City of Magic

Prague is not at fault.  Prague is still Prague, filled with beauty and tourists and art and souvenirs.  No, the fault lies not in the city, Horatio, but in our stars.  

Naomi and I are plagued by the perversity of transportation conveyances.

After dinner last night, faced with a walk of at least 50 minutes, we asked our waitress for instructions to get to our hotel by tram.  So far, so good.  We went to the square where the tram stop is, found a cafe and bought Naomi a slice of chocolate cherry cake.  Things were great, but no real transportation had taken place.  At the tram stop, we went to the machine to buy a ticket, followed the first instruction.  Nothing happened.  The machine was broken.  No ticket, no getting on the tram.

50 minutes later, arriving hot and sweaty at the hotel, we got into the ancient elevator (maximum capacity: three people each with a small backpack) and that didn't work, either.  As we stood there scratching our heads, the super put up an out-of-order sign.

Did I do something wrong in a previous life? Perhaps I offended Shirley MacLaine or Egyptian Pharaoh Shepseskare Isi...unless they are the same person.  Actually, don't be fooled by all that. Shepseskare Isi was really Edward Devere.

Oddly enough the damned elevator was working fine at 7 am when I went out foraging.  I think if a conveyance wants to inconvenience you, 7 am would be a perfect time.  But then, I am not, strictly speaking a conveyance.

A very loud thunderstorm hit Prague as we were walking through the old Jewish cemetery.  Crack, roll, thunder and peal.  The words "Wrath of God" came readily to mind, though what I could have done to incite divine wrath is beyond me.  I did cover my  5 krona kippah with my Red Sox cap, but it was a paper kippah and the wind kept floating it off my dome.  The thunder added drama to a place that hardly needs it.

I made a crack way back in the beginning of this blog about the Catholics understanding awe better than the Jews.  Some people, who ought to remain nameless (Josh Conescu), but won't, took umbrage at the distinction.  Here's another delineation.  Take a walk through the Pinkus Synagogue in Prague and then try to tell me that as Jews we don't know how to evoke deep, profound sorrow.  The inside walls of the Synagogue are painted with the names of 80,000 Moravian and Bohemian Jews who died in the Holocaust.  There is no other adornment.  Just name after name after name.  Whole towns gone. No awe for me, but great sadness...

Which a trip to the Old Town Square filled with tourists, a bubble making guy, a jazz band, and, I kid you not, Hipsters on Segues, helped to allay.

Now, rain and we wrap up our stay in Prague.  

The trip is winding down, but one more city to go. Krakow.  

So, we started out in a place where both of us could speak a little of the language and plenty of people spoke English.  Then we went to a place where neither of us spoke the language, but we could read a tiny bit of it and plenty of people spoke English.  Then to a place where we can't even read the language, though enough people speak English.  What's next? No common ground of language at all?  It's all an adventure.   C'est une aventure.  Es ist ein wirkliches Abenteuer.  Všechno je to dobrodružství.  To wszystko przeżyć przygodę.  

Which in Polish also means, "Have some sauerkraut with your pirogi."