Adventuring in the Alps, Part I

Sorry, I'm a bit behind. This is primarily because of this. And this. Is anyone surprised? No? Moving on, then.

So, where was I at the conclusion of my last missive? Right, the first night in Innsbruck. I'll do my best to remember and report faithfully, but given the extended interval of time (to wit, about three days), some very minor details may be changed or misrepresented. I take no responsibility for this whatsoever.

 On our hostel host's recommendation, we set out after breakfast and caught the bus up the side of the valley to the gondola station leading up to the very top of the mountain. Now, you would imagine at this point that we paid the 27 euro (EACH!) and wafted up the mountainside suspended from a clothesline in a chairlift on steroids in a gondola, but then you would be silly and wrong and I would have to laugh at you. We are hikers. Technology is for wimps. So we walked up.

Although by "up", I mean "up the mountain", and by that, I mean "halfway up the mountain." Specifically, to a very cute little lodge/restaurant perched on the side of the slope; above, a hideously steep and spleenbreakingly vertical ascent to the top of the ridge (we did not do this), and below, a glorious view of the red-and-white city of Innsbruck nestled in the valley below. The lodge was only accessible, so far as I could see, from three ways: down from the ridge above (best if you had wings), from a windy, steep path from below (best if you're Rambo), and from a nearly level road from the side (best for cows and normal hikers). Since the sun was shining warmly and the view was fantastic, we stayed a while and had a leisurely meal before heading back down the hill.

I don't honestly remember what--oh, wait, yes I do. We changed out our packs in our room, did some laundry, and then went for pizza. There was some laughing at a kid who looked like Justin Bieber and a lot of moaning about sore calves, and then we went to bed. Eventually. I think.

Anyway, next day! (This would be the 27th). Again on Thomas' (the reception's!) recommendation, we'd booked a one-night stay in a hut on the mountain opposite the one we'd been on the day before. The hike began somewhat inauspiciously: despite the fitful but warm sunshine, we could not find any signs pointing us towards our destination, and the people we asked for directions tended to look at us incredulously and say, "You're going to hike? Well, okay..." (Or, y'know, the equivalent German.) By the time we'd slogged our way up ridiculously steep paved roads to the little chapel/restaurant combo known as Heiligwasser, we figured out that this hut that Thomas had booked for us was not, as he had said, three hours up moderately challenging hiking trails, but at the end of these 60-degree-angle roads on top of the frickin' mountain. We pondered, looked up the imposing slope before us, considered that it was already 4pm, said "Sod it" (or thereabouts), and headed for the gondola.

Turns out that Heiligwasser is positioned right near the Mittelstation (halfway station) of the gondola lift going up to Schutzhaus, where we were staying. We caught the last cable car up of the day with 12 minutes to spare to talk to Ahmed, the wonderfully friendly operator from Egypt, and so finally made it up to the top much more quickly than we'd anticipated.

The "hut" turned out to be a very-nice full-blown lodge, where we dumped our stuff before (since we hadn't had enough yet) hiking on up to the very top of the mountain, another hour or so up. At the top, it was bitingly cold and windy, but the view, even despite the low-hanging clouds, was astounding. The mountain stood right over Innsbruck, which sits just at the intersection of three valleys into one; from the top, you can see down all of them until the green valley floor and the dark blue-green peaks meld into a dark haze in the distance. The bellies of the low-hanging clouds were just brushing the peaks of the mountains, and every so often a shaft of light would pierce through the grey and illuminate a patch of the valley in brilliant gold.

We didn't stay up there long because it was too cold, so we headed back down to have a delicious dinner instead. After coffee and admiring the view of the valleys lit up in the darkness, we retreated to our room to sleep.

The next day dawned bright and clear, so we packed up and set off on the longest, most roundabout way possible back to Innsbruck. No, really, but we did this on purpose: hiking down from the top, we descended through the forests from one little Alpine hut to the next: having drinks at one, then lunch at the next, and so on. We had great opportunities to see the smaller towns in the valley as we went down, finally ending up in the town of Rinn, where we caught the bus back to Innsbruck. This expedition took us all day, at which point we returned to our previous hotel for the night.

Which brings us to today, which is mostly boring, since it involved a lot of sitting in trains, staring out the windows at the waterlogged green countryside. The journey from Innsbruck to our next destination, Gimmelwald, only got interesting once we arrived in Interlaken, our first destination in Switzerland. For a brief spell, the sun broke through the clouds, so we took a train break to walk through the town and get groceries before the sky opened up again. Once the rain'd kicked up again, we got back on another train and headed deeper up into the valley.

Since it's getting late and I'm tired, I cannot do Switzerland justice. Words can't and pictures can't; you have to go there and see it, but even then you won't believe it, because it's simply too magnificent to be real. The Interlaken/Lauterbrunnen valley is carpeted in green and dotted with elegantly decorated little huts, with the pale grey-brown river tumbling and foaming its way down towards the lakes. But above and on either side, the mountains rise almost straight out of the ground; you have to crane your neck to see the top of the sheer sides, where the dark green fuzz of pine trees mark the edge of the level ground. Streams hurl themselves off the mountaintops with wild abandon, plunging in a fine mist down the rocks to join the river below. It is altogether magical.

We took a bus through this wonderland of misty grey and impossible green until the valley simply came to a very steep dead end, at which point we caught the cable car up the cliff face--looking down at the suicidal waterfalls from above--to a group of houses just close enough to be called a town and bear a name. Gimmelwald is a haven for backpackers, free spirits, and lone wolves to hike and breathe in the wild air of the mountains, which is what we're hoping to do. If we can get some good weather.

It's nearing midnight and I'm short on sleep as it is, so here in the common room of the Mountain Hostel, listening to the obnoxious American in overalls play the guitar and the Irish guys talking about the lack of interdental fricatives in their dialect (though not, of course, in those words), I will leave you. Welcome to the mountains. Enjoy.

Sayonara to Salzburg and Investigating Innsbruck

Another train, another date on my Eurail pass. We've said farewell to the lovely city of Salzburg on our way further south and west through Austria to Innsbruck where hopefully, if the vast improvement of the weather today is any indication, the sun will come out and we'll be able to do some hiking.

Innsbruck is a perfectly adorable little city somewhere in the Alps. It's got everything an alpine European should have: interesting, brightly colored buildings, twisty alleyways, pedestrian areas lined with shops and inviting cafes, and everywhere you look, mountains peeking through the cracks between buildings. The only problem is that it's Sunday, so half the town is shut. Ah well.

We arrived midafternoon and quickly discovered that the sensory (read: Internet) deprivation we suffered in Salzburg could be cured by the free WiFi at the McDonalds, so here from a Europeanized version of an American classic do I write to you. Despite dire warnings of rain in the next few days, today was sunny, if cool and breezy, so we explored the Old Town, had a delicious dinner, caught part of a free concert, and had far too much caffeine and laughed far too loud at a cute little cafe in an alley. The two waiters there both have wonderful senses of humor, and they needed them to deal with...well, Janna, mostly.

I don't have much to say about Innsbruck so far since that's really as far as we've gotten. Now, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I'd like to note here that there is a glaring hole in the English language that I need a suitable plug for. It is a feeling closely akin to homesickness: that strange yearning for another place, somewhere you can't get to but long to be, the name of which makes your heart flutter and ache at the same time. The closest English can really get is "homesick", but this sounds odd if you want to use it to describe anywhere but where you've come from; all other "travel bug" type phrases don't capture the notions of reminiscence and longing for a beloved place. I think the German word "fernweh" (literally, faraway-pain) gets a lot closer, which is why it's the name of this blog. Anyway, I mention this because this is what I feel about Britain.

If you were expecting me to say "America" (which, if you know me, you weren't), the only things I miss about America are proximity to the people I love and free bread and glasses of water at restaurants. Oh, and Hulu. That's about it.

I like Austria. I'm sure I'll like Switzerland and Italy as well while I'm there, and Germany will be my home, so I'm determined to like it no matter what--and I already do, don't get me wrong. But there are two countries in the world where I've felt instinctively comfortable. One is, for no comprehensible reason, Japan. And the other is Britain. Go figure.

Anyway, the McDonald's is about to close, so on that odd note I must end. I hope that whoever and wherever you are, you read this in a place where you are safe, dry, happy, and comfortable. All the best from Innsbruck, Austria, Europe, The World.

Singing Through Salzburg

Originally written July 24th

Our first day in Salzburg was...eventful, I guess you could say. After breakfast, we set out into the cloudy grey morning to do RFS' self-guided tour through the Old Town. We poked our heads into churches (the cathedral, although plain on the outside, is really spectacular within), wandered down alleyways, ate bread at a monastery bakery and marveled at the beauty of the St. Peter's cemetery. This cemetery, tucked up against the foot of the cliff, is a quiet and peaceful place, and each grave is a lovingly tended flowerbed crowned by an ornate iron cross.

As we were making our way down Getreidegasse, where Mozart's birthplace is (wowee!), it really began to pour. Luckily, we'd thought ahead to bring our rain jackets along. Seeing as how it didn't show any sign of stopping, we left the masses huddling in doorways and squelched our way across the river to the New Town side. There we found the beautiful Mirabell Palace and the adorable gardens used in The Sound of Music. Of course we had to take many pictures, but by then, despite having raincoats, we were still getting cold and rather wet, so we headed to Mozart's Residenz. I tell you, everything in this city revolves around either The Sound of Music or Mozart; there's no escaping either one. We toured through Mozart's house and learned a bit more about him than I'd actually wanted to know...then we had to face the rain again. Tired and wet, we decided to head back up to our hostel for dinner, but unbeknownst to us (because RFS hadn't mentioned it) the entire restaurant seems to regularly rent itself out for parties or whatnot, so they refused to sell us any food, no matter how pathetically we asked. This meant that we ended up in our tiny room, eating stale bread and warm yoghurt left over from Prague, and having a good laugh about the whole thing before finally going to bed.

Now, something to consider: you'd think, if the hills in Austria really were alive with the sound of music, that they'd be singing in, er, German. Not Britainglish. Just sayin'.

I'm squished into a seat on a huge and gaudily painted tour bus--a space altogether too small for a person to whom God has graciously given both elbows and knees. Outside the countryside of Austria rolls by, soaking in grey rain, the mountaintops wreathed in clouds, vanishing into the misty distance. Even through the drizzle, the hills are a lovely, verdant green, moving aside like emerald curtains to reveal dramatic, pale blue lakes guarded by tall dark pines.

All this lyrically beautiful scenery, punctuated by the occasional cow nonplussed by the rain or a cluster of brightly painted houses with red-tiled rooves, is somewhat ruined by the music pouring out of the speakers directly above my head. Yes, this lovely drive through the countryside is in a bus emblazoned with the likeness of Maria and the von Trapp children and the cheerful words, "The Original Sound of Music Tour!" Our guide, who reminds me of a taller, American version of the guy who played Wormtail in Harry Potter, somehow manages to sound enthusiastic and bored at the same time, announcing each detail in an oddly breathy voice: "Now, remember that scene where Maria and the children sing? Again? That was filmed on the mountain that you would be able to see on the right side if it wasn't hidden behind a skyful of rainclouds!" This tour is definitely for the fanatics and obsessives, e.g. my mother.

Our guide also has been building up a mythology around our bus driver not unlike the mysteries surrounding the Stig. Maybe it has something to do with being a professional driver of something? I have no doubt that during the course of the tour, Roland the Bus Driver will gain more and more superpowers and random objects. So far he's lived under a bridge in the middle of Salzburg, painted his house gold like the palaces of Austria (he says it keeps away mosquitoes), regularly run into trees (but it's okay--he doesn't own the bus or the trees. Toyota Hilux, anyone?) and gone freeclimbing up a cliff with one hand, because in the other hand, he has a beer. Our guide even told us that "there was almost a fistfight on the bus a couple weeks ago. Roland had to break it up...by yodeling."

By the far the most distracting and headache-inducing thing, though, is the music. Of course on the Sound of Music tour you have to listen to the music, but my heavens, is it annoying! I'm trying to write and admire the countryside, and Maria is howling at the top of her lungs about confidence and that jerk Rolf is trying to seduce poor Liesl. I vaguely remember this movie but certainly not enough to really appreciate all of the minuscule details.

But I'm just being pessimistic, possibly brought on by the fact that my feet are pickling in rainwater and Julie Andrews is doing her level best to liquefy my brains. Sigh. But Austria is really gorgeous; I've only been to Vienna before, and that was in the winter. There's something about this area that, though a bit touristy, is for the most part laid-back, quiet, and inviting.

This tour is most of what we've done today. Because of the cold and the rain, we were reluctant to leave our hostel this morning, so it was near noon when we finally made it down to the New City. We wandered along the river to look at a long line of pavilions selling food, decorations and jewelery before we got on our four-hour bus tour through the countryside. The rain is kind of a shame, because although I'd rather be cold than hot, the mist and clouds mean that we can't get the full effect of the towering peaks hiding their faces in the whiteness.

Later...

Somehow, I managed to make it through the entire tour without my head exploding. We saw the lane where the children hung out of the trees in their playclothes, the lake where they fell out of the boat, the gazebo, and the church where Maria and the Captain/Baron dude were married (Holy tourist trap, Batman!) among other places. I know I sound very negative; I just find it a little sad that this beautiful city, with loads of gorgeous churches and cute alleys and wonderful personality, depends for its touristic income almost entirely on two things: (1) Mozart (who apparently didn't like it anyway) and (2) the Sound of Music film, which was, according to our tour guide, something of a ripoff of a smaller, more accurate German film, so the Salzburgers, who have seen the original, have no great love for the Hollywood version, being very aware of all the artistic, factual, and geographical inaccuracies/shortcuts/handwaving.

But enough of that. Since it was still raining with a somewhat spiteful vehemence, we headed to a lovely cafe (a little posh for us, in capris, sandals, and t-shirts) for some wonderful cappuccino, then, following the recommendation of our guiding light, RFS, headed to a Gasthaus for dinner. For the first time on perhaps the entire trip, we were greeted at the door by someone who actually seemed to pleased to welcome us inside. Towering over us and guiding us to a table, the delightfully friendly man was stunned that we said no to beers, but managed to talk Mom into some wine anyway. We were sitting alone at our table in a brightly lit, antler-adorned hall for only a few minutes before we were joined by three more Americans (all brought there by RFS, of course): a RN who had been working on a new German Bible in London, and two professional musicians playing for three weeks with a symphony in Graz. We passed an entertaining evening eating hearty Austrian food and swapping stories; it was getting late when we finally trudged back to our perch on the cliff.

I was distracted for a while from bed, though, by the spectacular view of the city at night from the top of an old wall beside our hostel. From the cliff looking down, the alleyways and roads looked like streams of light, flowing with cars and umbrella'd pedestrians, between the dark banks of the black rooftops, to the Salzach river, which caught and reflected the light from the lamps. Above the estuary of interconnected rivulets sat the Hohensalzburg fortress, cloaked in clouds on the hilltop. I couldn't help but think that it looked like Hamlet's Elsinore would in my imagination: distant and regal, presiding with detachment over the light and life below, wreathed in mist and illuminated with an eerie, deathly green glow.

There were many things I liked about Salzburg. I'd love to come back here when the weather's better to explore the little towns by the lakes and hike some of those spectacular mountains. I like the more refined dignity of the city; Salzburg, with its pale, dark-capped buildings, many church spires, and dignified fortress, all framed by distant blue mountains, feels like a table in a garden on a beautiful summer day set for tea with the Queen, with shapely cups and posh little sandwiches and cakes and a teapot in a lace cozy. By contrast, Prague feels like a birthday party: a riot of colors and lights, a willful and joyous refusal to submit to order and straight lines, with the triumphant beauty of St. Vitus' Cathedral and the Palace as the showy and flowery cake.

Now I'm hungry.

Storms Over Salzburg

Originally written July 22nd

Whew. That was scary. For a few minutes, my poor computer refused to boot up and kept shutting itself off. I hope we're past that now.

As I write to you from my bunk in a hostel in the side of a cliff in Salzburg, I can see through the window that the sky is lighting up with flashes of purple--and there's the thunder, too. It appears the storm is back.

It's been hot and muggy in Salzburg all day. That's quite a change from when I was here last with Jewell, and just caught a glimpse of the city on our way to Vienna. My only impressions were clear skies and a stunning blue mountain crowned in white. The mountains are still stunning and blue, but now it's difficult to discern their shapes against the summer haze in the distance.

Our hostel is perched on the top of a cliff overlooking the Old Town and the Hohensalzburg Fortress. Oh, lovely, the rain's begun; maybe it'll cool down. Right, cliff--this means we have to take an elevator to get to our hostel (like the Aufzug in Marburg, except you have to pay for it), but it also means that instead of traffic noise, city racket and drunken tourists outside our window, we have rain, the wind in the trees, and...drunken tourists (they're everywhere).

This afternoon, we hiked up to and toured the fortress, which is a huge hulk of white-plastered majesty presiding over the city like the figurines on a wedding cake. Which is actually not that obscure of a mental image, because Salzburg is surprisingly white with dark rooftops, quite a change from Prague's red tile roofs and application with wild abandon of riotous pastel colors to every flat surface. In contrast, Salzburg looks monochromatically dignified, like the house of an elderly woman who has chosen to decorate her house entirely in white. Maybe this was a tribute to the importance of salt in Salzburg's history. Maybe it's the natural color of the local building stone. Maybe there were a lot of ambitious and controlling little old ladies on Salzburg's decorations council. The world may never know.

Anyway, the fortress looks just like an imposing medieval fortress should: big, with lots of walls and turrets and parapets and cannons pointed toward the town. The best moment was climbing out on the highest bit with a 360-degree view of Salzburg in the hazy light of early evening. There were some museums and such that we dashed through as well, but really, the impressive exterior view and wandering around the courtyards and towers were the best parts.

Sheesh, it's really coming down hard now. I hope it keeps going to cool off the air and get rid of all the rain so we can have nice, if cooler, weather for our stay here.

We took the funicular down from the castle and rambled a bit through the streets and alleyways of the old town, waving at the statue of Mozart on the way. We stopped for a late dinner at a cute outdoor Italian place, but just as we got our food, there were amethyst flashes in the distance, ominous growlings, and then the first drops of rain. We scootched under an umbrella to finish our food and then went straight back to our hostel, where there's a lovely old ruined wall with a second that juts out from the cliff, affording a sweeping view of the city and of the lightning-lit clouds in the distance.

The storm stayed fairly far from us, but the purple light was dancing everywhere, pulsing like a strobe light. Still, there is nothing like being outside, exposed, and high up in the midst of a summer thunderstorm. Every swish of the leaves on the trees and ominous silences of the cicadas seem to be harbingers of doom, but then the horizon ignites and a glowing thread leaps from heaven to earth, and you forget that at any second your brain could be fried and your heart exploded by a strike from the heavens because it is so awesomely, wondrously, fantastically beautiful.

Mom and Janna have both fallen asleep, and I'm about to do the same. Assuming it's not still raining in the morning (and even if it is--oh well) we have a lot to do. Mozart and the Sound of Music await.

Prächtige Prag

You never forget your first cathedral.

I saw my first cathedral on my first trip to the Continent at the tender age of 16. My mother and I had just begun a month-long tour around France, Switzerland, Germany, and Sweden, and were spending our first few days in Paris. Although perhaps not the best place to get a good first impression of Europe as a continent, Paris is lovely in many ways and has enough gasp-inducing landmarks to impress anyone, much less your average 16-year-old.

Along with the Eiffel Tower, Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe, of course we had to visit Notre Dame. I was immediately impressed by the creamy stone towers and beautiful carving, and inside, the vast arched spaces and, especially, the gorgeous stained glass windows. I remember being particularly enthralled by the rose windows--like frozen fireworks in lavender, magenta, azure, and gold--and standing motionless as other tourists swirled and eddied around me, trying to hold my breath so I could get a clear picture of every detail. We climbed the towers and I leaned beside a gargoyle, delighted with the height, astounded by the view of the city spread out before me.

Since then, visiting churches has become a priority in my travels. After the rush and stress of finding a hostel, looking for reasonably priced food, trying to spend money frugally and sensibly, worrying about pickpockets and watching the clock, these still and ancient churches are refuges for me just as they´ve been for pilgrims and wanderers for centuries. No matter what country you´re in, the cool dimness is welcoming, comfortingly familiar, intriguingly unique. Each one has a different character--different saints and patrons frozen in stone in the act of benediction or caught in the dramatic moment of miracle or martyrdom.

Some churches I experience and enjoy, then promptly forget, but others stick in my head forever for some impression on me. As I said, Notre Dame was the first, and has a special place in my heart. For fond memories, there´s Christ Church Cathedral in Dublin, where a rector took my friend and I and a couple other people on a wonderful private tour for sheer enthusiasm. For romantic beauty, I always think of wandering past the warm golden light spilling out of cafes on dark, twisty streets, only to round a corner and find the white domes of the church of Montmartre looming like the spires of an Arabian palace in the gathering Parisian twilight. For pure shock-and-awe grandeur, the Dom in Köln is unbelievable; as you leave the Hauptbahnhof, it towers over you, filling your field of vision, forcing you to crane your neck just to see where its black spires meet the heavens. And for spectacular ambiance and stained glass, I always think of St. Vitus´ Cathedral here in Prague, which brings me in a roundabout way to today´s adventure.

We slept in somewhat and left our hostel late, wandering through the city and up the hill to find spectacular views over the city from a monastery perched high above the red tile rooftops. From there, we drifted back down to Castle Square and entered the castle complex. The entire top of this ridge is crowned by Prague Castle with the cathedral as the spiky, green-domed jewel in the center. The castle looks less like a castle than it does a row of fancy pastel houses, but the cathedral that sits in the middle is unmistakably grand, so we headed there first.

Through the doors and into the relative coolness and silence we obediently filed, navigating around tour groups with matching lanyards and oblivious sightseers with audioguides mashed to their ears. The wonderful thing about St. Vitus´ is that each window, down both sides of the cathedral and around the apse, is a different style and color scheme, so each chapel is a surprise. My favorite is the Mucha window, an absolutely stunning work of art in glorious colors depicting, in the center, an old woman representing the past and memory and a bright-eyed young boy in red looking to the future of the Czech people. There is so much detail and care in these windows that you could spend hours just studying them and staring.

We walked around the outside of the church, very impressed by the intricate golden mosaic over the doors, and then headed off to find dinner. We followed RFS´ recommendation to a hidden-away little place with views over the city and a very friendly, Anthony-Hopkins-look-alike waiter who impressed on us the importance of ordering things that were ´´traditional Czech.´´ By the time we left, evening was approaching, so we started to make our way back down toward the city, although we kept getting distracted by panoramic views over the city. On our way back to the river, we stopped by the Lennon (not Lenin!) wall, where Czechs expressed their hopes for peace and freedom during communism, and the tradition now continues with colorful graffiti messages. We finally made it back to Charles´ Bridge (with a short detour to see some of the sets from MI:I) as the sun was going down and wandered in a roundabout way back to our hostel.

Tomorrow is our last day in Prague. We will then be moving on to Salzburg, which is new to all of us. I´m looking forward to and apprehensive about this for the same reason: I will once again be expected to act as translator. Here in Prague, all three of us are on equal ground, being equally unable to make any sense of the (utterly fascinating) Czech language. In Austria, we´ll be back on familiar ground with German...but I´ll be expected to talk again. To everyone. About everything.

Ah well, it´s good for me. Good language practice as well as good practice being bold. I´m going to need both once I finally get to Stadtroda.

P.S. I know I keep saying this, but pictures coming later. Promise!

Appreciating Prague

Although we did much today, there isn't a whole lot to report. I've already told you about the wonderful buildings and winding streets, except that now in full daylight, we could really experience the pastel colors and scrolling details on so many buildings.

We took a free walking tour for most of the morning; many of the places were, again, familiar to me, though I couldn't tell you what they meant. Our guide was a fun and energetic young man from North Carolina (not very local!) who took the group through the Old Town, the Jewish Quarter, and along the riverfront. After the tour, we spent a lot of time wandering, having lunch, and shopping aimlessly, just enjoying the ambiance of the city. We finished off the day with a dinner of bread, cheese, salami, and wine in the Market Square, watching people and cars go by in the gathering twilight.

I wish I had more variety and things of interest to regale you with. But it's getting late here, and sleep sits heavy on my eyelids. So more later.

Departing Dresden and Puttering through Prague

I promised I'd tell you about Dresden, so I will. Dresden was surprisingly nice, even in the very brief time we were there. Since it's not very far from Jena, I'd very much like to spend more time there.

We left our bags at the train station and walked through the Altstadt, choosing our path by the main flow of traffic and what looked interesting the distance. Because of this, I can't really tell you what we saw because I'm not sure myself what it was. We did see two very beautiful and very different churches: one a cathedral, cleanly white and quietly dignified on the inside, and other, the Frauenkirche, was circular, packed with tourists, and a riot of colors, balconies, and golden trim. We started back to the train station, stopping for lunch on the way, and ended up having to run to our train.

As we pulled into Prague, the grey canopy that had covered Dresden dissolved into clear skies and cool sunshine. Although I feel a little on edge in Prague, like I'm never totally secure--maybe it's the strangeness of being utterly unable to understand the local language--I've never encountered scenery like it in Europe. Every building is beautifully painted and decorated, and whatever medieval logic resulted in the modern layout of Prague, clearly none of them had ever heard of a straight line; the cobbled streets twist, curve, merge, and diverge for no discernible reason. The effect is delightful; new vistas unfold every few feet and the streets just ooze serendipity. Setting off towards a particular edifice is a risky business if you can't clearly see it, since the road inevitably curves and sends you off in a different direction. This is irritating if you're trying to get to a particular place at a particular time, because you won't, but if you're wandering with your head thrown back, tripping over cobblestones and keeping one eye on your backpack, letting the crowds and roads carry you along, you can end up in some very beautiful places.

We found our way, in a roundabout sort of way, to our hostel, and in the evening, we set off to see some of the sights and find some food. We walked through the marketplace square and followed the tide of humanity to Charles' Bridge, one of the most famous landmarks in Prague which, besides being stately and statue-adorned in its own right, affords breathtaking views of the cathedral and palace on the hillside above the river. We were there just as the sun was going down behind the hill and setting the clouds aflame in magenta and gold. Slowly, the sky dimmed into twilight and the cathedral and palace were lit from beneath by spotlights.

We finally tore ourselves and wended our way back through the brightly lit streets to the main square, picking up a couple of döner kebap on our way. I've heard that memories are most strongly connected with smell and taste, and tasting those döner, I was instantly back in Marburg. We took a good while looking at the very beautiful but mostly incomprehensible astronomical clock, then finally staggered home.

It is certainly strange to feel that a place as exotic and convoluted as this lovely city is familiar to me, but I was here just a year and a half ago for New Year's with my friend Jewell on our way around the Continent for Christmas break. It looked very different then, of course; the market square and Wenceslas Square were packed with people and fireworks whizzing overhead, and the scents of baked goods, Glühwein, and explosives were heavy in the sharp winter air. Now the air is only cool, not bitingly cold, and the square mostly empty. Otherwise, everything looks, as far as I can remember, the same.

I guess the world really does continue to exist when I'm not there...

Written 7/19/2010