Prague

PRAGUE 2002

Prague, October 16, 2002
On September 4th, I began a process that has put me into a charming flat in Prague, Czech Republic. The Harvard Housing Office provided me this contact for a house exchange; I’ll be here for the next three months. Nonie Valentine and Jan Jilek are two psychotherapists living in the center of this beautiful old-world city. I e-mailed them on the 4th and ten days later we decided to make the exchange official. We spent the next month in fairly constant contact, very effectively oiling the wheels of the exchange.
Last Monday I picked Nonie and Jan up at Logan and brought them to my place. We were instantly at ease, which came as no surprise after our extensive acquaintance via e-mail. Nonie (short for Norah) is a very attractive Connecticut Yankee in her mid-forties, with snapping dark eyes. Jan, a Czech, is tall and handsome, lines on his face indicating frequent smiles.
A couple of hours later my best friends Tom and Holly Bazarnick came by, met Nonie and Jan, and took me out to their house. I left the following morning via airport limo and flew to New York, where I had to catch a connecting flight to Amsterdam, then Prague.

I passed through customs swiftly and was greeted by Hanka, Nonie and Jan’s assistant. Hanka is long and lean, a student at one of the local universities. She is to be available to me for questions and/or problems and as liaison to Gaby, the housekeeper, who speaks no English. A limo whisked us into the city, and to the house by the river Vltava where I’ll be living till mid-January. It is at the end of a quiet beech-lined street featuring the John Lennon wall, a graffiti-splattered ongoing work of tribute to the rock legend. My nearest neighbor is the French embassy next door. The house is separated from Kampa Island by a narrow canal, and is entered via a courtyard strewn with leaves and mud from the recent floods.
Hanka let me in and showed me around. There is a gorgeous entryway filled with plants and a huge piece of African carved art on the wall. The kitchen/sitting room, with bath just off it, is the most inviting room in the house. Here is a desk where I'll be working at the computer when I'm connected.
The next room is a huge office/consulting room with vast bookshelves, framed art and some good pieces of sculpture. A sofa by the window is ideal for curling up with a book. This room is made a jungle by a profusion of potted plants, and in fact I'm tasked to water all the house plants which should be no problem.
The bedroom is also huge, with a large bed (that tilts up at one's pleasure). There's a TV here and shelves of videos, and it is in here that I'll be working on my needlepoint wall hanging. There are even two exercise machines in the unlikely event that I'll try to exercise beyond my regular bouts of marathon walking. Outside one set of windows is Kampa Island (separated from my building by a narrow canal) and out the other is the garden of the embassy. Lovely.
The house’s current name is Metychu z Cecova Palace. Jan heard the recent history from the mother of the owner. Before the war it belonged to a rich Jewish family who lived in the best flat. This woman was the family’s illegitimate daughter.
One wing of the palace was built around 1350, the other one about 1500; it’s been renovated repeatedly throughout its history. The entrance is Renaissance – from about 1500. A memorial plate on the front is to a Czech composer named Foerster who lived here. A writer named Jindriska Smetanova also lived here as a little girl, and wrote a short story, “Our Mr. Foerster Died.” It’s a minor classic of Czech literature. Her granddaughter, now an old lady, still lives in the house.
Hanka left me to unpack, shower and relax for a while, returning at 2:00 to give me a short walking tour of the city. We started by crossing the fabled Charles Bridge, a medieval structure decorated with blackened figures of saints and historical figures. Prague is like no other city in my experience. It has a magical, fairy-tale quality to it, expressed most markedly in the forest of spires thrusting heavenward. I kept exclaiming with pleasure at all the sights, to Hanka’s evident amusement. We hit most of the highlights within easy walking distance, then she left me at Tesco, a large grocery store.
I can read almost no Czech, so had to guess at most of what I was getting. On returning to the flat I preferred to eat out anyway. Within a couple of blocks I found a dark, atmospheric restaurant and settled down to really get to know a fragrant, succulent roast chicken.
During the next few days I toured the city, looking at the sights and glorying in the variety of restaurants. Good food can be found all over Prague at astonishingly low prices.

October 18
The most engaging aspect of Prague is the ready availability of music. The city could very well be the most musical in Europe; it was a special favorite of Mozart, whose Don Giovanni premiered at the Estates Theatre. I tried to get a ticket to a production of the opera in this very house the night before, but without success. I wasn’t too terribly disappointed as it will be repeated before I leave. While strolling through the courtyards of the Klementinum today, I stopped to look at one of the many handbills posted advertising concerts at the various churches and recital halls. These are invariably good, and gratifyingly low in price. A charming young man with a clipboard and ticket forms sold me a ticket for the Quartetto Telemann that night at the Hall of Mirrors of the Klementinum. I continued on to take photos of the city, as the sun had burst forth out of the grey clouds and was now gilding the city in a blaze of most welcome sunshine.
•••
The Hall of Mirrors is a chapel decorated by a rich profusion of murals in the baroque style, a perfect venue for chamber music. Such surroundings, I imagine, would bring out in a performer the ambition to succeed. I think it fair to say that the Quartetto Telemann rose to the occasion.
The quartet was composed of four young Czech men, cello, guitar, oboe or cor anglais, and flute or recorder. Their playing was expert, flawlessly performed with great sensitivity. All the items on the program were familiar, though the last three were surprising, suites from “My Fair Lady,” “West Side Story,” and Walt Disney’s “Snow White.” Who would imagine that “Some Day My Prince Will Come” can sound so piercingly sweet played by a chamber music ensemble?
In the afternoon I’d spent too long at the computer to eat before the concert. Around the corner from the music hall was the Café Pushkin, which I’d seen the previous day. This is a small lamplit place, glowing russet and pink, with a vaulted ceiling and only about five tables. One was available, but sitting nearby was a collection of young students far gone in drink. They gabbled on in what I assumed was Czech; later I realized it was drunken Cockney. Eventually they left, to the relief of everyone else. One of their party, farther gone than the rest, was a young man with shaven skull and ears protruding wildly from his skull like Kafka’s. He stood blinking owlishly, hardly realizing he’d been left behind, but stumbled out into the street a minute later.

October 20
Some dining experiences just take you aback. This morning I strolled over to the Globe Bookstore Café, a popular expat watering hole, to eat breakfast and get online. The omelet looked tempting; one was given the option of several fillings. I chose Swiss cheese and chili, assuming the latter would be the homey concoction beloved from my southwestern childhood. Wrong. I almost leaped out of my chair as the first bite seared my mouth like a flamethrower. No chili con carne, just bits of red pepper, which surely must have been habañeras. I picked out all the bits I could, but its fieriness was undiminished. The hash browns were a revelation: light and feathery and seemingly almost fat-free.
For dinner that night I wanted something special, as prelude to the opera. (The day before I’d gotten a ticket for Smetana’s “The Bartered Bride” at the National Theatre.) The day was a splendid one, with the sun mostly out and shining warmly. Eventually I found a place that looked promising: the Restaurace Skorepka. It is dark and seemingly authentic inside, clearly not aimed at the tourist trade. The menu was extensive and in four languages, however, the English translations were often comically askew. I ordered the smoked pork knee, the lead item, and a glass of local red wine.
I don’t think I’ve fainted since the time I was hit while riding my bike as a kid, but I came close to doing so again when the waitress returned. She presented me with what looked like an oak tree stump glistening with fat, accompanied by a plate of two kinds of cabbage, a pool of mustard and another of horseradish. The stump rested on a small wooden board. I was certain it would shoot off the board and onto the floor the first time I stuck my knife into it, but that didn’t happen. Surprisingly, underneath the fatty skin it was tender and lean, and was even improved by liberal applications of brown Bohemian mustard. Instead of ordering a dessert I got another glass of wine instead. After the waitress had removed my dinner I noticed that some large pretzels were hung on a rack in the middle of the table. To finish up my wine I bit into one. It was tasteless and utterly horrible and I think might have been simply décor. I furtively thrust the remains under a napkin, paid my bill, and sauntered down the street.
The evening was almost too gorgeous to spend inside. The sky was a thrilling peacock’s-throat turquoise, that color you see only on cloudless evenings – and then, for only a few minutes. By the time I got to the theatre it had darkened to a rich royal blue.
The National Theatre is a palace of gilt gingerbread, and surprisingly compact – only 13 rows of seats. Three tiers of balcony rise steeply above the main floor, however, assuring everyone in the house of a good seat. Mine was on the seventh row, only slightly off center.
I’d never seen a production of “The Bartered Bride” before. It was familiar to me only through the popular overture and a suite of dances. It’s a very lilting, melodic score; even some of the sung sections retain this dancelike quality. The music alone keeps this opera on the boards of the world’s opera houses, as the libretto, like that of 99 percent of the operas ever written, is purest piffle. First the singer sings something, then repeats it, sets off in a different direction, then sings it again. This was a superb production with good singers. The romantic leads were just what they seemed to be, attractive young people who were clearly in love.
After curtain I headed toward home over the Legii Bridge, my only company an occasional tram trundling quietly alongside. The mild day had turned quite cold, which I should expect more of, and very quickly.

October 22
The day started off cloudy but not cold. Just before lunch I struck out over the Charles Bridge and began wandering toward Old Town Square. An art gallery drew me in. The Miloslava Kumbarova Gallery is showing new drawings by a modern fantasist, Oldrich Kulhanek. I hadn’t realized that I’d already been collecting his work: he designed the figures on all the new Czech banknotes. The proprietor encouraged me to return at six for the official opening. Emerging from the gallery I smiled at the welcome return of the sun.
My stroll through the city resulted in a couple of happy discoveries. Ariana, an Afghan restaurant, looks (and smells) richly inviting; besides, I’ve never had Afghan food. The Anagram Bookstore, in an intimate courtyard behind the church of Our Lady of Tyn, will be a good source for books in English when my supply runs out. Late in the afternoon I settled on a bench in the Old Town Square and marveled at this incredible city. Everyone who visits eventually describes it as magical. In the middle ages it was considered a center for magic and alchemy. There is an almost palpable fairy tale quality to the very buildings. Ornament blossoms everywhere and even the pavements are set out in geometric designs.
•••
The gallery was already full to bursting. Kulhanek himself, a rotund gnome of 62 with a white mustache en style de Woodstock framing his mouth. Presently the room went quiet and a tall studious man in a tuxedo began a long laborious address in Czech, of which I understood not a word. Eventually he tired of talking and I went over to introduce myself to the artist. He was friendly and spoke perfect English. I bought a small etching, of the biblical story of Susanna and the elders. The young woman, as modest as her nudity will permit, sits in the center, surrounded by the lascivious faces of the elders -- and playfully tweaks the nose of one of her lustful tormenters. I also bought a book, a retrospective of his work. His work is completely representational, though with a strong surrealist element and a degree of political playfulness which got him in hot water with the communist authorities, resulting in his arrest by the KGB.
Afterward I went upstairs to the wine and cheese reception on a darkened balcony overlooking a friendly courtyard. I met a woman who speaks English, Kveta Gelnerova, who invited me to her office when I’m in the neighborhood. There’s a display there of some of Kulhanek’s “funny money,” lampooning his designs for the official banknotes.
I returned home and with the sky still clear and retaining a hint of dark blue, grabbed my camera to photograph the castle illuminated against the velvet night.

October 24
Today began sunny and gorgeous so I struck out for breakfast at Bakeshop Praha, in another attempt to meet Nonie’s friend Anne. No luck – but an assistant came out to tell me that she’d be there at noon.
On Parizska, one of the prettiest streets in the Jewish quarter, I found a friendly CD shop and bought two discs: a Czech musical called “The Pirates of Fortunia” and an English collection of New York songs. (The latter includes Gordon Jenkins’s “Manhattan Tower,” an unabashedly romantic valentine to the city. I’ve only got it on an elderly cassette.) Afterward I strolled along Parizska, watching the autumn leaves drift down, still in thrall to the city’s old world charm.
On my return to Bakeshop Praha, Anne was there, along with an extra bonus, Nonie’s friend Jennifer. Anne, friendly and brisk, is a slender woman with a pixie cut and half glasses. Jennifer is heavy-set and blonde, bubbly and vivacious as I’ve found so many British women to be. I got Anne’s phone number and will be calling her later.
After a bit of gift shopping I came home at a brisk trot: it was beginning to rain.

October 25
In the morning I finished reading Word Freak, the quirky book on championship Scrabble players by Stefan Fatsis; then began the first of the fiction I brought along with me, Isak Dinesen’s Seven Gothic Tales. I intend to read nothing but continental literature during my sojourn in Europe, in fiction anyway.
One of the Americans I want to meet is Nonie’s friend Roy Breimon, an artist resident in Prague for the last seven years. I reached him by phone a couple of nights before and we arranged to meet tonight. On the phone he’s somewhat abrupt, impatient with a visitor’s unfamiliarity with the city, but not unfriendly. He gave me his address, an apartment in a far part of town.
I was due to meet Roy at seven. As yet, I’m intimidated by the trams and the Metro has not yet recovered from the August floods so I set off early on foot. Roy lives far east of the river, out Vinohradska, a wide and impersonal street that feels, but isn’t, remote from the center of the city. I gave myself plenty of time to explore, figuring that if I were early I could camp out at an internet café.
On crossing Wilsonova (named for Woodrow Wilson, I presume) the city changes character. The older intimate buildings are replaced with large, more modern ones, many giving off the distinct sour pall of the communist era. Small shops and restaurants are less frequent and one encounters fewer English speakers. I got off Vinohradska to explore a large park, Riegrovy Sady. Here, autumn is more evident than in the heart of the city. The park seemed to be inhabited entirely by people walking their dogs or strolling with prams. An air of shabbiness hangs about the place, and the tall building surrounding are forbidding and mostly devoid of style. One building was pure east-bloc in style: stark and plain, the portico supported by improbably heroic figures straight out of the imagination of Josef Stalin. As if to mitigate this dreariness the whole had been painted a tomato soup red, which only underscored its depressing formidability. The neighborhood was starting to get to me, so I got back onto Vinohradska.
I found Velehradska, Roy’s street, and sure enough, I was early, so I walked along looking at shops. Nearby was a welcoming internet café so I went in and logged on. The first message I saw was from Roy: he was feeling sick and hoped to postpone our meeting till later in the week. So after checking my other messages I began the long trek back.
It was starting to sprinkle, so I walked along under the eaves as much as I could. Turning into a building that seemed to be lit up, I discovered a glossy western-style mall, all chrome and glass and chic shops. This suddenly put a nice face on the evening. After I’d dried off, I moved on down Vinohradska. On Wenceslas Square I walked into a clothing store I hadn’t noticed before and finally managed to replace my rather shabby tweed jacket. If anything, the rain had increased slightly. I’d seen an Italian restaurant earlier, Ristorante Venezia, and trotted off to it.
Ah, yes. This was exactly what I was looking for. The decor was your standard mittel-European romantic excess and the music was American rock and roll, but the food was the real thing, purely and delectably Italian. I had a flawless tomato and mozzarella and basil salad followed by fettucine al pesto washed down by a welcome glass of chianti.
When I left, the rain hadn’t abated a bit. Walking through sprinkles can be quite delightful, but if one gets sprinkled on long enough one becomes quite wet. By now I knew the most direct route to the Charles Bridge and lit out hell for leather. The bridge was deserted except for a handful of intrepid walkers and three beggars. (A parenthetical note: It’s a peculiarity of beggars in Prague to assume a position of utter abasement, haunches hoisted heavenward, forehead pressed to the pavement, a cup held forward.) By the time I got home I was drenched, but not unhappy. After a few licks of the hair dryer I was ready to settle in for the night.

October 26
I made a happy discovery for lunch. On lower Nerudova I found a little teashop and ordered a lovely tuna sandwich and a pot of rosebud tea with honey. Past this, Nerudova gets steeper, rising toward the Castle. The day had, against all expectations, gotten sunny and bright. I made for the Sternberg Palace, a small art collection within the Castle complex. It’s not bad, not altogether first-rate, since the cream of the collection was apparently carried off by the marauding Swedes in 1648. Some fine Brueghels remain, however, and a terrific Rembrandt, “The Scholar in his Study.” I haven’t explored this part of town properly yet, and in fact should force myself out of the city center to expand my horizons.
For dinner I’d been buzzing around a neighborhood place, El Centro. It’s Spanish, and the menu shows paella only prepared for two. I took a chance and found they would serve singles. The paella was nothing special, but at least plentiful -- with lots of seafood, not as fresh as I found in Spain but far better than nothing. I tried hard to concentrate on my meal instead of the unearthly beauty of the barman, possibly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

October 28
I’m beginning to fit in here. For some reason, or maybe a number of reasons, Prague doesn’t seem to be quite as foreign as it was yesterday. I guess I’m logging on to the pace, the feel, the labyrinthine paths through the city. I’m leaving the maps at home more often, too. I think I’m tuning into the city’s true nature: it’s not so much magical as it is surreal.
This became even more apparent as I settled into my seat at the dazzling gold and grey Estates Theatre this afternoon. No, it wasn’t Don Giovanni – not yet. A ballet is appearing for two performances only. Nekdo to rád… , believe it or not, is based on Billy Wilder’s Some Like it Hot. How could I resist, considering it’s one of my favorite movies of all time? In fact, I watched Nonie’s video of it only a week ago. Sitting next to me were a quintet of traveling Japanese who weren’t familiar with the film. I explained the plot to them so they wouldn’t be utterly lost, but I needn’t have bothered.
The ballet scenario sticks to the movie pretty closely, with a few minor adjustments. The boys are nightclub dancers, not musicians, and they witness the gangland slaying in the club, not a garage. Sweet Sue’s Society Syncopaters have conveniently become Sweet Sue’s ballet company. The two lead dancers were very funny, both together and separately. Although they didn’t look remotely like Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis I knew at once which was which.
The score is bright and funny and utterly original, although from time to time a musical quotation from “I Wanna Be Loved By You” serves as a nice touchstone to the movie. Oddly enough, this fizziest of film farces works wonderfully well as a ballet. By the time it ended I was disappointed that it couldn’t keep going for a little longer. The dancers must have felt the same way, for they milked the curtain call for all it was worth. I really couldn’t blame them; they’d worked their butts off.

November 1
This has to rate as one of the best days here so far – especially compared to the debacle of last night. (All right, if you really want to know, I went to a restaurant and had to leave because someone in the immediate vicinity smelled like the last day of the cattle show; the next two restaurants couldn’t seat me, and when I finally ordered a meal at restaurant number four it took 25 minutes to get my check when I’d finished. On returning to the flat I dropped a huge bottle of carrot juice which broke into a gazillion shards and took over an hour to clean up. There.)
Crossing the Charles Bridge I wish I’d had my camera along. A light fog had settled over the city, enveloping the spires and towers in a pall of grey velvet. None of the bridge musicians or tradesmen had appeared yet; one might have been transported back to the eighteenth century. I stopped for coffee and a croissant at Bakeshop Praha, read the Herald Tribune and said hi to Anne. Then I walked through the byways of the city, across the Hlavkuv Bridge to the Holesovice district. This part of town was a nice surprise, sprinkled with smart shops and little restaurants. I stopped at none of these.
The Centre for Modern and Contemporary Art is housed in the vast Trades Fair Palace, a Bauhaus-style barn, four floors of which are open to the public. I spent more than an hour on each floor, my heart racing with excitement. This collection, though filled with unfamiliar names, compares favorably with any museum of its type in the world. New York’s MoMA is a better collection, of course, but just barely.
The museum’s only apparent flaw is overabundance. Everything classifiable as art is here: painting and sculpture naturally, but also furniture, product design, the decorative arts, posters, stage design (particularly impressive, this), and architectural models. The galleries are laid out with a certain logic, but my worst fear was that I was going to miss something.
On the first floor I found the piece that most impressed me, The Face of the World, a 7-part folding screen painted around 1915 by Boris Grigoriev. I kept going back to it, and just before leaving I made a final visit. It is little more than a jumble of people, from all professions and classes, all done in a vivid painterly style falling just short of the grotesque. I expect to see this in my dreams for some time to come. On the next floor were five works by Jiri Kolar, elegant collages of print matter. These were of such exquisite beauty that an almost Zen-like calm settled over me and for fifteen minutes or so I walked back and forth between them absorbing their magic.
One remarkable piece, a monumental sculpture from WWI called “Fraternization” almost made me laugh in startled delight. In America howls of outrage would surely have removed this from the tender eyes of the kiddies, but in Europe hardly anyone would blink. Two larger than lifesize figures, an officer and a common soldier, are locked in a passionate kiss, an embrace almost operatic in its abandon. Only a few steps from this startling tribute to male love are the dreariest pieces you could ever want to see. In the spirit of inclusiveness the museum even makes obeisance to the most shameful “artistic” period in the nation’s history, soviet realism. Happy, smiling peasants in tableaux of the most boring activity. Dull, dull, dull -- imagination brutally banished.
I stopped for a ludicrously underpriced lunch (an enormous sandwich and coffee for about $1.75), then flung myself wholeheartedly into the glorious third floor, a dazzling collection of impressionists and early moderns. The gem of the collection is an Henri Rousseau self-portrait, but I admired even more the enormous sampling of Picassos. Every period is richly represented except the late neo-classic period.
By the time I got to the nineteenth century painting and sculpture on the top floor, art overload was definitely starting to kick in. I made a relatively quick tour through most of the early romantic landscapes and portraits, slowing down for the art nouveau furniture and furnishings at the end. After over five hours of this steady pace, everything I owned from the hips down was protesting loudly, so I bade a reluctant goodbye to this wonderland. I hope to make another visit before I leave.
Night had settled in, but it wasn’t cold at all and the city from this side of the river was glimmering like a diamond merchant’s tray. I stopped at a small restaurant, U Celestin, and had a heavenly concoction of sautéed chicken and pork with vegetables and black olives, then walked home. Paradise.

November 5
After lunch I walked to the National Theatre and got a ticket for tonight’s performance of Janacek’s Fate. Further up Narodni Street I stopped at Tesco for a snack: two marzipan oranges. These were of an oddly unmarzipanlike texture, highly artificial in color, soft and ultra-sweet and almost rubbery -- what you might expect if you bit into a Disney character.
Having made no real plans for the rest of the day I set out with the vague idea of museum-going. The National Museum, at the head of Wenceslas Square, seemed the logical choice – doable in a couple of hours, giving me time to linger over dinner. When I finally arrived at the doors I was greeted with the sign “closed first Tuesday of the month.” Today. Hmmm. The main train station was a short walk up Wilsonova. If I wanted to take a train to visit Dana over Thanksgiving I should familiarize myself with the station, right? But getting there wasn’t easy. Across from the museum is the Voice of America building. Since that black September 11 there has been a tank parked on the street in front and ferociously armed guards are positioned all around. Typically, I felt a mixture of apprehension and guilt walking past them. They let me pass unmolested – across the street. Hopping across traffic islands, through mud slicks and broken glass, dodging the cars racing along Wilsonova, I limped into the station.
Hlavni nadrazi is like no railway station in my experience. Descending into the bowels of the place I found a crumbling, weirdly lit cavern swarming with passengers and what I had been informed were bands of prowling rent-boys. This was the real thing, a place that felt utterly foreign, the heart of eastern Europe. Nothing was familiar except the pervasive odor of hot dogs and, like everywhere in the universe, the grinning familiar Coca Cola logo. I could discern no way to find out any information so I left, feeling that I might have better luck online. Further along underground was a way out, into a lovely autumnal park; suddenly the place didn’t look quite so otherworldly. I walked on, exploring this new neighborhood, and slowly began wending my way back toward the National Theatre. My cheeks tingled in the delicious cold. Winter is definitely coming on. And the Christmas decorations have started coming out.
The restaurant that caught my fancy tonight was Café Patio. It’s much more attractive than its lackluster name, all warm wood and soft light, hung about with Moroccan lanterns. The menu provides a fairly comprehensive international choice; the lanterns gently guided me to Middle Eastern. My chicken tajini was exquisite: a filling dish of tender chicken cooked in a sauce of onions, olives and potatoes, skillfully seasoned with a collection of spices I couldn’t identify – though I thought I could detect a whisper of cinnamon. I finished with a crème brulee that made me weak in the knees. It compared favorably with the best I ever had, in Rome a few years ago.
Fate is a problematical opera. Saddled as it is with an incoherent, senseless libretto, it has not fared well in the world’s opera houses. What saves it is the music, of a ravishing, swooping late-Romantic gorgeousness that carries all before it. (Lush but dissonant, it’s hard to believe it was written in 1905.) This production had another almost insurmountable problem; it’s directed and designed by Robert Wilson, whose A.R.T. production of Ibsen’s When We Dead Awaken is the only play I’ve walked out on. His highly artificial and stylized production seemed to serve the opera well in Act I, but it swiftly went downhill. Wilson’s attention-getting style all but blows kisses to itself. What in the world was the floating hat supposed to mean? Why the lead character’s odd make-up in Act III, one eye shadowed in red, the other in smudged black, a white line smeared from forehead down the bridge of his nose? For years people have mindlessly acclaimed Wilson’s perverse cuteness as originality. I maintain that the emperor is nekkid as a jaybird.

November 6
In spite of the lovely fact that the skies were clearing, I chose to spend most of the afternoon within the walls of the Convent of St. Agnes of Bohemia. Oh, I’m not converting – gathered together here is a huge collection of medieval and early Renaissance ecclesiastical art. And nothing but, except for one lone Lucas Cranach portrait of a sly-looking wench in full German Reformation high fashion, all brown ribbons and creamy flounces, bonnet roguishly atilt.
This is an astonishing display of work, mostly paintings and madonnas and saints carved from wood, with a few altarpieces thrown in for variety. If one has an enthusiasm for early religious painting (and I do) this is one of the most delicious experiences in town. I don’t know what it is that I respond to most: the stylized attitudes of the figures, the obsessive (almost gratuituous) detail, the perfervid faith on display.
It was all impressive, though a few pieces stand out as noteworthy. I was especially taken by a wood carving of the Lamentation. Christ, movie star handsome, is surrounded by seven other figures, all of them portrayed with sensitivity and individuality, with an exquisite attention to detail. There were three paintings of St. Barbara being decapitated. In the most impressive of the three, the saint kneels on the ground with a mingled look of misery and resignation on her face – a real woman facing eternity. Her executioner is twisted around with sword raised high, his whole body tensed to swing. The onlooking figures are nothing special, but the quality of the light, the gray clouds scudding across a dramatic sky, put this fine painting into a league of its own.
The collection is arranged so that one needn’t miss anything, the pieces displayed on walls of blackened silver. The guides, all dour middle-aged women, followed me with their narrowed eyes as if I might thrust a madonna under my coat and make a break for it. Perhaps it was just the novelty of a moving figure among the still art that put them on their guard.
Since Gaby was cleaning today (I think she prefers to work in solitude) I lingered in the town, stopping by Anagram Books to browse. In Wenceslas Square I bought a steaming cup of gluhwein as a small but welcome defense against the cold. On Pariszka I bought a CD collection of the work of Jaroslav Jezek, which I’d read described as sounding like partly like a nervous Gershwin, partly Kurt Weill. (It’s playing right now and it’s fabulous.) It occurred to me that it might be fun to watch a movie tonight (the video of the French comedy Amelie) with microwaved popcorn, really watch it without working on my wall hanging. I stopped by Tesco, which was at this hour elbow to elbow with grim-faced shoppers. No luck. Then I remembered there was a mini-mart upstairs. I found my popcorn (already popped), a sandwich and a box of cheap local wine. Good. I wouldn’t need to go out to dinner.
Walking back an unfamiliar way I discovered a beautiful little hidden square I hadn’t seen before. It forms a crescent around the Bethlehem Chapel. Making a note to come back another time, I walked on to the Charles Bridge. The sky was now completely cloudless. There were no musicians on the bridge except the old zither player. The National Theatre was bathed in green and silver light. Hradcany Castle glowed softly in the inky sky like stalagmites of spun gold. It was easy to forget that the authors of my being were Shirley and Ray Willhoite, and not the Brothers Grimm.

November 7
Today I finally met Roy Breimon. I had a muffin and a couple of pints of coffee at Bohemia Bagel, then walked south on this side of the river to the Jiraskuv Bridge. On the other side was Frank Gehry’s “Fred and Ginger” building. It is an oddity, resembling an old-fashioned corset standing up on its stays and swaying as if about to dance. I had no idea how long it would take me to get across the city, so I didn’t stop to admire it.
We’d arranged to meet at 2:30 at Husa, a popular restaurant on Vinohradska. I found what I assumed by the street signage must be the address I was looking for, but the barman told me that Husa was almost a mile up the street. It was now exactly 2:30, so already puffing with exertion, I streaked along and managed to arrive only twelve minutes late.
Roy is an American painter, in his early fifties, from Washington DC. He is tall, bald and plumpish, looking somewhat like the late Jackie Coogan, with a ring in one ear and what looks like a bite taken out of the other one (the bite having been pasted back on). I was a bit shy with him at first but quickly warmed up. After lunch we went back to his apartment/studio, where he showed me his work.
Roy is primarily a painter but works in print media as well, also stage and costume design. Some of his work was on the walls, big splashy male nudes. I found them somewhat evocative of Francis Bacon’s but without that painter’s nihilistic savagery. I especially liked his large paintings done on the backs of large sheets of lucite. He is currently working on several commissions, and is in every way a dedicated, hard-working professional artist.
Much of his work these days is done on the computer, and he ran through a good deal of this work demonstrating the programs he uses. Afterward he walked me up Vinohraska for several blocks then returned to his apartment. An out-of-town guest is expected this evening.

November 8
I went back to Betlemske Namesti, the little square I’d found the other night, and found myself in front of the ethnological museum, the Naprstek. It’s housed in a crumbling old villa, formerly a family home and brewery, accessible by a courtyard dominated by a large Canadian totempole. The entry of the museum is modern and beautifully lit, very promising. English translations on the exhibits are rare, but I was able to amble through the collection satisfying my visual appetite if not my curiosity. The Chinese collection on the ground floor was a model of a first-rate exhibit, so to a lesser degree was that of the pre-Columbian Indians. But on the top floor a huge display of artifacts from Australia and the south seas was gloomy and ill-lit; the objects in one display case might as easily have been musical instruments as weapons. At the end, a single case of masks from New Guinea was lit dramatically from below, giving the leering faces an unearthly, unnerving liveliness. With proper lighting, the rest of the gallery might have had the same dramatic impact these masks did. I went through the collection in under two hours and spent the rest of the afternoon walking along looking through antique shops.
Praguers generally serve their coffee in the Italian style – black, intense, and served in tiny cups. You buy one serving and that’s it. The bottomless cup, much beloved of the American palate and nervous system, seems to be the province of Bohemia Bagel only. My fondness for coffee is almost legendary, but Prague has too many intimate teahouses not to explore. On Ruzova I discovered a gorgeous little place of great character, filled with happy couples enjoying their tea -- so many in fact, that I couldn’t find a table.
My guidebook mentioned another teahouse off Wenceslas Square, Dobra Cajovna. It lay at the end of a long dark passage. Two young women were leaving so I darted over to their table as soon as they departed. This was just what I was hoping for, soft lamps glowing in a long room crowded with tiny tables -- bamboo wainscotting, soft red walls, two young waiters moving silently about. I was given a menu and a bell to summon my waiter when I’d made my selection. I ordered a plate of hummus and a pot of Nepal Fop. This tea, new to me, was dark amber, rich and nutty with a smoky note. The excellent hummus arrived on a small platter decorated with olives, sesame seeds and (my heart sank) the inevitable slices of cucumber. Here in Prague one finds this detestable vegetable tucked into virtually everything. I ignored them.
I sat reading my novel (Lampedusa’s The Leopard) and enjoying my tea as long as I reasonably could. I think this tearoom is going to see a lot of me.

November 9
Today at 4:30 I stopped to think about what was happening at that exact, split-second moment in Boston. My dim sum group had asked Nonie and Jan to join them and it was comforting to know that my friends, old and new, were together and perhaps thinking of me. Of course it was morning there, and I hope the weather was sunny and brisk because that’s the way I pictured it. For a good hour and a half the thought of this gathering warmed me.
Tonight I had a ticket to La Traviata at the National Theatre. It was a first-rate production, with beautiful singing by the equally beautiful leads. Of course in opera it isn’t necessary that romantic couples be good-looking, but anyone who tells you it really doesn’t matter is fooling himself. Over the last twenty or so years Puccini has become my favorite, but Verdi is still an Olympian, a master, and no opera composer will ever be better. Every musical phrase of La Traviata is familiar to me but it was thrilling anyway.

November 12
One thing to always remember while here: never let any passageway go unexplored. The city is la honeycomb of secret byways and hidden courtyards. One happy discovery was a small bookstore called Prospero, devoted to books on theatre. Deep within another narrow alley off Celetna I found I Sypane Caje (The Good Life Teahouse). It’s a tiny place, about the size of my bedroom but twice as high. The two tables below were occupied so I ordered a pot of China tea (“water sprite”) and climbed the steep stairway to the alcove above. Up here the décor was simple and spartan, almost Japanese: bare wood floors, plain wooden benches with cushions, dim lighting. I settled down to read. It was quiet and cozy up here, despite the soft whine of middle eastern music floating upward.
The waitress brought me my tea and three sesame seed cookies. The tea tasted pleasantly of straw with a faint scent of flower petals. I could have sat there for the rest of the day but outside it was sunny and warm. It seems my report of winter’s arrival was premature.

November 13
On the night of my fourth week here have I finally found a restaurant to call favorite? At 5:30 there was a showing of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning at the British Council. On the way back I started looking casually for a restaurant and found Stoleti. The name seemed propitious: an anagram for T S ELIOT (also, less happily, for TOILETS). Better still, the menu looked promising. Stoleti is a cozy cavern with vaulted ceilings and warm rosy light, and here in the front room was an amiable bustle. Quirky paintings, all by the same artist, look exactly like they belong here.
The names of the dishes are in English and Czech but they give you a running start by tagging each dish with a famous name. I started out with a Greta Garbo, half an avocado filled with cottage cheese, surrounded by a mound of green salad. The main dish, Pietro Mascagni, did the composer of Cavalleria Rusticana proud. This was a mountainous vegetarian risotto, mostly fabulous (yes, they managed to tuck a handful of cucumber chunks into it) which I’d gladly order again. This was washed down by a dark beer, a Krusovice, even better than its light variety.
On my walk back home the slight haze turned the sky to purple and the moon seemed to float in a veil of lace. All cities are beautiful at night, but the English language is somehow inadequate to describe the colors of Prague after dark.

November 14
It’s odd how the simplest things can make you happy.
Happiness can even come in the form of a much-needed repairman arriving to fix the washing machine. (Is this happiness, or just relief?) Later, sitting at Bohemia Bagel I noticed an elderly lady with the most emphatic black eyebrows that I’ve seen since Groucho Marx. She returned my smile – ah yes, another American. Two little girls from an adjoining table bounded over to hers and began telling her all their secrets. She was catnip to them. Age has no terrors if one can age like this, I thought. We’re born, we age, sicken and die, and in between are wonderful people to love, strange and new places to go and things to see, sensations to make our hearts race. I sat there filling up with euphoria. All right, it was possibly the coffee, but the feeling lasted till nightfall. That’s too long to ascribe to a caffeine high.
It followed me up the mountain. Fifteen minutes later I took the tram up Petrin Park, surely the best ride in town. On the way up I thought how glorious the park must be in spring or summer. But when I walked out onto the summit the severe beauty of the bare trees, their branches twisting like black smoke into the pewter sky, told me this was the time to be here. From the lower reaches of the city Petrin Park is a mountain, but here on top it was flat. I walked along a tall wall, crenellated like a castle’s battlements, a sheer drop to the right of the path. Two unfamiliar birds, possibly a European variety of magpie, chirred noisily at each other as they flitted through the thickly clustered trees. Further along was the Petrin tower, a one-third size miniature of the Eiffel Tower. I walked along slowly, savoring the crisp, cold moist air against my face.
I had intended to check on rental car rates with Alimex, a company up in a neighborhood west of the castle, then go on down to the Hradcany Palace Picture Gallery and spend the rest of the afternoon there while Gaby was back at the flat cleaning. I found Alimex and yes, they have the best rate. But now I decided to simply walk, to let the day flow over me and save the Gallery for when I had more time. Then I remembered that Maly Buddha, a teahouse I’d wanted to try earlier (it was closed) was in the neighborhood.
So is it my fate to find a favorite place to eat or take tea, and then have it rapidly supplanted by another? Maly Buddha is surely the best teahouse so far, a dark cave like the best of them, but with more space to spread out. At the darkened end of the room I could only see glimmers of lacquered wood carvings set in the walls. Here there might be dragons sleeping. This area is divided from the main end by a sort of improvised screen of long irregular poles. A huge paper globe of lantern gives off a pale orange light. The effect is of the moon smiling through trees. I ordered a pot of Tibetan clove tea and settled down to read. Yes, this was Eden, with only one tiny serpent: my plump teapot seemed contrived to pour as much tea on the table as in my cup.
Afterward, aglow with a sense of supreme well-being and determined to return to Maly Buddha as soon as possible, I began the trek downhill. At a little toyshop I bought a couple of irresistible mechanical tin toys, then came to Hradcanske namesti, the stately square west of the Palace. Since this was a day to explore I headed north, into the oldest part of the city. Here are high walls twisting along the streets, opening up again when I came to an ancient church. Coming back into the castle grounds from the north I spotted a gallery showing the work of Jiri Sopko, an artist unfamiliar to me.
Sopko is apparently of some note and national fame here but I wasn’t impressed. These recent huge canvases generally depict vaguely sexless figures in simple, scrubbed-paint renderings, in senseless, mechanical combinations. They glow with color, but that’s the extent of their charm. His particular schtik is apparently to find a theme that pleases him, then repeat it in triplicate with minor variations. The best part of the exhibit, I thought, were two quite pretty girls making the rounds with me. I caught one gazing intently at me, perhaps trying to gauge from my reaction how one was supposed to react to these chilly, shallow canvases. What really infuriated me was that every now and then I came upon a painting in which one could actually see evidence of talent, in which something was really happening.
As I was leaving, convinced I’d been snookered out of the Czech equivalent of three bucks, another sweet young thing informed me the show was continued upstairs. I had nothing to lose so I went up. Smart move. The show turned out to be a retrospective, and his paintings from the sixties were astounding! This was fine work, messy and unfocused, but impassioned. One could see the joy of painting here, the sense of play struggling with the quest for meaning. Further along the wall, in the seventies, you could see the artist beginning to stumble, but he was still a contender. By way of contrast, in the work below Sopko was simply going through the motions, coasting on an assured reputation. Hackwork.
Outside dusk was gathering. Prague’s true colors are blue and gold, never more than in these fugitive moments between day and night, when the cobblestones in the street glow in the lamplight like spilled coins. St. Vitus’s Cathedral shimmered with light against the shocking blue sky, all shaggy brown and gold behind black naked trees.
Even a gray day can be gaudy with color if you look closely. Open your eyes. You can be in Paris or Gotebo, Oklahoma, it doesn’t matter. Open your eyes and look. Look hard.

November 16
This morning at ten o’clock, Sylva Lacinova and Jiri Komprda arrived on my doorstep. Sylva is Jan’s mother and Jiri is (in Jan’s word) her boyfriend. The picture of Sylva in Jan and Nonie’s kitchen, a young woman in a cap and rumpled work clothes standing beside a large stone figure of a bear, didn’t prepare me for how lovely she is. Sylva is seventy-nine, quite small, with a strong nose and the same twinkly eyes that she passed on to her son. We went around the corner to a small café for a very pleasant couple of hours together over coffee and croissants. Since she speaks no English, Jiri translated. The difficulties with language were minimized by Jiri’s easy command of English, but I wanted to ask Sylva much more about her work than I was able. I knew only that she is a sculptor whose work was banned from being shown when she fell afoul of the soviet authorities in the late sixties.
When we parted, Jiri told me of a monograph on Sylva’s work at the house so I went back to find it. Her sculpture tends toward the monumental, and has some affinities with the work of Henry Moore. Most of her early work is representational, edging more toward abstraction later. Ironically, some of her largest pieces seem to soar, with a lightness that belies their size. She has worked in stone, cast metal and wood, and there were even examples in the book of her work in mosaic. It was an honor to meet an artist who has striven so hard to produce an admirable body of work, worked to create beauty in direct defiance of a repressive regime.

November 17
When I arrived at the courtyard in front of Hradcany Palace a trio was playing Schubert’s Marche Militaire. You might not expect a flute, bass, and accordion to be an agreeable mix but the crowd was eating it up. The flautist, bald, with huge muttonchop whiskers shooting out like the tailfins of a ’59 Chevy, was clearly the star of the group. I listened for only a minute, then went into the second courtyard to see the Prague Castle Picture Gallery. It’s a small, mostly good collection assembled by Rudolf II, who was not, I think, the most judicious collector. Only one item was an unchallenged masterpiece, a small Holbein portrait of an unidentified woman. Holbein is the greatest portraitist who ever lived or will live, so to me this was clearly the highlight of the collection.
St. Vitus’s cathedral, across the courtyard, is a typical gothic church and one of the dampest, chilliest spaces I’ve ever been in. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sides of beef hanging in the sacristy. But it was a sunny day and light streamed in. All the stained glass windows here are products of the twentieth century. If most of them are nothing special, the six windows closest to the west portal are masterful. The most celebrated of the six is an art nouveau extravaganza by Alphonse Mucha. This window celebrates the lives of the Slavonic saints Cyril and Methodius, and looks less like his famous poster work and more like the illustrations of Maxfield Parrish or N.C. Wyeth. It is justly famous. But brilliant as this window is, I preferred its five closest neighbors, designed in the early 1930s. The jewel-like panes of glass are assembled with fire and imaginative zest, flooding the church with color. In, on, or around virtually any cathedral in Europe one may find gorgeous graphic espressions of faith too powerful for words. Why have the world’s religions, which continue to visit the most unimaginable horrors upon humanity, been the inspiration for so much great art?
When I came back out the trio was still playing. The flautist had put his instrument aside to sing a sentimental Czech song and some of the crowd were singing along with him, swaying rhythmically.

November 19
I have been in Prague now for almost five weeks, and today I finally feel I have connected with the Czech people in the most intimate, elemental, and passionate way. Jan’s friend Jan Dungel (nickname: Honza) had emailed me to let me know he could be found at Lemonade Joe’s, near Namesti Republiky, between 2 and 2:30 this afternoon. Honza was accompanied by another friend, Vladimir, already sharing a bottle of red Moravian wine. A few minutes later we were joined by Honza’s girlfriend, Radka Blazkova. Radka is a vivacious blonde with bright, deepset eyes, an animated face and a blazing intelligence.
Honza is a biologist and writer who has fallen madly for Venezuela. His hobby – his passion, really -- is to crawl through its jungles, sketching the animal and bird life. He had brought along a small portfolio of his work. It is, in a word, brilliant, with a jeweller’s attention to detail. One is tempted to say that his best work is his bird illustrations, but only because of their vivid colors. His capybaras and monkeys are portrayed as lovingly as the birds. As one who has also done scientific illustration I was impressed by his technical finesse and by his artistry.
Vladimir, a burly bald man who reminded me of a young, vibrant Nikita Khruschchev, is a writer too. He has just published a travel book on Venezuela. Eventually he had to run off to another engagement, so Honza, Radka and I ordered another bottle of wine and moved in closer together.
This was the first conversation I’ve had since I’ve been in Prague that has touched on more than simple pleasantries. An exhibit of soviet-era artwork at the Rudolfinium led to a discussion of politics. Honza expressed revulsion for this absurdly idealized artwork, the pictures of blissful workers, of beaming Josef Stalin being presented with garlands of flowers by happy children. Both Honza and Radka are old enough to remember with sickening vividness the years of soviet oppression. They both opened up to me about their passionate feelings on freedom, the changes in the Czech Republic, and their cautious hopes for the future. Both confessed that, even now in the days of liberation from the yoke of the communist system, that Russia still looms as a vague threat, if only a psychological one.
Our conversation never flagged for a minute; this felt like only the first of many meetings. Happily, Honza, Vladimir and Radka meet regularly at Lemonade Joe’s on Tuesday afternoons and I will be seeing them again.

November 20
President Cheney’s monkey arrived yesterday for the NATO summit, the prospect of which has thrown the city into a state of barely controlled edginess. At least that’s the way it feels. The people of Prague, having seen the Nazis take over and the Russians roll in with tanks, are burrowing away into their homes for the three days of the conference. Security is heightened, protests are expected, and preparations are even being made for possible acts of terrorism. Several groups of anarchists here are well organized (a fact rich in irony) and plan to march. In this week’s issue of The Prague Post there are maps detailing the parts of the city forbidden to anyone not carrying proper papers. The local video store will be closing; so will many shops and restaurants; whole neighborhoods will be silent. Given the almost palpable air of menace in the air I had intended to rent a car and drive to Vienna till the summit blew over. But this morning I looked through Nonie’s Vienna guidebook and decided to stay here and wait it out like everyone else. Vienna is too rich a dessert to devour in a scant three days and besides, I haven’t made hotel reservations. The best idea is to carefully plan a trip there, for at least a week, when I return from Thanksgiving in Germany.
Heading out for lunch today I noticed that the embassies (many in this neighborhood) are roped off and under guard. After eating I walked over to the British Council to read the papers and afterwards took a walk around the city. Only a few people were about, far fewer tourists than usual. Old Town Square was devoid of all but a handful of people, though the cafés optimistically remained open. Small groups of policemen were scattered about the city, looking either faintly embarrassed or bored. On other streets policemen were stationed singly, trying to look formidable. None of the people I saw looked dangerous, though I did pass a nervous little knot of scruffy student types carrying furled flags. They weren’t protesting or causing any trouble, but looked as if they were considering doing so. Eventually the empty streets began to feel vaguely oppressive so I headed back home.
I was in the mood for Chinese food and stopped at the Neptune, near the bridge. I was the sole customer. This meal turned out to be a grievous disappointment and tasted about as Chinese as a Yorkshire pudding. The spring roll, the size of a woman’s evening bag and oozing fat, was barely edible. The ‘chicken in special sauce’ was devoid of character, greasy and mouth-puckeringly salty. The meat, if indeed it was chicken, could just as easily have been poodle. The sauce almost certainly came from a foil packet.
Even now, at only seven o’clock Charles Bridge was virtually deserted. Attached to the steeple of a church near the castle an enormous heart in red neon floated incongruously, like a talisman against harm. In the windows of the local market several gas masks were displayed, a grim attempt at humor. I wonder what the next few days will bring. In any case, when I go out it might be best to carry my passport.

November 21
In the morning I watched the opening of the NATO summit on TV. Bush spoke haltingly as usual, like someone was feeding him lines through a hearing device. (What a silver-tongued orator!) The city was calm when I walked over Charles Bridge for lunch at Bakeshop Praha, though three-quarters of the usually bustling crowd had vanished. Most of the shops and restaurants in the Old Town were open. I neither heard the rattle of distant gunfire nor smelled napalm. When I came out of the Museum of Decorative Arts the sky was a vivid violet, and a helicopter puttered overhead like a huge, watchful dragonfly. One more day of waiting.

November 27
I am writing this entry in my cousin Dana’s house in Siegelbach, Germany. It feels like a minor miracle that I actually made it. Yesterday after picking up the car I’d reserved at Alimex, I went back to pick up my bags. I knew it would be difficult driving back to the center of town but I never expected such a hellish ordeal. I became instantly and hopelessly lost. Reaching a dead end in a labyrinthine neighborhood, I found out I could not put the car into reverse. However, I rolled back slowly and got back on my way, and finally found a major artery, utterly unfamiliar to me. The sky was dark with clouds so I had no sun, no landmarks to guide me. Suddenly, here was a square I knew! Joyfully, I headed toward Hradcany castle and the square leading to Nerudova. Halfway down the street Nerudova unexpectedly turned into a one-way. Furious drivers from the opposite direction were honking and glaring at me so I stopped and attempted to turn around. Blocking the street, nose of the car jammed up against a building, and utterly unable to back up, I summoned a nearby workman – who spoke not a lick of English. After a good five minutes he finally managed to put the car into reverse by reaching across my lap and jiggling the gear shift. Back at the square I took the road back to the palace and fueled by desperation, made a hairpin turn down a street that was possibly not designed for cars. I drove down the lower leg of Nerudova, knowing full well I was driving the wrong way down the street and not caring a whit. Luckily no policemen spotted me. Eventually I got back to my own neighborhood and picked up my bags. At the last minute I ran back to get a street atlas of Prague (the smartest decision I made all day) then drove immediately back to Alimex to learn how to reverse.
It still took over an hour to get out of Prague. Trying to find the D5 toward Pilsen I had to stop and ask three different people, only one of whom was helpful. Once out of the city, the rest of the drive to Germany was pleasant, if long. In Kaiserslautern, my cousin’s directions had omitted a single vital detail that had me driving around the city for a good hour looking for Siegelbach, a village so small it’s not even on the map. At a drive-in grocery I was given directions by a kindly man in silver crewcut and multiple piercings, and finally found my way to route 270. When I reached the turnoff to Siegelbach, the memories from my visit of two years ago kicked in and I easily found Dana’s house.
Today, while Dana was at work, I drove into Kaiserslautern and explored the shops. Kaiserslautern is fairly new and crisp, as it had to be substantially rebuilt after being pounded by allied bombing in the war. Nonetheless, it is a charming town with friendly, helpful people. I was unsuccessful in my search for yarn for the wall hanging, but encountered several people who were willing to give me directions and a friendly smile. That hasn’t always been my experience in Prague.

November 28
It is Thanksgiving Day. Dana and I drove to the IKEA outside Saarbrucken to do some shopping, then to Luxembourg for dinner. Luxembourg is a lovely country of rolling hills and farmland. Suddenly you find yourself winding through a forest of tall deciduous trees in a pale violet haze. The forest floor is a soft carpet of dark pink fallen leaves. The road spins out ahead, dreamlike, then the capitol city unfolds before you.
Dana and I strolled through the city, a stately, clean capitol cut through by the Mosel River. Luxembourg seems to be an easy amalgam of the French and German styles; the signage is in both languages, with the French predominating. Stopping at a bakery, windows full of the most elaborately decorated cakes and tortes and small pastries, we bought a torte au chocolat and a petit gentilhomme (a sort of gingerbread man made of doughnut dough). Dinner was at a favorite spot of Dana’s, La Lorraine. Our seafood meal (red snapper on a pastry shell) was introduced by a shared appetizer of chicken livers and mushrooms. All this was accompanied by a fine, crisp pinot blanc. Not a bad substitute meal for a turkey dinner.

November 29
Today, Dana’s birthday, we drove across another border -- to France. Metz is one of Dana’s favorite destinations, possibly because my uncle Don was stationed here during the war. We had a classic French lunch at Chez du Mon Oncle Albert, then did some shopping in a vast modern mall. Soon, after all this gleam and glitter palled we walked the streets looking at the little shops, then drove back to Kaiserslautern.
Dinner was at Burgschaenke, a hotel-restaurant I remembered with keen pleasure from my first visit here two years ago. My dish was a platter of cheese spaetzel under a layer of heavenly sauteed onions which to my astonishment and relief did not keep me up all night.

November 30
Dana had many chores to take care of today so I drove down to Strasbourg. This is now my second-favorite French city after Paris. Strasbourg is the spiritual center of Alsace-Lorraine and therefore both French and German in culture. The architecture is decorated with arabesques and curlicues in wrought iron, underscoring its Gallic essence. The gothic cathedral rises proudly above a welter of lesser buildings, many half-timbered. On several squares holiday markets have been set up. The largest was filled with kiosks largely devoted to foodstuffs, its eastern end a market for Christmas trees. I have never seen so many perfectly shaped trees all together.
The city was glutted with holiday shoppers, all smiling with holiday spirit, unlike the throngs moving sluggishly through glutted American malls, snarls at the ready, willing to duke it out over a parking space. Of course it’s early in the season yet. Perhaps the Strasbourgers will lose their sang-froid as the holiday draws near.
I knew I wanted to have lunch at Au Pied du Cochon, one of many small establishments facing a small square. A mime was working the crowd. I generally find them a dreary nuisance but this man was dressed like Charlie Chaplin. His antics were accompanied by a recording of the soundtrack from City Lights, and his manner was as gentle and diffident as Chaplin’s. As I was walking into Au Pied du Cochon, a tiny middle-aged woman, alarmed by a pigeon, flew almost into my arms. She laughed at her alarm and I pretended to protect her from the aggressive bird. Once I was seated, a knobby little waitress served me a poulet aux Riesling with spaetzel and a half-carafe of pinot noir – perfection. I finished with an old favorite, Peach Melba, an orgasm in whipped cream, raspberry sauce and guilt.
I walked for hours, exploring the small flea market in the rue de Marche aux Poissons, buying a loaf of bread for this evening’s dinner, and looking (again without success) for my yarn. Everyone I met was again friendly and helpful.
On my way down I had driven through much of the German and French countryside but took the autobahns back. Getting off at Neustadt, I took a lesser road back to Kaiserslautern, passing through the town of Frankenstein. (I sighted no monsters.)
Back at the house, Dana was in the midst of preparing a lucullan banquet. We began with a duck pate and some camembert. The star of the show was an exquisite grilled salmon. Its co-star the salad was escarole with walnuts, sesame seeds and red onions. All this was served with the Bohemian champagne I’d brought from Prague.

December 3
I drove to Frankfurt with no confidence whatever, absolutely certain I’d be lost for hours. But somehow I arrived in the precise part of the city I was aiming for, three blocks from the Staedelsche Kunstinstitut. My luck continued: I immediately found a parking space just off Holbeinstrasse, which a lanky native informed me was free of charge until 3:00. The museum turned out to charge no admission on Tuesdays. And I got there just as it was opening.
The Staedelsche Kunstinstitut stands proudly on the south bank of the river Main. This fine collection is too little known to American visitors. The twentieth century part of the collection is comprehensive, if a bit heavy on German Expressionism. (I really cannot abide Max Beckmann.) All schools of European art are fully represented, from the middle ages to yesterday afternoon. The Flemish and North German parts of the collection are breathtaking, of course, and they even have one of the rarest of the rare, a fine Vermeer.
I walked through in a transport of delight, almost whimpering with pleasure. After all, it was my first museum in weeks. But looking at great art is like brandy: too much is as inadvisable as not enough. Taking care not to overindulge, I took a break for lunch in the café. As I sat finishing up my gnocchi, the voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing “S’Wonderful” floated down like a spirit from above, magically creating another of those rare moments of pure, focussed happiness. Refreshed and fortified with coffee, I returned for more art.
Most museums have a museum shop. Some are great, some are not. This one possesses the most extensive collection of art books I’ve seen outside the Metropolitan in New York. Before leaving I so completely buried myself in the goodies I almost forgot I’d planned to leave by three. Bounding back to the car to beat the meter maid, I left town before rush hour and drove back to Kaiserslautern, once again without getting lost.
In downtown Kaiserslautern the streets were bustling with shoppers, already stocking up for Christmas. I stopped for a gluhwein at one of the Christmas huts and stood watching the people all around me. A spirit of gemutlichkeit hovered in the crisp air, here under the rosy lights. Everyone was in a good mood, jolly and friendly, caught up in the enthusiasm for the coming holiday. I thought how odd it was to be in a country with a vicious Nazi past, and no hint of it in the people here.
Back at the house, Dana had already made a reservation for dinner at Il Capriccio, where I was fortunate enough to find my favorite pasta dish, paglia e fieno. I was sorry that these would be my last real moments with Dana, for I leave early in the morning.

December 5
The drive back was uneventful, except for one startling mishap: a rock bounced off a truck outside Plzen and put a huge circular crack in the windshield, the cost of which I will have to absorb. As I came into town, the Prague streets once again had me spinning in circles, fighting down panic and despair. It was drizzling, and dark, too, which didn’t help matters. Eventually I made it back home to drop off the bags, then easily drove back up the hill to return my little Fabia Skoda.
Today was cold and foggy, but walking south along the river I realized how happy I was to be back, how much I love this city. The young woman at the video store even welcomed me back and asked how my trip was.

December 6
I’ve found the perfect restaurant -- again. Kogo is in a spruce, spanking new mall off Na Prikope, and what initially drew me in was a tempting display in front of fresh seafood on a bed of ice.
Kogo is noisy and busy and the waiters bustle about with a sense of high purpose. The place sparkles with light and gleaming surfaces and a heady aroma of good food issues from the kitchen. The kitchen, in fact, is open to view. The focus is on Italian food but I had a mixed grill of seafood, with the heavenly baked vegetables and a glass of soave. All the seafood was superb, the best I’ve had in Prague so far, tender and buttery and fragrant with lemon. The only sour note was a businessman at the next table, puffing on the most poisonously pungent cigar in Christendom. But smoking in restaurants is one of the crosses one bears in Europe and the celestial chow made up for anything.
Rigoletto is one of those operas I’ve heard but never seen. Tonight’s production at the National Theatre was spotty but enjoyable. I’d lucked into a terrific seat in the second row. The set was an ingeniously constructed revolving one-piece structure dominated by a large marionette figure of Rigoletto the hunchbacked jester, mounted on a pole. The costumes were a mild misfire. Rigoletto is set in the 16th century and although the jester and the Duke of Mantua were costumed in period dress, the rest of the cast seemed to have wandered in from the Victorian era. But no matter, the singing was what mattered.
The Duke was once again the National Opera’s star tenor, the dazzling Valentin Prolat. He’s a first-rate singer and was in good voice tonight. In “La donna é mobile” he strutted about the stage throwing off testosterone like a wet dog shaking off water. Of course the crowd went wild. Ivan Kusnjer sang the title role with great power and sympathy. Tonight’s Gilda, Marina Vyskvorkina, is pretty in a kind of chipmunk-cheeked, Mitzi Gaynor fashion. She sent the audience into a controlled frenzy with “Cara nome” but I thought her voice sounded tight, with her vibrato squeezed out like toothpaste. Gilda – as a character -- is sort of a credulous idiot, but she had the audience’s sympathy anyway.
The famous quartet in the last act was delicious, if inadvertantly comic. Sparafucile’s daughter Maddalena, an amiable tavern slut, was suitably costumed in beads and bangles, with hair in tangles and a cleavage like the Royal Gorge. But Lenka Smidova is – to put it kindly -- built along the lines of a sumo wrestler. Another twenty pounds or so and she could have sung all four parts herself. Still, the quartet was a rainbow of musical colors, emotionally ambiguous and rich, and rapturously sung.

December 7
It is early on a sub-zero Saturday evening and my head is swimming with delight. I came about this feeling in an odd, roundabout way.
The day began cloudy and dank. But during lunch a pale lemony light came through and eventually the clouds cleared completely.
This afternoon I finally got to the Rudolfinium to see the exhibition of Czechoslovak Socialist Realism painting. The show is a large one, but aside from a single painting – one! -- there is nothing even remotely redeeming in the whole collection. How can such a vast conglomeration of worthless trash have been painted in the first place? The answer can be found in the dead end that is Marxism, in its absolute lack of faith in the free human spirit. The subject matter varied wildly but the essential painting style was depressingly homogeneous. Apple-cheeked, fatuously grinning peasants, young soldiers with godlike profiles and hard flinty eyes, scenes of worksites and foundries – all were rendered in the same flat, colorless style, devoid of imagination, expressivity, and joy. The dominant color throughout was dishwater gray, with the requisite flashes of good Marxist red. Even in the paintings with no overt political content, like pictures of children playing, one can sense the qualities essential to art being brutally tamped down into a mush of soviet “correctness.”
Worst of all are the ludicrously idealized leaders. The nadir of the collection is a portrait of that lovable old rogue Uncle Joe Stalin, standing behind a low balustrade and beaming at the viewer with the sweetness of an angel. He wears a pristine white uniform and stands idly fondling – I am not making this up – a rosebud!
Dreariest of the lot are the many studies of the first president of this Soviet “Republic,” Klement Gottwald. His broad, dull, badger-like face with its prissy, constipated little mouth dominates the collection, though he died after only five years in office. A reverential procession of “scenes from the life” show this humorless, gray nonentity studying to prepare for his glorious destiny – reading by lamplight, precociously lecturing his schoolmates, working grimly in a factory as a thin, poker-faced child.
The largest gallery is devoted to landscapes but even these are flat and unimaginative. You have to wonder: how could artists screw up trees and mountains? Well, these do. The sole exception is a landscape by Josef Jambor. It’s painted with soft elegance and attention to detail, the colors and brushwork suggesting the racing pictures of Degas.
This spirit-crushing art was, astonishingly, imposed on one of the most gracious cities in Europe, a city now humming with gaiety and color and light. The art one sees in the galleries now is generally so fanciful that it must be either a conscious reaction against soviet realism or simply an explosion of creativity released after decades of bondage. One appreciates what someone like Jan’s sculptor mother had to work against, how she must have chafed at having to work under a regime that required such soul-destroying regularity of its artists.
I left the Rudolfinium angry and depressed that this fairy-tale city, with its thousand spires, its iron lace and angels in stone, should have had to live under such enforced colorlessness. To cleanse my mind and spirit I wandered over to Pariszka, surely one of the prettiest streets in the city. Tiny lights were twinkling in the trees, shoppers were abroad, and more happy surprises lay ahead in Old Town Square.
In the week I was gone, the little Christmas huts have sprung up, selling handicrafts and food and drink. An immense Christmas tree stands shimmering in a veil of gold lights, and behind it, the towers of Our Lady of Tyn are softly illuminated in pale blue light. The crowds were daunting, but a choir was being led through a program of holiday music, nobody seemed to be hurried or fretful, and even the bitter cold contributed to the spirit. The walk back home chilled me to the bone and my left knee was once again acting up badly, but it didn’t matter. Prague was itself again.

December 9
I can usually manage to talk myself into seeing a gray day as a silver one but the last few weeks have sorely tested my powers. Prague looks perfectly fine under leaden skies but ever since it cleared on Saturday the sky has been sapphire blue and perfectly cloudless. The sun is shining brightly enough to please anyone. Yes, it’s blisteringly cold and the musicians have disappeared from the Charles Bridge – except for a lone bell-ringer in gloves -- but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter.
To stay inside would have been like refusing a beautiful gift and after all, I had to go over to a travel agency and make reservations for my trip to Vienna on Saturday. For lunch I made a real discovery. In a courtyard just off Bethlehem Square, the Architecture Club advertises a restaurant. It’s in an ancient cellar, vaulted in brick arches, engagingly lit, and the aromas from the kitchen wafted all the way up to the street.
Since the place was full I was seated next to two older men, a Briton and a Belgian, chatting in English. I started with a Greek salad. It distresses me now to conclude that cucumbers, besides being the bane of my life, are surely the main agricultural product of the Czech Republic. But the feta cheese and olives and tomatoes made me happy and the main course was one of the best concoctions I’ve had since coming to Prague: thick potato pancakes topped with smoked salmon and onions, served with shredded Chinese cabbage and a generous serving of a heavenly mustard – and, oh yes, another fistful of chopped cucumbers which I pushed aside with a shudder.
Although pleasantly full, I was unable to resist dessert. The waiter couldn’t quite describe to me what an “empty head” was, but the name was too irresistible to pass up. It turned out to be an artful construction of light frothy chocolate mousse and pieces of cake soaked in some kind of liqueur, guarded at four corners by towers of whipped cream drizzled with chocolate sauce. When my chocolate coffee arrived, I wondered if I hadn’t bitten off a bit more than I could chew. But what the hell, you can’t chew whipped cream and going without food for the next three weeks will certainly melt away the calories I consumed today.

December 12
Last night I went to the opera at the National Theatre again. Dvorak’s Rusalka was brand-new to me, neither seen nor heard before. I had a good seat on the eighth row, next to a vivacious young woman from Singapore. She’s here with a huge group doing Europe in a whoosh: Budapest, Vienna, Salzburg, Prague. I liked her.
Rusalka is based partly on Hans C. Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, partly on the Undine legend. It was a spotty production, with good singing but weird, off-putting sets and ham-handed direction.
Helena Kaupova, an ethereal blonde, was very convincing as a water nymph, and stunning as a supermodel. She was tricked out in several square acres of gauzy stuff and sang with a light, supple voice. The National’s star baritone Ludek Vele, who was a splendidly creepy Sparafucile in last week’s Rigoletto, sang the role of the ancient water sprite. He was good as usual. But his costume was a little unnerving: yards and yards of green gossamer topped with what looked like an enormous Caesar salad. As Vele’s face suggests both Jackie Gleason and Yassir Arafat, it was a little disconcerting. But he sang well, as usual.
The set for the lake was odd but effective. But in the second act I saw in the Prince’s palace a distinct whiff of Coney Island. At the end of the act, however, they scored a magnificent coup de theatre when the set seemed to melt into the stage. As for the direction, well, the director got off easy by not really directing at all, just instructing his nymphs and sprites to writhe around a bit.
Today the sun has disappeared again. When I took the tram to the top of Petrin Hill, there was a light frosting of snow on the ground. Ominous.

December 13
Few pleasures are as rewarding as seeing a work of incandescent genius properly performed. Tonight I finally got to see Don Giovanni at the Estates Theatre. I can’t imagine a better production: singing, sets, direction, costume – everything blended into a harmonious whole. The singing was superb, with two clear standouts. Donna Elvira was sung with icy brilliance by Jitka Sobehartova. She burst onstage like an angry wasp and her desire for vengeance was awesome to behold. Jiri Sulzenko sang Leporello. I’ve never seen a better one, nor do I expect to. He was a perfect foil to the Don, funny and charming and with one of the best voices I’ve ever heard on a stage. He’s a splendid actor, too. Acting usually gets short shrift in opera, but the entire cast had been carefully directed to act as well as they sung. Tonight there was no question that Mozart meant his opera to be a comedy, glittering and diamond-hard. In short, this was the best production of an opera that I’ve seen since an unforgettable Porgy and Bess back in the seventies.

December 14
I left for Vienna from Holesovice station, a lonely and depressing place. But the train trip was gloriously enjoyable. It took five hours, a perfect chance to see the countryside without having to keep my mind on driving. I was alone in my compartment; my reading was interrupted only once before customs, when a slight young man with bright eyes and elvish whiskers came by with his food cart. As we crossed the Austrian border a distinct air of prosperity began to be felt; even the landscape had a somewhat Teutonic neatness to it.
Vienna was stingingly cold, and I had to walk three very long blocks to the Underground. When I finally got on, it was an easy and fast trip to Schwedenplatz station. My hotel, the Mercure City, is a four-star hotel across the Donau Canal, a quick walk to the Hofburg. My room was small but newly furnished and stylish (even if the style is circa 1972).
On my first stroll through Vienna I couldn’t help comparing the two cities. Prague could have been created by the design firm of Edgar Allan Poe and Hans Christian Andersen. It’s dark and Gothic, a pincushion of spires and towers. Vienna on the other hand is Baroque, all domes and fountains, gods and mythical beasts in stone. The contrast alone was delightful.

December 15
I discovered the best thing about my hotel in the morning: the breakfast. Vast mounds of food, eggs and sausages and bacon, a salad bar, toast and muffins and cereals and a groaning board of pastries.
My main reason for wanting to get to Vienna was to see one of the great museums of Europe, the Kunsthistorisches Museum. There is really little I can say about it except to report that I walked around enraptured for the six hours plus that I spent there.
When asked who my favorite painter is, I can usually boil it down to two: Monet or Holbein. But my favorite painting in all the history of art has never changed from the first time I saw it: Jan Brueghel’s “Hunters in the Snow.” I spent a good half hour absorbing its beauties, seeing things I hadn’t seen before. The focal point is the hunters and their dogs returning from the hunt. I’d never noticed that there are thirteen dogs and only three hunters. Their bag: a single rabbit. Somber colors, a gray day, and yet the total effect is of calm, of the beauty of winter. You can feel the cold, even the amount of moisture in the air.
My knee was never worse than today, but somehow it didn’t matter. Art is the best medicine. I had Cajun food at a little place near the hotel and fell into bed exhausted.

December 16
A couple of inches of snow had fallen during the night, a new coating of whipped cream on this confection of a city. I went out on a successful search for some of David Frost’s opera CDs: four from his wish list. The last shop I hit was alongside the Vienna Staatsoper, next to the box office. At this great opera house I could either see Krenek’s Jonny Speilt Auf, which I’d recently heard on CD and disliked, or La Boheme the following night. I reluctantly passed.
Since I’d come perilously close to shutting down from art overload on Sunday, I spent the day in the Natural History Museum, across the Maria Theresaplatz from the Kunsthistorisches Museum. Not only is it a fine museum, but it cleared my palate for more art on the following days.
That night I ended up at a dark little Spanish place, El Pulpo, for dinner. Of course I had to try the paella, my favorite dish. The proprietor was also my waiter, a thin, saturnine man with dark tragic eyes. A casting agent would have cast him as the perfect mortician.

December 17
The Upper Belvedere is a jewel of a museum in the former palace of Prince Eugene. Here is a peerless collection of Vienna Secession painters: Egon Schiele, Oskar Kokoschka and best of all, Gustave Klimt. While an art student I was madly infatuated with his work and I’m still partly under his spell. Aside from his work in the permanent collection, the museum was featuring a special show of his landscapes. I lingered there for a couple of hours, my heart racing with excitement. After a brief lunch I explored the terrific symbolist painters, then the floor of the museum devoted to the Biedermeier painters. These charming genre paintings and pretty portraits could barely hold my attention after the excitement of the later work, so I walked through quickly.
Back on the street I was collared by a friendly and personable Greek souvenir shop owner who inveigled me into his shop. Once in, he tried every possible ploy -- short of poking a gun in my ribs -- to sell me a ludicrously expensive silk scarf. A ladies’ scarf, for heaven’s sake. I extricated myself as politely as I could but with great difficulty. I do not respond to the old hard sell, whether from salesmen or Scientologists.
It was snowing softly, but I continued on. I didn’t want to leave the city without seeing both the Secession Building and the Wagner Apartments, three superb examples of the Secession style. Between them lay the Naschmarkt, blocks and blocks of restaurants and bars and stands sellings all kinds of foodstuffs.
Dinner was at Figlmüller’s, famed for its wienerschnitzel “big as the plate.” It was indeed, and the mound of potatoes served with it was as delicious as the veal. My waiter may have looked like Erich von Stroheim, but he slowly warmed up and by the end of the meal was as friendly as he was efficient.
On my first night in town I knew which play I wanted to see, The Cole Porter Story at the Kammer Oper. I had no idea what to expect besides a few Porter songs, but it was one of the best evenings I’ve spent in a theatre in all my time in Europe. Besides Porter himself, there are four characters: his secretary, valet, masseur (and sometime lover) and his agent. There’s hardly a plot at all, but it had more meat to it than a mere revue. There were enough songs to satisfy even this Cole Porter fanatic. All were extremely well done and performed in English or German or both. Oddly enough, two of the performers were from Montana, which I would hardly have suspected to be a stronghold of the Porter cult.

December 18
I had to return to the Secession Building, that quirky, cabbage-domed temple to modern art. In the basement is one of Klimt’s oddest and most endearing works, the Beethoven Frieze. It’s supposedly based on the composer’s Ninth Symphony, though nobody has explained to my satisfaction what the huge gorilla in the central panel means. Likewise the fat topless woman with pendulous dugs. I could only marvel at the technical proficiency and sheer artistic excitement of the work. The rest of the gallery was filled with exhibits by three contemporary artists, none of whom seemed to me even remotely interesting.
Lunch was a fine chicken chop suey at a glossy pan-Asian place nearby. I did some window shopping on Mariahilfenstrasse, then took in a showing of the new Harry Potter movie. Pure delight, like the books.
While looking for a restaurant for dinner in the Jewish District I discovered a great bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, featuring only books in English. If I lived in Vienna, this would be my second home.

December 19
After checking out and leaving my bags, I took the train to the neighborhood of the Liechtenstein Palace, where the modern art museum was supposed to be. It wasn’t. Wandering into the palace, I saw at once it was being refurbished. I stopped to ask a plump, exquisitely pretty blonde where I’d gone wrong.
Kristina Nietz-Parker, originally from Belgium, is the public relations manager for the Wiener Residenzorchester. She is THE most delightful person I met in Vienna. My question turned into a ten-minute conversation about visiting Europe in general and Vienna in particular. Midway, a young man stopped to ask her a question and as matter of course kissed her in the Viennese style, three times on the cheeks. “That’s one of the things I like most about this city,” she purred, “getting kissed all day.”
Kristina told me where the new museum is located and gave me her card, telling me to call her the next time I’m in town. She gave me a smile of such celestial sunniness that I had no choice but to say goodbye to her Viennese-style myself. Then I reluctantly left her to her business and moved on.
Fifteen minutes after leaving Kristina, the sun came out. I walked past Freud’s house and then to the city hall, the soaring gothic Neues Rathaus. The grandest of all the Christmas markets I’ve seen in Europe was spread out before it, filled with blissfully happy, laughing children and their adults. It was so pleasurable I stayed for an hour.
The new Modern Art Museum was a mixed bag, but the collection of late 20th century painting on the top floor was itself worth the admission. Outside I discovered that the new Leopold Museum was next door. This would have been a far better choice, but now I suppose I have another reason to return to Vienna.
I had a very late lunch, and it was getting dark when I got out. The Staadpark was a too-late discovery and I could barely sample it – with its worshipful monuments to Schubert and Johann Strauss -- before I had to pick up my bags and race for my train. I’d covered more ground than on any other day, and I almost hated to leave.
But it was lovely to get back to Prague.

December 22
Before I left for Prague in October, my old friends Peter and David invited me to Wales for Christmas, providing me with a welcome taste of domesticity as a late addition to this great trip abroad.
David was to pick me up at the Manchester airport but just as my plane came in, so did another from Islamabad. In the customs line I found myself in a vast crowd of weary Pakistanis, creeping along at a snail-like pace toward the customs officials. Since they had undoubtedly been flying longer than I had, I felt I could hardly complain. But still I chafed, impatient to see my dear friend again. I almost leaped into the air with joy when I saw him in the crowd at the gate.
This was my first chance to see the inside of the house they found in May. This pleasant brick house on a winding street in Wrexham is the largest space they’ve lived in since I’ve known them. A sitting room, dining area and kitchen downstairs are in relatively good shape. But one room in the middle is still a catch-all, knee-deep in unpacked bags and boxes from the recent move. Upstairs are three bedrooms, a bath and a snug computer room. A garden extends far, far behind the house, and features a small greenhouse.
That evening after dinner Lee Hassett came over. My enthusiasm over Barbados last March caught fire with Lee and David; we immediately began laying the ground for a holiday together next spring.

December 23
The pantomime which opens this evening was lacking two or three costumes for the finale. I rode with Peter over the Yorkshire moors to a costumier’s in Leeds. A thick fog made finding them difficult but Peter finally called on his cell phone for directions. Homburg’s is a huge storehouse of sumptuous costumes from all periods. A dozen other customers were prowling through the goodies when we arrived. I complimented a dashing young knight on his armor while Peter stalked through the collection avidly looking for what he needed. Afterward we stopped for lunch in the Yorkshire Playhouse and then came home.

December 24, Christmas Eve
Peter had to work today so I rode with him to Chester. This was a happy opportunity to spend the day walking through one of the most liveable, lovable cities I know. Chester is just as beautiful in winter as it is in May. The best of what Americans picture when we dream of Merrie England is right here; I like London only slightly better.
Peter and I had lunch with Glyn, a friend from work, at a little tea shop. I was served a gargantuan brie and tomato Welsh rarebit -- delicious, but a symphony in cholesterol. Later in the afternoon I met Peter back at the car; we picked up John Rowley at the rail station and drove home.
When we arrived, Fred Evans was there, chatting with David. Fred really is quite enjoyable when taken in small doses but after we traveled together through Spain two years ago, David can barely abide him. At one point Fred coyly mentioned that someone recently told him he looks like Sean Connery. True, Fred is egg-bald and has dark eyebrows but there the resemblance ends abruptly. I could see that David was holding down a tidal wave of laughter but we contained ourselves till Fred left.
December 25, my first English Christmas
In the morning, Peter took John to the train before I got up and David left early to spend the day with his family. On Peter’s return we drove by to pick up his mother Joyce. She was to be our hostess for Christmas lunch at a country inn near the Shropshire border, the Hanmer Arms.
The rest of Peter’s family were already there: his sister Maureen, her husband Neil and sons Andrew and Nicholas. The latter in particular is growing swiftly and graciously into adulthood. This shy kid I last saw in May had in a mere six months grown four inches and acquired a patina of unexpected charm. Peter adores his nephews and is hugely gratified that they’ve both decided to work in theatre.
The lunch was sublime. I had a smoked salmon and horseradish cheesecake followed by turkey and dressing. The only disappointment was dessert. My first plum pudding was served in a slab, highly flavorful but served with neither the flaming brandy nor the traditional sprig of holly I’d hoped for. We toasted the season in wine and pulled our Christmas crackers, and if Tiny Tim didn’t come in on Bob Cratchit’s shoulders blessing us all, it was still a charming English Christmas.
We returned to Peter’s house for the traditional exchange of gifts. Joyce had made a trifle, one of my favorite sweets. At nightfall Maureen and her family left.

December 26
David had long before planned a trip to Edinburgh with friends so in the morning Peter drove him to the train. While Peter went to Manchester to pick up John again, I took a long hike through the neighborhood and beyond, stopping at the local pub for lunch. Acton Park is beautiful, bright and modern but still firmly rooted in tradition. I seated myself next to the fireplace and settled in for a long leisurely lunch.
In the evening we watched a couple of movies on TV. Peter had thrown together a delectable chicken pot-au-feu and as a special treat, another Christmas pudding. This one was served in the traditional mound, set alight, and bursting with emphatic flavor. A Christmas pudding shares a few ingredients with the much-despised American fruitcake, but it’s richer, sweeter, darker, less dense, and drenched in brandy.
Phil Edwards came over later but didn’t stay long. But I knew I’d be seeing him the following evening.

December 27
At around 1:00 Peter dropped me in downtown Wrexham and I strolled around the shops for an hour before walking over to Heini and Rommi Przbram’s. These dear old friends don’t change, they mature -- like a great wine. Small talk is alien to Heini and Rommi; what they relish is good, substantial conversation; we thoroughly chewed over a variety of meaty topics: recent politics, twentieth century history, literature, opera, and Vienna, Heini’s hometown. He was thrilled that I’d recently been there. At half past three Sean Connery – I mean Fred – arrived, and we chatted till around six. Fred took me back home and we talked about music. Fred is the ultimate opera buff and is wildly enthusiastic about American show music.
Peter came by for me and drove me to the Stiwt Theatre, in Rhos, for my very first Christmas pantomime, Dick Whittington. This elegant belle epoque theatre occupies a queenly prominence in the middle of a tiny, depressed village. It’s a model of what a theatre should be: acres of sidestage, plenty of dressing rooms, a fine theatre bar. We went down into the dressing rooms where I met some of my friends from last May’s production of The Sound of Music. John Lindop, Steve Davies, Natasha Millar, Jenny Jackson, and Mark Shenton. Phil is in the show, too. All were in the process of getting into makeup. Steve, who directed the spring show, was got up as King Rat, in outrageous glitter-queen makeup and a black bouffant duck’s-ass haircut, a la Elvis.
A Christmas pantomime is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. American pantomime is silent, but in the UK this form of theatre is anything but. Its hallmarks are intentionally bad jokes, topical humor, and borderline-bawdy low comedy. The inserted songs are from musicals, both stage and screen, with a sprinkling of fifties rock and roll. Pantos, steeped in tradition, are generally based on fairy tales or English folklore.
The scenery is hired from a company, and this one had about a dozen highly colorful settings, from London to the palace of the Sultan of Morocco. There was even an underwater ballet.
Pantos prominently feature a Dame, a man in elaborate drag, his costumes changing in every scene, going further and further over the top. Dick Whittington‘s Dame was John Lindop, playing Sarah the Cook. The Principal Boy, usually played by a girl, was this time played by a young man. Natasha, who shone so brightly in The Sound of Music, was the show’s Principal Girl.
Audience participation is de riguer. This involves singing along and shouting instructions to the players on cue (“Wake up, Jack!”, “Hello, Dick!”). Adults, I suspect, find this tiresome but the children in the audience certainly did not. Neither did a certain Yankee visitor, who shouted and honked and sang along with all the rest.
It was all perfectly delightful and we met in the bar afterward for a short party, another cherished custom. When we got home, Peter said to John, “You should have come.” John, decidedly not a traditionalist, growled, “Nyaa… childish…” Of course he’s right, and that’s part of what makes it worth cherishing. It is aimed squarely at children. The adults, if they’re seeing it properly, return to childhood for a brief evening. Personally, I find it absolutely vital to keep in touch with my inner ten-year-old.
High-profile professional pantos featuring great stage stars are slowly dying off. Partly this is due to changing times, partly to television and more technologically advanced forms of entertainment. But the form lives on in amateur groups and in the provincial cities and towns where tradition is more carefully nurtured. Some great old traditions are worth preserving.

December 28
Peter drove me over to Jenny Glover’s for lunch. Since they’ve had a major falling-out, he did not come in. Jenny is still very much her old self, though practically whiteheaded and losing hair by the handful. She is diabetic and doesn’t take the care of herself that she should. Presently we were joined by her mother. Taking care of Jenny after her recent operation for cataracts has, according to Heini and Rommi, given her mother a new lease on life. I spent most of the afternoon there, then walked back home. It’s about a forty-minute hike and very enjoyable. And necessary, as I’ve been eating entirely too well.
When I arrived I found the video of Moulin Rouge ready for me in the VCR. As it finished, Peter arrived and we walked to Steve Davies’s house for a cast party. I had a splendid time because I knew so many people there. The ones I didn’t know didn’t stay strangers for long, due to an epic game of charades. As I was leaving, Steve and Andrew hinted that they might be coming to Barbados with us!

December 29
My flight was uneventful, a blessing in these parlous times. As I left my English friends below the clouds I had a sharp stab of almost primitive homesickness for Boston. But when the airport limo dropped me off in my Prague neighborhood I cheered up at once. This is home, too.

January 1, 2003
The raucous public celebrations of New Year’s Eve aren’t really my particular tango. Since I knew nobody in town well enough to party with, I burrowed in, to spend the evening quietly reflecting on this last remarkable year.
Shortly before midnight I found I couldn’t resist the urge to celebrate. All manner of noise was coming from the Charles Bridge, not the least of which was the insistent pop of fireworks. So I grabbed my camera and joined the thousands already on the bridge. It was the bitterest cold of the season so far, and my frostbitten fingers were soon aching with cold. Every few minutes I had to stop shooting and rub them back into warmth. The bridge was slick with spilled champagne. Drunken revelers were setting off explosives every few feet; I wondered how many emergencies the city’s hospitals were prepared to handle. At one point a cone of fire at my feet began to sputter erratically. Everyone around it started backing away – wisely – for it began shooting off in all directions, a fountain of flame. This I took as a sign to retire from the field.
Not a single one of my shots came out, but I was glad I went outside anyway.

January 4
I was familiar with Janacek’s The Cunning Little Vixen only through an orchestral suite. The production I saw tonight at the National is a new one, having premiered only a week ago. My ticket was for the matinee, a fine seat at the end of the eighth row. The only distraction was a minor one, a five-year-old boy next to me wriggling with impatience on his father’s lap. In spite of all its frolicsome animal characters, The Cunning Little Vixen is not really for children.
This lush opera, melodic yet dissonant, has less sung music than most. Dance episodes and orchestral interludes hold equal prominence. It’s the very essence of modern opera, light years ahead of what many of the composer’s contemporaries were doing. The Cunning Little Vixen is probably the first opera based on a comic strip -- and surely the only one featuring a duo of a frog and his grandson! Artistically, this is the most daring and innovative production I’ve seen in Prague so far. The set is mimimalist in its way, but shimmering with light and color. Most of the playing area takes place on a large revolving disc, dramatically tilted. Hanging above is a diaphanous silken bag the size of a circus tent. Seven columns, also in silk, descend from this bag, suggesting a forest of trees. (Soon the spirits of the forest rise into the columns out of the holes in the disc and undulate about the stage.) A few changing pieces of scenery and a plain backdrop for lighting effects complete the design. The lighting is almost a character in itself, subtly evoking the change of seasons.
The costumes were just as fanciful and engaging as the set. I especially liked the forester’s wife’s hens: the female chorus wear short, puffy crinolines and feathered bathing caps with pink combs. The vixen wasn’t tricked out in ears and foxtail as one might expect, but in ankle boots and a dress of burnt orange velvet. At one memorable point, a ghostly stag (two men in a stag suit on stilts!) silently stalked across for no discernible reason.
There were two emotional high points. Act Two culminates in the vixen’s wedding to her fox, an incandescent blaze of color, joyous music and glittering stage effects. Large white butterflies on poles are waved about, as if the whole animal world were celebrating the nuptials. The finale was rich and poignant, the music lifting the audience into something approaching rapture.
The singing was uniformly excellent, but it was the production as a whole that I’ll remember. This one is going to be hard to top.

January 5
I’ve never been a huge fan of the classical ballet but this evening I attended the National Theatre’s production of The Nutcracker. I hadn’t seen it since my Navy days back in Washington. I had the exact same seat as yesterday. The sets for this production seem to be a shabby relic of the Brezhnev era. Clara was danced by an exquisite doll-like girl with a nose about the size of an aspirin tablet. The Nutcracker Prince was your typical ballet male lead, a too-pretty blond with a pasteboard smile. Just as typically he had apparently stuffed three days’ laundry into the front of his dance belt. Can anyone tell me why ballerinas are always flatchested and their partners hung like King Kong?

January 9
Today I braved the cold to walk over to Holesovice for a final visit to the Centre for Modern and Contemporary Art.
This time I wisely bought a ticket for only the first two floors and was able to stroll about looking primarily at what pleased me on the previous visit. In addition there were some new installations and an exhibit of photos by Josef Koudelka.
The first group were Koudelka’s threatre work, his chief claim to fame, then a series of harrowing shots of the Russian tanks rolling into Wenceslas Square in 1968. Where his theatrical photos were dreamy and imaginative, this photojournalism was stark, clear-eyed and scary. The largest part of the exhibit was comprised of his studies of Slovenian Gypsies. The shots of these debased people living in squalor were more depressing than enlightening. Nowhere did I see in their faces any dignity, beauty, or the color which we traditionally associate with Gypsy life.
I barely made it through the two floors. My left knee was shrieking with agony, the worst pain I’ve endured yet. The right knee hurt, too, from bearing the redistributed weight. But as I wearily stumped homeward across the frozen city I consoled myself with the thought that in less than a week I’ll be driving my own car again. Halfway home I had an inspiration: a teashop I’d never been to was on the way.
Siva may be the best one yet. The street level floor is for coffee devotees; thirty steep steps into the cellar is the realm of the tea-lover. I ordered a pot of Mysterious Island and settled into a comfortable wicker chair to survey my surroundings. This cavern of pleasure has a high barrel ceiling of rough stone. Oriental rugs and Indian bedspreads are hung about. A table of young men in the corner were sipping tea and drawing smoke from a hookah. It’s actually an item on the menu, offered with a variety of flavored tobaccos. It reminded me of the mercifully brief period in my first year of college when I took this up myself. (I gave up the hookah in record time, and it spoiled tobacco for me for life -- thank heaven.)

January 10
Tonight I went to my eighth and last opera in Prague, and my first one at the State Opera house. Just walking into the theatre was worth the price of admission. It’s half again the size of the National Theatre, a rococo fantasia in whipped cream and gold filigree. My seat in the middle of the fourth row gave me a good view of both the house and the stage. While white and gold are the predominant colors, the boxes are gilt chambers with satin walls in soft burgundy, as suitable for discreet seduction as for watching an opera.
Tonight’s offering was Verdi’s Nabucco, another I’d never seen before. It’s early Verdi, with his characteristic oom-pah-pah dotted rhythms, a certified guilty pleasure. The opera is set largely in Babylon so the set design was over the top and utterly delicious. For the fourth or fifth time here in Prague I longed to design sets for an opera myself.
The singing was spotty, the women generally better than the men. Zaccaria was sung by Jiri Sulzenko. It wasn’t until the last scene that I realized that this dignified old figure was the same rolypoly sprite who’d sung the charming Leporello in Don Giovanni.
But from her first entrance the stage was firmly in the grip of Agathe Kania, playing the evil usurping daughter Abigaille. She swooped onto the stage dripping with silver lamé and rubies, a wild cascade of bright red curls floating down her back. From that moment I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Her rich coloratura voice matched her shimmering appearance. Lustily chewing up everything in sight, she was Brunnhilde, Ethel Merman, Medea, Baby Jane Hudson and a girl’s hockey team all rolled into one. When she strode on in Act Three, followed by a bright red train big enough to completely carpet my last apartment, the game was up. Verdi might just as well have rubbed the name of Nabucco off the title page and called the thing Abigaille.

January 13
Tomorrow afternoon at 4:35 I fly away. For the last several days I have been walking around the city savoring its beauty for the last time. And I’ve been saying goodbye to a few people. I’ve known few of them by name but they’ve still been bright threads in the fabric of my life here. Jan and Nonie’s assistant Hanka Hromadova has been a warm presence, friendly and helpful. I’ll miss the crews behind the counter at Bohemia Bagel and Video Express, yes, even the pale and distant receptionist at the British Council. Today when I told her I was going home she seemed crestfallen, actually sorry that I won’t be returning, and wished me a happy trip. I’d thought she didn’t like me. Apparently it was only shyness.
How can a man come to a strange city, explore it avidly for three months -- and still feel he has barely scratched the surface? The more familiar Prague becomes, the greater is its capacity to surprise. Even today on my last tour through the Old Quarter I was still stumbling across new delights. The house where I’ve been staying quickly became like home but it’s the city outside my windows that has bewitched me.
True, there have been a few down sides to my sojourn here. It would have been convenient to have a car. Everyone but suckling babes seems to smoke. People could be friendlier, though I’m told this guardedness is a holdover from the years of soviet occupation. And the weather has been bone-chilling for the last seven weeks. But immersing myself in an exotic and unfamiliar city has made such minor flaws irrelevant.
And what aspects of this city have charmed me the most? The extravagant wealth of ornament on every surface. The ready availability of music. The variety of fine cuisine from every nation, and at eye-poppingly low prices. The teashops. The Charles Bridge. The unearthly view of the castle at night. And yes, the sheer newness of it all.
Tomorrow I will soar into the sky with a high heart, eager to get back to Boston to embrace my friends and take up the reins of my life again. But tonight I am very sad.

January 14
This morning the sky was crisp and clear and the temperature had skyrocketed up to the forties. Since I didn’t have to leave the city till one o’clock, I indulged myself in a few goodbyes: the charming young manager of Bohemia Bagel, my favorite clerk at Video Express, and the staff of El Centro. I even met Nonie’s friend Jennifer walking across the Charles Bridge.
I locked up the apartment, schlepped my unwieldy bags down the stairway and found the taxi already waiting. The ride out to the airport was a sad one, but at least the sun gilding the old buildings was cheering. Prague had never looked prettier.
And I was off.

Note: (April 17, 2008) Sadly, I just read online that Roy Breimon, Nonie’s painter friend, was murdered in August 2004, a year and half after I met him. He was found bound and gagged in his apartment, presumably by a male hustler.