And then

the cold that had been stalking me since the plane trip caught me. Exhausted as I was, I got almost no sleep. But there was a city to see, likely my only chance, and only two days to see it, so I dragged myself out of bed (lots of eyedrops, lots of cold water) and to the little market, for fruit, yogurt, some bread. An Indian couple had spent the night in the flat’s other bedroom, as Marushka had alerted me; I glimpsed only the wife, briefly, and said good morning. In just a few blocks of weaving through a neighborhood of mainly old apartment buildings, I continued to be amazed at the gorgeous—often dilapidated, now, or painted over, boarded up, otherwise neglected (in contrast to my own little street, where they were all in good repair), but once works of art—facades of buildings along the way. After a makeshift breakfast I spent a little time cramming a refresher on “what to see” into my head and bleary eyes, carefully stashed the map portions of the guidebooks into my purse, and heaved myself (locking four doors behind me yet again) out into Prague.

My first goal was Wenceslas Square (Václavské náměstí), for all the history that has unfolded there just in my own lifetime, let alone its place in Czech history generally and in daily life in Prague. Assuming if I kept heading in that direction (north and east, for me) I couldn’t miss it, I walked and walked. After a while—a while of constant fascination with the Prague tram cars, with bakeries and restaurants, shops and the architecture, the sensory overload of curiosity and interest assailing me on every side, while trying not to get (too) lost or run over by some vehicle while gawking (it was a Saturday morning, which helped in that regard), I saw what appeared to be one of the covered shopping passageways and ducked into it to have a look.

By sheer serendipity, it turned out to be the very one I’d read about, the Lucerna, actually linked to others of these old arcades in an extended labyrinth. It became part of my mantra-lament, “I wish I had more time.” The passage is ornate, fascinating, and I could stay only a very short while—but at least I got to see one of David Czerny’s best-known strange sculptures, “Horse,” which pokes fun at the famous St. Wenceslas statue in Wenceslas Square. And simultaneously (because they were standing right under the hanging statue) to hear a traditional Czech band, in costume, playing for Saturday morning shoppers.

Back out in the cool late morning, it wasn’t much longer before suddenly, I was there, emerging from the side street into the square. It is not, of course, a “square” in any geometrical sense, being a long stretch of cobblestone between busy streets. The sidewalks were crowded with shoppers and tourists. I made my way gradually to the upper end, where the square culminates in the actual Wenceslas statue and, across a busy street, the National Museum. In the seated comfort of Afterward, I can learn of the museum’s long history and significance to Czech identity, let alone damage done to the physical building (not its collections; they’d been moved) by World War II bombs, Soviet troops in 1968, the construction of the Prague Metro, and not least by those aforementioned “busy streets,” the North-South Highway. At the time, I was just aware of the imposing old building, having to wait to cross from the square to it, and then, having climbed the steps to get a better view back at all of Wenceslas Square, of the fact that the museum is closed. Both signs at the entrance and a handbill a woman thrust at me announced that it is about to undergo long, extensive renovations. Its collections have been temporarily moved across the highway to one side, to a very modern building that once housed Voice of America headquarters.

And lo

And lo, she went forth into central Europe, via the Métro and train from Gare du Nord and Charles de Gaulle airport, after one night in (as a certain daughter once described a similar establishment in Montmartre) “a sliver of an apartment” (truly, it barely qualified as a room, much less an apartment) off Place Pigalle: seventh floor, toilet up the hall, but equipped with cookware and toiletries and TV and wifi—finally, after much arguing with my computer and the proprietor actually coming back and also trying, also in vain, to establish the connection. Dinner I obtained in a restaurant/bar around the corner, nothing exceptional except the interminable waits for the waiter to reappear, when he would again be all flirtatious and solicitous as if he hadn’t ignored me completely for twenty minutes or more.

I’d spent most of the day going out to Giverny, which even a little past its peak (the garden, I mean) was still beautiful in its fall colors and late roses. I would love to see it again in spring, when the wisteria all over the bridges is in bloom. Or anytime, really. You certainly get the sense (or at least this country girl did; my London seatmate on the bus from the train station in Vernon looked rather blank when I mentioned it) of how out in the country Giverny really was when Monet bought his farm, though now of course the whole area is built up (and what a favor Monet did that little village, a gift in perpetuity, because it seems to make its entire living off his legacy). Monet’s own original paint colors inside the house are brilliant, too. When I got to the happy yellow and white dining room I had to ask the attendant whether they were indeed the originals, to which she replied yes. It’s a room full of sunlight no matter what the weather.

So I was tired and thinking ahead to the getting up and on my way to the airport, and hot water in the shower (or anywhere) would have been nice, but for some reason it was all gone at 11:00 P.M. or so.

Terminal 3 is sort of the boonies of CDG, via a long outdoor stroll, and yet huge and packed once you get there. For once I’d allowed such ample time that I had it to kill before a counter even opened up for the flight (which counter in particular kept changing). At one point two (to my creaky eyes) rather young teachers, herding a large number of very young American teenagers, came in and said group began milling (noisily, of course) near me. As I finally moved on to check in, I did tell one man he was either very brave or totally insane. For an instant he dropped his calm supervisory mode to grimace and nod.

The flight to Prague was uneventful, my seatmates a couple of women from San Francisco, one doing Sudoku the whole time, the nearer one the organizer. Alarmingly organized; I began worrying I hadn’t done nearly enough homework when she commenced showing me the maps of Paris and Prague she’d downloaded in advance onto her tablet. I’d thought I was being anal-retentive enough.

From the Prague airport I took the bus, then the metro, into the city. From the stop I’d deduced was closest, Karlovo náměstí, or Charles Park, I found my building all by myself (finally carrying my rolling bag because the cobblestones—not just the streets, but the sidewalks, many of them, are cobbled. The sidewalk cobblestones are smaller, usually arranged in intricate patterns with light and dark stones—were so hard on the wheels). And then—nothing. No answer to the doorbell. No answer to repeated phone calls (a message, in fact, telling me the call could not be completed). It had rained a little earlier and a chilly, damp evening was rapidly closing in. I waited. I tried calling some more. There were additional phone numbers in the instructions the owner had sent, repeatedly admonishing that these were never to be called unless she was away, out of town. After half an hour or so I didn’t care, and called one of them. And—guess what? she was out of town. In India. With no notice (to me) at all.

Soooo . . . eventually Marushka showed up, who speaks a little English, to let me in and get me situated. She was a great help, actually, providing information about the location of a close-by restaurant and the nearest market. The apartment is an old, high-ceilinged one, accessed by the use of four (4!) separate keys: the outer door, an iron grille in the outer hall, a metal door to the apartment’s own little vestibule (with mysterious small doors opening off it I never learned the identity of), and then the apartment itself. My room was large, permeated with the owner’s love affair with India and general New Age persona. All the large casement windows are built with inner and outer layers that open separately, a sharp reminder of how cold winters must be.

After she’d departed, and once I’d freshened up just a bit, tired as I was I thought I’d at least take a little walk, get a jump on seeing Prague even though I’d lost the bit of daylight I’d had when I first arrived. The river—I thought I could at least walk along the Vltava a little. It didn’t take very long to get to it, and in the dark it was mysterious and beautiful. There was the massive domed tower right on its bank (that was only ever a water tower for a mill long ago, apparently, but so imposing I imprinted it as a landmark to find my way back). There was the castle side, the “Lesser Town” and Malostranska in the distance, twinkling with habitation and business; there was Slavonic Island in the river itself close by, covered with trees and unidentified buildings. I walked along until I reached, across the street from me, a magnificent old building (1883), the National Theater, I later determined. I was just then thinking I’d walked far enough, tired and hungry (not having had a real meal all day). As it happened, once I’d crossed the street, across the side street from the theater was a large restaurant, that looked fancier than I usually allow myself, but on the spur of the moment I thought what the hell, and went in. Since I hadn’t had a chance yet to acquire any Czech korunas, I did ask whether they accepted credit cards—they did—and promptly I was seated on an upper level that is the non-smoking section. And we were off.

This place, the Kavarna Slavia, also after the fact I learned is a famous old restaurant, in the way that I suppose, say, Sardi’s in New York was, where theater people and performing artists hung out. Lonely Planet sniffs that it’s living on its former glory, but to me it still seemed full and lively, noisy and excited, someone was playing piano on the lower level, the walls are covered with photos of famous people (Vaclav Havel the only one I recognized, actually)—and the clincher: the food was very good. I had chicken with gnocchi in a paprika (anticipating Hungary!) sauce, with, of course, a big Central European dollop of sour cream. I gave it my best shot, and it was delicious, but in the end I couldn’t quite finish it. Not until later (again) did I check what 274 CZK worked out to in USD—and was amazed and delighted to discover it was only $12.95.