Day Nine: Did We Really Do All That?

I’ve had enough.  This morning, two of Verity’s four pears were stolen, and now you get to suffer through a rant, so fasten your seatbelts kids: this could get punctuation-y.

Dear hostelers of the world,

I understand you’re on a shoestring budget.  So am I, so I get that.  Really.  I do.  But being poor doesn’t mean you can go around stealing other poor people’s food; it just means you’re mean.  And more than likely a bad person.  But mostly mean.  Especially when that food is absolutely, positively, clearly labeled with a name and a date, and especially when you’re in a country whose currency is generally considered a bargain.  When in doubt, leave the food be: even though you can’t be sure who bought it, you know you definitely didn’t, and therefore you shouldn’t be eating it.  Next time, buy your own dam food.

There.  Song over.  Now on to one of the busiest days I’ve ever experienced without actually seeming to be busy.

We bitterly ate breakfast before heading into the center of town on foot: a mere fifteen-minute endeavor.  Our first glimpse of something old came in the form of Powder Tower and the Municipal House.  Since, again, central Europe has usually slipped under my knowledge radar, I didn’t necessarily know these sites’ significance when I saw them, so most historical/background info has been filled in afterwards.  The Power Tower/Gate was one of thirteen original gates that ringed Old Town Prague, and it’s the only one still standing.  What I knew then: it probably stored gunpowder at one time.  What I learned later: it did indeed store gunpowder at one time.  The tower looks as something old should look: grungy and unbleached, untouched by man since the last stone was laid, though the brass ornamentation has evidently been recently replaced, if its blinding capabilities meant anything.  Next to it stands the Municipal House, which is where Prague stages a lot of concerts and classical events.  On its tiny balcony is where Czechoslovakia was declared a nation independent from the Austro-Hungarian Empire after the end of World War One.  It’s also gold and glittery, which quickly became the main theme of Prague: something old, something new and glittery!

Powder Gate!

Municipal House.

Ooh. Glittery.

From the Powder Gate, we followed the smell of souvenirs and wasted money to Old Town Square which, funnily enough, was the center of the old town!  Markets used to be held here; one of the biggest churches was here; Old Town Hall used to be here. . . .  Are we sensing a theme yet?  Nowadays, it’s known for that Old Town Hall (well, the part that’s still standing) and its astrological clock — yay, another one! — as well as a lesser-known Russian orthodox church and a monument dedicated to Jan Hus who was burned at the stake for being a heretic, as well as one of Franz Kafka’s billion houses in Prague and the alluring smell of smoking pork.  The “biggest church,” Our Lady of Týn Church actually towers above the square from behind a newer building, and I couldn’t see the lower half: only the grimy, matches-the-Powder-Gate’s-colors upper half, though the late gothic architecture I could see seemed impressive.

Old Town Hall.

Our Lady of Týn Church.

Jan Haus Memorial.

That Other Church that I never went into.

(Very bright) Old Town Square.

One of Kafka's many houses.

Old Town Hall used to be bigger than the twenty or so feet it spans now: during World War Two, Hitler had most of it destroyed because it housed a good number of resistance fighters.  A lighter shade of grunge than either the Powder Gate or Týn Church, the Old Town Hall still seems out of place amidst the newer, brightly-colored houses that populate the rest of the square, like the ugly duckling among the chicks.

But also like the ugly duckling, it has a beautiful secret: the astronomical clock.  (You can also pay to climb the tower, but we planned to climb Prague Castle Hill and see the panorama for free.)  Once every hour from 9 AM to 9 PM, the twelve apostles appear, six in each of the two windows, and next to the right window, a skeleton symbolizing death tolls a bell, reminding us that we will all die, while two merchants and a Turkish man shake their heads, refusing to accept their fate.  At the end of the procession, a golden rooster crows, and the time sounds while a surprise trumpeter plays what I assume is the national anthem from the top of the tower.  He waves, and continues to play at each of the four sides before taking a break until the next hour.  Rough job, I know.  As for the time, I still have no idea how to read them.  All I know is that some numbers represent Bohemian time, others normal 24-hour time, and one hand is for the sun, the other for the moon, the center circle is Earth, and there’s a golden hand.  That’s all I got.

Little rooster dude!

Astronomical clock!

We watched the clock go off, the whole time clutching our bags because as soon as the bell starts ringing, the pickpockets start trolling, and then Verity informed me that during her wandering of Old Town Square, she found the Sex Machine Museum: one of my why the hell not options on my list.  So we why not-ed and tried it out.

Sex Machines Museum. Can't remember if you could take pictures, but in any case, I didn't. You're welcome.

It was interesting to say the least.  It starts out tamely enough, showcasing corsets from the Middle Ages onwards, and then dives right in, showing a pair of nightshirts with holes in just the right places in order to facilitate procreating without any of the fun (as skin to skin contact was seen as sinful) as well as an anti-masturbatory night-getup.  That also had to be a bitch to pee in.

From there, they had a viewing of some of the first pornos ever — a pair of Spanish silent movies from the 1920’s made directly for the king and whose plots mirror modern day pornos: a lascivious monk and a lecherous doctor/psychiatrist who take advantage of those who seek their counsel.  The latter was probably one of the first threesome pornos ever and featured a Spanish Ron Jeremy.

I was going to say that I’d spare you the details of the rest, but in fact, I won’t.  Americans always get their knickers twisted over issues of sexuality, and it’s only lead to high teen pregnancy rates, a culture of over-reactionary, buttoned up Puritans, rape rates through the roof, couples too ashamed to talk to each other about what they want, and generations of fifth graders who giggle at the Robert Crown Health Center when the nurse says “vagina” for the thirty-second time.  Or thirty-two-year-olds who giggle at the word vagina even after the fifth time.  It’s time to step up, America: I ain’t sugar-coating anything.  If you don’t want to read (or, legal disclaimer, can’t legally read in your place of residence), close your eyes until I say it’s okay.  And then let me know how that worked out for you.

From the corset/original porn room, you ascend a staircase lined with vintage showgirl photographs (mostly from France) and enter a landing that divides two wings, and a landing that showcases piercings which I will leave to your imagination — I never promised I’d detail mutilation of the human body.  To the right is a room of what I’ll call cheeky outward sexual demonstrations.  They feature a hollow walking stick from Japan that men used in order to be able to urinate without having to completely undress as well as shoes and codpieces that were supposed to hint at the goods, ifyaknowwhatimsayin’.

The connected room is a bit more . . . deviant.  Besides a chair that facilitates golden showers and possibly the first peep show box, there were cases upon cases of various chastity belts for both men and women.  While they technically couldn’t be worn for long periods of time due to chafing and hygiene issues (yes, even then they knew to keep their naughty bits clean), they still looked rather menacing and very painful, mostly on the males’ side, as they were meant to prevent erections or punish the penises that dared try.  Both a woman’s and a man’s chastity belt featured teeth, surprisingly, but the woman’s was to keep visitors out, not keep her in and usually only used when hubby was away to make sure 1) she was willingly faithful, and 2) she wasn’t accidentally unfaithful.  Interesting rape prevention; don’t know if I’d use it myself though.

To the left of the disturbing display of mutilation was a room full of what you think a museum of sex machines would be full of: manual sex machines coupled with pictorial explanations of the most common sex positions.  Some of the more bizarre machines made me question whether the inventor’s creativity should have been employed in the torture arena instead.

The top floor consisted mostly of fetish equipment ranging from masks to swings to full body bindings to . . . things that, again, should probably belong to the Torture Instruments Museum we planned on visiting later in the day.

Proud of myself for successfully keeping the nervous laughter at bay throughout the entire museum, I thought to myself upon leaving the museum: ‘why don’t they have a gift shop?’

From there, we zigzagged our way through tourists and exceedingly cheesy souvenirs towards Wenceslas Square, one of the most famous landmarks in Prague.  Rod the Receptionist warned us that not much of the original square remains: now the center of Czech consumerism, giant modern glass buildings and colorful plaster filled to bursting with shops and “original” Czech restaurants and hotels line the largest square in the Czech Republic.  Only the lone figure of King Wenceslas on horseback in statue form at the head of the square and the still-being-renovated National Museum or Royal Palace remain.

View up Wenceslas Square towards the Royal Palace.

View down Wenceslas Square from the statue.

Ride 'em, cowboy/King Wenceslas.

I wish I knew the actual words to the Wenceslas Christmas carol.

(Closed) Royal Palace.

View down Wenceslas Square from the palace.

While the square mostly seems like one big tribute to the gods of commodity, locals tout it as the epitome of grassroots movements, hence why they named it after the king they call the people’s king.  Wenceslas Square has seen every major protest or demonstration since before the fall of communism.  In fact, Jan Palach, a student in a Prague university, stood in Wenceslas Square on January 19, 1969 and burned himself alive to protest the communist puppet regime put in place by the Soviet government.  He died a few days later of his injuries.  A less famous friend did the same thing a few days later, and a white cross with both their names lies in front of the palace as a tribute to their sacrifices.  During the Velvet Revolution, or when the Czech people firmly hefted the Soviet yolk from their shoulders — peacefully, too — the square filled with nearly 100,000 people, and it’s humbling to think of this square overrun with passionate dissidents instead of clueless tourists.

I played my part, however, and wandered up and down the square, snapping pictures and trying to avoid being in everyone else’s, even though that was kind of unavoidable.  People were everywhere.  As were McDonald’s: on almost every lamppost hung a banner proclaiming how many meters one had to walk in order to find the next McDonald’s.  At one point, I found a post with two separate signs announcing two separate McDonald’s restaurants not 200 meters apart.

For those of you that get hungry according to yardage.

Speaking of McDonald’s, apparently the Museum of Communism was situated between one and a casino.  The problem?  Which McDonald’s? Which casino?  We must have walked up and down the street leading to Wenceslas Square three times before we decided to further investigate the best prospect, and we finally found a hidden courtyard, and the actual museum really was next to the casino!  Even the postcards sold in the gift shop poked fun at this fact — and I rewarded their sense of humor by purchasing a couple at the end of the tour.

HEE. And HEE again.

While much less mentally rigorous than its sister House of Terror, the Museum of Communism: Prague Style (I may have added the last part) still offered a massive amount of information and authentic artifacts organized logically both in chronological order and by topic.  So much reading, but entirely worth it: Czechoslovakia’s experiences under communism differed vastly from what Hungary underwent.

First, the museum offered a brief history of Czechoslovakia’s trials during World War Two; five panels which nicely set the scene for communism’s gradual imposition.  Unlike Hungary, the Czech government seemed to win a certain favor from Stalin and the country therefore was afforded a certain status and a certain amount of liberty that certain other countries weren’t given (certainly).  Bit by bit, the country tried to more closely align itself with Western ideology, and more than once, the wrath of Moscow rained down upon them, like a child that keeps creeping closer to a plate of cookies and gets shoved back by Mom, but he continues to try again and again.  The Czechs are beyond proud that they threw off that yolk of communism practically by themselves during the Velvet Revolution, when Vaclav Havel declared a Czechoslovakian republic free of Russia’s influence, and this pride shines through throughout the museum: it exudes a certain “Mommy, Mommy, look what I can do!” that is entirely charming and yet not biased.  Such a museum can err on the side of “pity us, please” — which, I’m loathe the say, the House of Terror bordered on from time to time — but the Prague Museum of Communism seemed to have been constructed by educators and not mere nationalists.  The information seemed balanced and fair without glossing over too much, though I’m sure a lot more sordid affairs occurred than they chronicled.

In fact, the whole museum focuses more on daily life and how it changed under the U.S.S.R. regime.  They features exhibits on schools, farming, sports, restaurants/grocery stores, and my personal favorite a whole exhibit on anti-American propaganda.  Some were rather amusing and some were just plain mean.

...Because Americans cared whether or not the Czech people got to work on time.

Look beyond the creepy child and you'll see a replica of a communist classroom.

Anti-American propaganda exhibit!

Overall, the translations were absolutely fabulous, and we exited the museum entirely satisfied and entirely hungry.

After wandering for what seemed like ages, we stumbled upon a small Czech café hidden on a side street behind a couple of hotels called Zakotvi, where I ate traditional duck with cabbage, sauerkraut, and two types of dumplings.  Again, Verity summed it up the best: “I’m going to hire a cook from each country whose cooking I love.”

Uh, yeah!

While Charles Bridge was on my List O’ Things to See, everyone’s warnings about the crowds had sufficiently dampened my desire to experience another tourists’ mecca, but we headed over anyway, and whoa, was everyone else right.  I think if people could’ve started climbing the guard tower like bloodthirsty spiders, I’m pretty sure they would have.  Just the crowd waiting to cross the street to get to the bridge made me claustrophobic, so we thought we would wait for a couple hours and hit it around sunset — one of the “optimal times” according to those apparently in the know.  We diverted into the Museum of Medieval Torture Instruments, which was not a bit ‘diverting.’

If at all humanly possible, the third museum was the most depressing, though what can you really expect from three full floors of Medieval torture instruments.  It could’ve been really creepy, truly horrifying, or bordering on campy, but somehow it ended up in the middle of all three.  It lacked any sort of logical order, seeming more like the curators simply stuck new artifacts wherever they would fit instead of trying to tell a story or create a cohesive theme.  They had a wheel coupled with a ‘violin’ in the same case as the stocks right next to the water boarding room which was across from embarrassing tunics which were around the corner from the Nuremberg Princess.  I made the mistake of carefully reading each plaque which, besides making me wonder exactly why some humans think we’re a ‘higher being’ than other animals, made me laugh inappropriately more than once.  The translations were beyond horrific, to the point where most ESL students would be able to spot the mistakes.  I’m sure the beyond annoying Italian boys trailing after me thought I was sadistic when I snorted at nearly everything, but as I was partly imagining their own loud, laughing asses on their chair of nails, we were probably even.

First glimpse of Charles Bridge: no. Thank you.

The wheel.

Nuremberg Princess. If you can't quite see the illustration, it has nails inside that poke holes in you when they lock you inside.

Whoa, translations!

The rack!

After Verity and I thoroughly established that our day couldn’t have possibly been more depressing — even if we’d written emo poetry in black eyeliner — we decided to suck it up and head to Charles Bridge.

Holy.  Crowds.  Batman.

Charles Bridge is like the Eiffel Tower without the atmosphere or the wonder or the pretty.  Began in 1357, the bridge wasn’t finished until the 15^th century and has been under period restoration ever since.  It was the only bridge to cross the Vltava River for a great many years, making it the main link between Eastern and Western Europe.  Its tower on the Old Town side served as a display for executed ne’er-do-wells, but now it’s basically an outdoor statue gallery.  Most of the statues that line the bridge’s walkway are bad old-dirty not good old-dirty, and some of them were covered in scaffolding for restoration, despite the fact that every single statue is now a replica.  The newly-replaced brass ornamentations gleam incongruously in the late afternoon sunlight, sometimes the only distinguishable feature.  Just like the Eiffel Tower, merchants hawking everything from “original paintings” of Prague to jewelry to caricatures cluster under the statues, but unlike the Eiffel Tower, those merchants weren’t pushy.  (Charles Bridge: one.  Eiffel Tower: 20 billion.)  Tourists walked, stopped, and meandered wherever and whenever they pleased, displaying one of the worst tourist traits of all time.  I wanted to severely maim more than one English family or Spanish couple on our first promenade across the infamous bridge.  In conclusion, Charles Bridge is overcrowded and not romantic and underwhelming.

View down the Vltava from Charles Bridge.

View down Charles Bridge.

Why do they look so dirty if they're not that old?

View down Charles Bridge.

Upon reaching the other side, we were at the foot of Castle Hill and in the middle of a massive crowd.  If this place was this crowded in the middle of February, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near here in the height of the season!

However, at least some of the crowd could be attributed to the Carnival procession parading towards Charles Bridge.  Apparently, Prague’s Carnival celebration is one of the biggest and most famous in the world, even if I had never heard of it before.  (I am a rather sheltered being.)  People dressed as anything and everything from clowns to Batman to cows to pregnant women sauntered down the packed streets, shouldering through tourists with their cameras glued to their eyes.

Carnival!

After we discreetly slipped around all the hubbub, we realized that the nearest church, our next destination, was closing in 15minutes — damn 4 PM! — so we wandered around the small bit of Old Town at the foot of Charles Bridge, trying to figure out what to do next, when I spotted the Ghost and Legends Museum.  One of the things on my list had been a witch tour, as apparently Prague has an eff-ton of ghosts and ghost stories, and I thought this museum would be either a good appetite-whetter or a warmer substitute, and Verity didn’t mind, so we entered.  After, of course, she cajoled me past an imitation ringwraith, “floating” from a metal bar with its robes fluttering in the breeze from the street.

Not the same ringwraith wannabe, but you get the idea.

The museum was an utter waste of time.  The top floor consisted of giant panels hung from the ceiling, each telling an individual ghost story somehow connected with Prague as well as a face popping out of a wall here or a shoe from a witch there.  And that was it.  A lot of reading and not-cheesy-enough-to-be-funny “displays.”  The basement was supposed to be an embodiment of the more famous ghost stories, but it ended up being a better attempt at the half-hearted displays above with low, blue lighting and creepy music. Even knowing the basement was going to more of the same cheese as upstairs, I still had to keep reminding myself that no one was going to jump out and scare me; I am clearly a first-class wimp.  BIG skip.  And since I knew most of the important stories, and what I didn’t know I was sufficiently turned off from, I no longer had any interest in a ghost tour.

In conclusion: y-a-y.

Since all tourist attractions were closed, the only option left was to look at things, and since Rod the Receptionist said that the best place/time to see Charles Bridge was from this one riverside park at sunset, we wanted to stick around in the same general vicinity.  Despite our vast disappointment the first time around, maybe it would be better at sunset; maybe rainbows shot out of the statues’ eyes.  To pass the time, we glanced at a map to see what was nearby: the John Lennon Wall!  While not on either of our original lists, it was close and free and not closed, so we navigated our way through twisted old town streets, following tourists and oversized baby carriages all the way.

The John Lennon Wall is the only spot in Prague where graffiti is legal, and it’s been the site of revolution and word-spreading since before the fall of its more sinister Berlin twin.  You could write on this wall way before you could write on Mark Zuckerberg’s wall.  (Enough?  Okay, I’ll stop.)  It gets painted over every year so tourists can start with a fresh canvas, though I don’t really get the point, because at a certain point, all the graffiti covers over itself anyway.

What was most incredible about the wall wasn’t its colorfulness or writing so high you wondered if a ladder were involved; nor was it the amount of people nosed-up to the wall, chewing on their markers while thinking what to write.  No, what was most incredible about the John Lennon Wall was that out of all the layers upon layers of scrawled messages, not one of them was negative.  Sure, there were the usual “Hi from such-and-such place!”  or “I [heart] Bob!”  or “Bar X is the BEST!!!” but the messages that actually said something were all positive — not even one “fuck the police.”  Just peace, love, and helpful advice from around the globe to anyone willing to listen.

John Lennon Wall!

Continued.

Since I hadn’t been planning on seeing the wall let alone writing on it, I only had a pen on me, so a pen it would have to be.  I chose my spot and joined the other utensil chewers as I contemplated my words of wisdom for the next eleven months’ worth of tourists.

Being profound at the drop of a hat is not as easy as it seems.

I settled on a quotation I used in my last ADS speech in college, a quotation from Pirates of the Caribbean, and one of NCC speech’s mottos and took pictures to prove that I am a super BA rebel, you betcha.

Whether the sun was getting lower or I was getting impatient, I’ll let you decide, but we started making our way back towards the river and the park so we could watch Charles Bridge’s grime change color.  Along the way, we passed over a canal that featured a guide rail entirely covered in any type of padlock imaginable.  I still have no idea what it is or why it’s there.

Giant question mark.

The new angle of Charles Bridge only slightly raised its value in my mind, but that may be because I didn’t have tourists getting their asses al up in my wannabe artisty grill.  Or because sunset is my absolute favorite time of day, period, end of story.  I’m sure it’s at least marginally more romantic when you’re travelling with a romantic partner and not a friend, but I’m still not sold on the whole atmosphere of this bridge.  Maybe I’m just too Francophile to give the Paris of Central Europe a fair shake.

Holy seagulls.

Eh, kinda prettier.

Verity ranted about the amount of seagulls for a while, and although I have no problem with them normally, when people feed them because it’s “cute” to take pictures of flying sea rats, then they can scram.  There happened to be a giant flock of them that descended on one section of the bridge, and we rightly assumed that some tourist decided to hold their palm face-up in order to get a picture of the birds trying to peck their faces off.

Sorry, do I sound bitter?  Or sarcastic?  See, Charles Bridge isn’t romantic; it just makes people cranky.

After having walked nearly the entire length of Prague in search of its wonders, we decided dinner and then crashing into bed was probably the bed option.  Sorry, bar; maybe check ya later.