patron saint of CZ.

Below, Černý's interpretation. Wenceslas straddling a horse hung upside down, dead with lolling tongue. Its gloom reigns and rains from on high, and makes for an interesting juxtaposition with the shiny shopping area it haunts. Once more I've got to gawk up at Černý's dominant work. A fitting sight for a dreary Prague day.

CLICK IT OR TICKET

As notified by Gaia, New Hampshire might not be as liberal as the Czechs think.

Live Free Or Wear Seat Belts?

Christopher Robin went down with Alice

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
"Do you think the King knows all about me?"
"Sure to, dear, but it's time for tea,"

Says Alice.

The lines of this childhood A. A. Milne poem (and thankfully not the illustration to his Brownie) ran through and through my head yesterday afternoon on my way back from the Sternberg Palace. It was no Buckingham Palace, to be sure. (It houses the National Gallery of Prague's Collection of Old Masters. Not my favorite stuff, but a fine way to spend a Friday afternoon.) But I did catch the Changing of the Guard at Prague Castle.

Growing up seeing movies or television shows or whatever depicting the Guard at Buckingham Palace, reading about their rigidity, lines like "A soldier's life is terrible hard," had me prepared to see a brief and sober ceremony. But for the guards last afternoon, none of that old-fashioned stoicism! There were two guards coming and two guards going, and three of the four were smirking. Almost as if they were holding back a guffaw. One, once he arrived at his post, even cocked his head with a half grin at some squawking teenage British girl tourists.

I know I read something of the Changing of the Guard at Prague Castle, but I can't seem to remember the details. The tradition, I believe, was modeled after that of Britain, and therefore is less historically or culturally important, in a way. However, I don't believe the guards are supposed to be catering to tourist cameras. As surprised as I was, it was refreshing to know that a few of these cranky Czech people could take even the Changing of the Guard at Prague Castle lightly. And after having a small chuckle and gathering a few snowflakes in my hair, it was time for tea.

Pet Peeve

(As you might have been able to tell, not alliteration.)

When people get all up in my grill at museums.

I love museums. Some find them static. I just find myself getting worked up (in a good way). Unless the people around me have bad museum manners.

Bad museum manners are often born out of wanting to have good museum manners. If you're exploring marble hall after marble hall, you don't want to lose your cultured companion. You can't rely on a cell phone to reunite you. Cell phones are very bad for museum manners. (Duh.) So you stick close. Too close.

There's also the dilemma of how much time to spend at which works. You don't want your cultured companion(s) to think you unappreciative of art, historical documents, old buildings. Solution: Lurk slightly behind, tuning in to how interested they are. Keep them in your peripheral vision, so you know when you can move on (not too quickly or obviously after they have). To appear learned, be sure to give more time to the works by famous artists (Caitlin's default museum = art museum). To appear alternative, pay attention to the obscure.

It seems to me that this self-conscious tagging-along method of museum-going happens most often when you're with people you don't know super well. It's awkward, and irritating. Class visits to museums can, if you're not with the right class, be exponentially more frustrating. They breed a chain of shuffling and breathing down necks to read the next plaque on the wall.

Today for my Art in Czech Lands class, we visited the Stone Bell House, a part of the City Gallery of Prague. The professor spoke which was fine because I love him and he gave us some context (which may or may not be all that important, but that is a discussion for another time). But of course, silly museum group dynamics ensued. Some people comment just to comment. Some speak just to appear arty and wise. Etc.

Even so, it was very cool. The building was in many ways still authentically Gothic (rare). And the exhibition we saw was from the Prinzhorn Collection. The works were all done by 'the mentally ill,' and were absolutely fascinating. I would say more about them, but I need a revisit, and, being visual works of art, they largely speak for themselves. [See above: Bitten by Johann Knopf.]

So please don't drown them out; don't speak for the paint, the pottery, with a lean, a thoughtful frown, an artistic vocabulary. Just let them state their own cases. Just let me look. Mind your museum manners.

Dresden, Saint Valentine's Day, Allied Bomb Holocaust

This morning I hopped a cheap train with a couple of kids from my program for a day trip to Dresden, Germany. Heading there, we didn't know that what we recognize as Valentine's Day, the citizens of Germany remember as the anniversary of the Allied bombing of the city. From what I gather, it is a day of national remembrance for all. But national remembrance means different things to different people.

Getting off at the Dresden station, we noticed an unusual number and variety of "polizei." We had arrived just in time for a Neo-Nazi march. Seriously. It was a repulsive, compelling, fascinating spot to be in. I've never witnessed any demonstration before. And it is just amazing that Neo-Nazism is actually alive, active. There was also, of course, a gathering to counter the Neo-Nazis. It was very difficult to tell who stood for what, though. Everyone was speaking in German. Virtually everybody was wearing black.


The wind carried the sounds of helicopters, chants, the rock tunes of a band playing against Neo-Nazism. I saw more police than I have ever seen in my life. (And I thought the Czech police were plentiful.) It is so fresh and was so outrageous that it is extremely surreal to me. But at the same time hauntingly and sickeningly powerful.

[A lighter side note: We stopped into the Staatliche Kunstammlungen Dresden art museum (to escape the cold, and being hounded by police), and got to see some great works from Titian, Rubens, Vermeer. Though it's not the kind of work that usually gets me going, the museum is home to Raphael's Sistine Madonna, and it was a really lovely piece to see.]


I am still trying to process this cold, long day. I don't really have much to say about it; I'm in awe. But it was an experience that I could not have had anywhere else. I truly, I guess, experienced the culture of the place that I was in, firsthand. I feel like I've been lacking that a bit in my abroad experience so far, and it's strange that a Neo-Nazi march was what brought on a feeling of "authenticity," or something. But as horrifying as it was, it was also extremely valuable, I think, in ways I cannot even consider at present.

News story about the day.

Zoinks!: Žižkov Television Tower

Today I took the time to do a little bit of wandering. Not as much as I had hoped to, but I can now cross off one of my weekend to-do items: Find creepy tower babies.

This may seem strange. (It was.) Those who know me can say that I don't like those things creepy, and sometimes I don't even like babies. (Though I am growing to. Somehow every little one I see here is adorable, and quiet.) But I do like art. So I took a not-so-long walk down to the Žižkov Television Tower where David Černý installed slot-faced, disturbing, larger-than-life baby sculptures crawling up and down the sides. They were meant to be temporary, but people liked them so much that they were made permanent. Weird, when you first consider it. But then, why not add some art to an ugly structure?

The area wasn't the nicest, and the shiny silvery tower based in cement made for a strange juxtaposition with an old cemetery just a few paces away, but Černý is perhaps Prague's most famous (and controversial) artist and this work is worth the short walk and hopefully any nightmares that will ensue.

Stay tuned as I seek out his four or five other sculptures of note that are scattered about the city! They are curious, to say the least.

Seat Belts and Southern Bohemia

Toward the end of last week I met a friend of one of the Czech girls who lives with us. He asked me from where in the States I came. When I answered "New Hampshire," I was surprised to get an emphatic nod and "Ah, the very liberal state!" Because we don't have to buckle our seat belts. (A stupid law, admittedly, but you can't truly be living free if you are strapped into a car. Come on.)

It was a couple of days later that the whole program rode to Český Krumlov for an overnight stay. The weather was great for a sleepy bus ride -- grey skies and slush falling -- but not ideal for touring the small, medieval town. We arrived in our pensions, then had a tour of the castle. Though it kept us dry, the castle's interior was even more chill than the air outside. It was hard for me to untense my cold, damp shoulders enough to really appreciate the building through which I was walking. But it really was cool -- some (very extravagantly decorated) few hundred rooms, including a private Baroque theater and personal chapels hidden in the walls.

The next day was a little more comfortable walking around. There was actually SUN for a couple of hours. (Very rare in Czech Februaries.) However, there wasn't much of anything to do. I was excited to check out the Egon Schiele Art Center. Apparently he was born in Český Krumlov. Schiele was a German Expressionist who worked roughly around the same time as Klimt. Much grotesque yet compelling self-portraiture. The center is closed until March as they install new exhibitions. Bugger.

Next up was the "Fairy Tale House," which was actually a (very, very creepy) puppet museum. Okay.

Really, it was a day of wandering and killing time. Relieving to wander down small streets, see ducks, not have to dart through crowds in the square, walk to walk, without fear of pickpocketing. On the bus ride home I saw deer and hawks in the Bohemian fields and thought of home and how much I love it. Madbury is certainly without many things -- pubs, museums, sidewalks to name a few -- but I am so glad to have my spot in "the very liberal state." I'm going to soak in all this culture while I can, but it is nice to know that when I am saturated with city and return home it will be to a place where I can traipse through fields and trees and beach sand; where I can walk with my bag swinging loosely from my hand, not clutched tight to my side; where I can drive -- without my seat belt.*



*Friends and family, do not fear. I always wear my seat belt.

Jsem Americanka z Praha a nemluvím český.

Another! ...though I haven't really done much of anything since my last "entry," apart from starting classes. Good news!: I can say such useful things as, "I am an American in Prague and I don't speak Czech" (see title), "Do you speak English?", "Please," "Thank you," and "ice cream" (zmrzlina. Don't tell me that is not a fun word). HOWEVER, I am too chicken to use most of them (well) yet, and really just end up mumbling them timidly. Which works, in a way, because the Czechs seem to be mumblers. But still, I'd like to be confident in thanking someone.

GOAL: Put myself in more situations in which I can use the loose grasp that I have on this crazy language and use it wholeheartedly.

I guess this "entry" (I am not liking this word, but whatever) is mostly meaningless musings that have arisen during my time here so far. Here, see some posters preaching public transportation courtesy.

One has to wonder exactly how effective these posters are. (I cannot tell as I've only ridden the tram and metro a handful of times.) Would they fly with the MBTA? I find them simultaneously repulsive and compelling. Funny, at least!

Also funny? Some food packaging. But I guess that is to be expected everywhere. My first grocery trip through Tesco (sort of like Wal-Mart here, but with really great produce) I resolved to buy food on the basis of how funny its packaging was. Then I realized I'd be stuck eating children's cereal and maybe some jogurt.

Hearing about the Czech Republic's mainly meat-and-potatoes cuisine had me a little worried but I am all set. Oatmeal, green tea, and vegetables (stirred with a knife! Oh yes!) can still be my main staples. (Because my diet is really the most interesting thing I could comment on while in Prague.) But I am going to have to go without sweet potatoes until May. I asked Martina, the Czech student who lives with us, if Czechs "did" sweet potatoes and she said no, "just LOTS of regular potatoes." Oh, well. ALSO, I haven't had peanut butter since I've gotten here. (Gasp!) It is hard to find (usually in the international section) and overpriced. Alas. I still have to ask about brown sugar, too.

Prague is also very big on dogs. The other day I saw a couple who was pushing their dog in a stroller while their toddler bumbled along ahead. There are lots of little funny things like this that I end up smiling to myself about. More will come, I'm sure, with more exploration of the city. There is more gorgeous architecture to be seen, art and history museums, street signs, billboards, cemeteries... Though I have yet to find some good graffiti. Maybe those posters are more effective than they let on.