The golden coin was shiny once. It is tarnished now; worn
down and dirtied up by thousands of fingers rolling it around in thousands of
pockets. On one side is the great King Wenceslas astride his horse. On the
opposite side a dragon roaring into battle. The coin is worth 20 koruna, less
than one-dollar, but it looks like an old thing worth so much more.
With a flick I send the coin spinning in a golden spherical blur.
I flicked it harder than I intended. It is moving faster than I wanted. My eyes
grow huge and my breath grows short as the coin careens toward the edge of the
table. Then, impossibly, it halts its forward charge and spins in place. The
spins become wobbles—lazy arcs gaining in clarity until Wenceslas and the
dragon are once again visible. It falls and settles with a tambourine rattle—a rapid
expenditure of dying energy that shifts the coin a click too far. It tumbles
from view, over the edge. My head sinks and my roommates roar. “Mr. Jilek,”
they shout with trailing laughter. This is the name of our game. The game I
just lost.
I down my beer. It is full. This is not the first beer I’ve
downed tonight. I am having an amazing time, but I curse myself just the same
because I am convinced that this is the drink that will carry over. This is the
one that will that whisper in my ear come morning, telling me to eat everything
and do nothing.
Then again…
I wake up with cautious optimism. I feel fine. Great
actually. I wonder if it’s a gift from the gods or a sign that alcohol is still
lurking in my system, waiting to sucker punch me before it burns away. My roommate
Chris knocks on my door and asks if I want to get breakfast at Bohemia Bagel. “Absolutely,”
I say.
If it is alcohol creeping around I will wrap his smug face
in bacon. I will drown him in hot black coffee. I will suffocate him beneath
maple syrup drenched pancakes. Because, even Czech beer is powerless against
the might of American pancakes.
The breakfast is all that I had hoped it would be; two fried
eggs, sausage, bacon (cooked to perfection), two massive pancakes lathered in
butter and syrup and a bottomless mug of fresh brewed coffee. I add jalapenos
to my eggs. I have always liked spicy food, but after living in Thailand it has
become a necessary element, like a table without cutlery I don’t know how to
begin without it.
Satiated and feeling triumphant about the caloric Shock
& Awe campaign we ran against our hangovers, my roommates and I decide
to walk around Old Town Square which has recently been transformed into a
winter wonderland. Little wooden booths with red metal roofs and white Christmas
lights fill the square. At the front of the square, near the Tyn Church stands
a fully decorated tree fifty feet high. It is cold out, technically freezing.
The square is packed with people and everyone is bundled-up in winter gear;
little kids in trendy snowboarding outfits, adults in fashionable jackets and
the older generation still wearing throwback furs and Russian style winter
caps. The smell of food and warm drinks wafts from the vendor booths. There is
no plastic to be found among the trinkets and gifts, everything is handmade,
Bohemian, wonderful. Best of all the skies are blue—a bright creamy reach into
forever blue. It is the first time we have seen anything but low gray murk for
weeks. The height and curve of the sky makes us happy.
 |
| Stupidly I did not bring my camera. So, imagine this scene with really, really blue sky behind. |
Prague in winter. Wow. Maybe a person can get used to this
kind of thing, but I just don’t see how. It’s magic. I don’t care if they use
the same booths every year or if the Trdelnik (Czech dessert) is overpriced. I
don’t care if it is more about tourism than it is about the Christmas spirit.
Consider me fooled. Call me a fool. I love it. I told you before that Prague
has her rhythm. And when Christmas comes and she gets all dolled-up and
sets to tuning, my god…
Hot spiced wine. This delicious mixture is everywhere in
winter. It warms the hands and warms the belly. Despite the fact we only
recently vanquished our hangovers via pancake no one balks when the first salvo
of, “Hot wine?” is thrown into the chilly air. We walk around Old Town Square sipping
wine and occasionally stopping in patches of sun. Our conversations are simple.
Each of us is overwhelmed by the perfection of the day. With each move-and-stop
we repeat our own sentiments of, happy, beautiful, we live in Europe! There is
nothing more important to say.
We leave Old Town and walk to the Charles Bridge. There are
so many people it is difficult to see the painters and musicians lining the
sides, shilling for change. The cold is starting to sink in. I rub my hands
together despite the fact that I am wearing gloves.
At the far end of the
bridge, just before the fairytale climb to St. Nicolas church and Prague Castle
we descend a set of stairs and weave through narrow cobble stone streets until
we reach the Lennon Wall. Although images of the Beatles icon can be found on
the wall it is not a tribute to the band, it is a lasting memory of peace.
During the communist era family members would leave secret messages for each
other on the wall. The Beatles never played the Czech Republic, but from what
little information they had of the West, the Czech people knew that Lennon was
a man who stood for peace and for that reason alone they nicknamed their wall full
of secrets in his honor. 
We stop at a stall near the love-locks bridge to order more
hot wine. The girl working behind the counter is cute and she speaks English so
we linger asking her silly questions. My favorite bookstore Shakespeare and
Sons is just around the corner so we pop in to warm up and browse the shelves. I
make an off-handed comment about how everyone seems to love “The Alchemist” by Paulo
Coelho, but I think it sucks. From behind me a woman chimes in “Who loves that
book?” We get to talking about the book’s shortcomings which leads to other
things. She is American. She is married to the owner of the bookstore and has
lived in Prague for years. She seems really happy. Living in Prague and working
in a great bookstore at the foot of the Charles Bridge…I suppose she would be.
My roommate Sarah tells us about a pear concoction she tried
when her sister was in town. She swears by it so we cross the river in search
of it. We find the place and it’s great. It is an outdoor bar on the banks of
the Vltava River. There is no inside, just a set of stairs that descend to a
dirty bathroom. We order pear brandy mixed with hot pear juice served in white Styrofoam
cups. We lean against the railing looking across the river at Prague Castle and
the red tiled roofs of Mala Strana. There is a small park with a dirt path
behind us. Couples, friends and tourists brave the coldness of standing still
to appreciate the view. Frank Sinatra is playing softly from the speakers atop
the bar. Beside us a man and his son are throwing chunks of bread out over the
river. Dozens of seagulls swoop and hover hungry for the bread. They are
uncharacteristically silent and unusually beautiful. They speed and slow to
catch the bread mid-flight. We watch with wonder, we listen to Frank, we sip
warm pear brandy and we know that this is yet another flickering moment that can
only be understood by living it.
We leave to buy groceries for dinner. We will end our day the
way we started—with a meal. We will return to Zizkov and the place we
call home, as roommates, as friends, as people from different parts of the
world lucky enough to live in Prague on a day full of blue skies and bread birds.
Photo
Credits: f-eats.blogspot.com, tripadvisor.com, blog.hdrshooter.net
