Walls and Bridges

Feb. 15, 2013 (continued)
As I exited the courtyard, I already couldn’t wait to come back. The Castle was probably the best thing I’d seen in the city. There wasn’t anything like it back home and I loved it! This was what I came to Europe to see.

I decided that I was going to have to scratch my full plan for the day. I could still walk down through the neighborhood to St. Nicholas Church, but I’d have to save the tour for a different day. Cooking, eating, and cleaning dinner took almost two hours and I wanted to get to bed early enough so I could get an early start tomorrow. Once I got down there though, I’d try to find the John Lennon Wall and then continue on over the Charles Bridge to catch the tram home.

When I was back at the tram station, I noticed some stairs leading down into a sort of tunnel under the road. It looked a little sketchy, but it also seemed to be out of view from the street. I was trying really hard to blend in and not stick out as a tourist and I didn’t want to open my clunky map at the tram station. So I walked down the steps, out of the line of sight, and pulled it out of my pocket. I checked to make sure this road went all the way down to the church. It did.

Going back up the steps with my map re-secured, I started down the hill along the sidewalk. About a half a block down, the sidewalk turned into the Mala Strana Garden. I’d read about this place in guide books but, obviously, it was dormant for winter. There were couples anyway that were walking hand in hand through the park. I just continued following the path, assuming that as long as I went north and east, I’d get there eventually.

And there did come a point, not too far down, where I could get back out on the sidewalk along the road. I realize now that “sidewalk” isn’t the best term for it because it too is made of cobblestone, but I can’t think of a better way to describe it. Just like at home, it is elevated and runs along the side of the road. The only difference is it isn’t made of concrete.

As I followed the road, it began to turn to the right. This was a good thing. It meant I was starting down the switchbacks I’d come up earlier. The bad thing was as we went into the switchbacks the sidewalk tapered off and disappeared.

I know how people walking along the highway back home are perceived; I can only imagine what I must have looked like here. I decided for the sake of both staying safe and not looking like a total fool, I would turn around and walk back up to the park.

Sticking with my theory of heading North and East, I figured one of the other trails through the garden may get me there. I followed one that went north and sure enough it turned east and started heading down hill. After about a quarter mile descent, we started going back uphill. Within 5 minutes, I was back in the garden just outside of the castle.

I gave up and decided to take the tram. I could get off at the stop for St. Nicholas Church and then it was a straight shot over to the Charles Bridge. Catching the 22 and winding down the hill, I was there in no time. I got off at the stop but discovered that at street level—down off the hill—I could no longer see which road was the “straight shot to the Charles Bridge.”

Looking for a place to step out of view so I could check the map, I saw a familiar friend smiling down at me. Just above the tram station was the green mermaid on the Starbucks logo. Just as I have a million times back in the states: I stepped inside.

While it was completely laid out like a Starbucks from home (line from the door leading up to the glass display of pastries, and then the counter to order, followed by the counter to pick up a drink) the architecture of the building was more like a pub. The ceilings were low and there were long winding staircases leading downward to the sitting areas. I found a little secured hallway out of sight and again checked my map. According to it, the bridge should be visible if I just ducked around the East corner of the Starbucks. Going back up and out, sure enough, I saw the arch for the bridge entrance just down at the end of the street.

Walking along the street, I noticed a few things. First, there were lots of different languages and lots of different tourists ambling about. Second, there were a lot more homeless people begging on the streets. I was extra aware of pickpockets in this neighborhood and kept my hand firmly on my camera in my pocket.

When I came to the first side street I stepped off to go looking for the wall. The road snaked around a quite a bit passing cafes and churches right and left. It felt a bit like a back alleyway, but people were walking through it and they all passed me as if I blended into the scenery. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I rounded one sharp corner and found the wall!

It wasn’t very long—maybe 25 yards, but that’s probably an overestimate—and probably stood 10-12 feet tall. After John Lennon had been killed, this wall had been created as a memorial. It originally had contained a mural of the Beatles, along with their lyrics advocating love and peace. Now, the entire thing was covered in graffiti. Like the Berlin Wall, this site had become a symbol of protest against communism. People had written all sorts of prayers, slurs, demands, and hopes onto the wall. According to some students at the university, people were still adding to it with messages against repression and control.

I was surprised at the number of tourists at this wall. There weren’t a lot, but significantly more than I had expected. There were two big groups of American girls, all probably in their late-teens to mid-twenties. There was also a couple speaking in French, and another couple who I never heard speak but would guess they were locals.

At one point, one of the loud American girls came over to me and asked, “Excuse me. Can you take our picture?” She was talking to me slowly and enunciated…so I decided to have a little fun. I didn’t say anything, but I took her camera. They formed a group shot and I took a few pictures.

“Can you do the other way too?” she asked. I rotated the camera and did it. “Thank you so much!” she said in an exaggerated, sweet, baby-talk kind of voice.

As I handed her the camera back, I pulled mine out of my pocket. Then, in my perfect and loud American accent, I said, “Could you take one of me too?”

Her eyes got real big. “Oh!” she said surprised. “You’re American?”

“I am,” I said.

Her eyes jumped from my face to my camera, back to my face. “Oh,” she took the camera and snapped a few photos of me. “There you go,” she said a bit awkwardly. As soon as she gave me my camera back, her group began (loudly) discussing where they were going to dinner. As they rounded the corner and walked away, they could be heard for several blocks. It was the first conversation I’d really heard carry since I arrived in the city.

I was the last one to leave the wall. As I did, I wrapped back through the streets and up to the Charles Bridge.  Crossing the bridge, I looked at each of the artists and craftsmen selling their handmade goods along it. The same one-man-band guy we’d seen several days ago was there once again.

When I got to the other side of the bridge, I crossed the street and followed it south along the river. It was probably somewhere between a quarter mile and a half mile down to the station where I could cat a 9 back to the dorm. I did so, and when I arrived at my stop, I was exhausted.

As soon as I got inside, I started creating my blog posts so that I wouldn’t forget a thing. After jotting down about an hours’ worth of notes, I decided to start supper. Pasta was about all I was good at (it was also about all I had that hadn’t expired already) so I started some water to boil.

As I ate dinner, I thumbed through my books, anxious to pick out ideas for day two of my “Three Perfect Days” adventure. It struck me, as I ate, how quiet and lonely the dorms were. Technically, I’d be on my own all day. Aside for an occasional “Excuse me” or request for a photo, I had barely opened my mouth for the last 12 hours. There was something kind of lonely about that, and something liberating at the same time. I’d proven that I could do things on my own. I could be my own company and see things by myself. This history was what I came to Europe to experience; now I had discovered the skillset to experience it.